She Was No Ghost

Continuing to write his ghost-story-in-progress late one night, alone in his room with the door closed and all being dead quiet, he became somewhat spooked by his own written content. Not that he was particularly good at penning potent ghost stories, but he nevertheless caught the creeps by the various ideas of ghostly encounters aroused by his imagination. Increasingly immersed within the subject matter of his writing, the resultant overly sensitive state of his mind eventually peaked, and that was when she, regardless of intension, got the better of him: His pet
black cat happened to be on the bed immediately behind the chair on which he sat, and he’d completely forgotten that she was there in the room with him. Perhaps having decided that she had become bored in there and wanted out, she unbeknownst to him arose and walked across the bed and gently enough poked just one of her claws into his back. To say that he was stunned-numb startled wouldn’t at all be an exaggeration. A hair-follicle-raising, deep chill suddenly rushed throughout his body, and he somewhat reluctantly turned around to see just who it was that had so effectively gotten his attention. Obviously he was greatly relieved at the sight of his pet cat who lightly meowed once to be let out of the room, for there was no ghost about which to worry.