This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SimonOneill87 on 2025-01-31 00:47:02+00:00.

I always wanted a cat.

When I first mentioned adopting one, my husband, Mark, wasn’t on board.

"They’re needy. They shed. They stink."

It took weeks of convincing. Mark wasn’t a cat person. He saw pets as unnecessary responsibility, but I’d been working from home too long, and the house was too quiet. I needed company. Something alive.

Eventually, love won out.

"Fine," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "But you’re scooping the litter."

Milo was perfect. An orange tabby—affectionate, bright-eyed, and warm. The moment I picked him up from the shelter, he purred and rubbed against my chin like he had chosen me.

But I remember the shelter worker’s hesitation.

"He’s been returned a few times," she said, eyeing me carefully. "Some cats take time to settle. Just be patient with him."

That night, Mark barely acknowledged him. "We’ll see how long before I’m covered in cat hair."

But Milo wormed his way into Mark’s heart fast. Soon enough, they were inseparable. Milo would leap onto the couch, curling up against Mark’s chest as he scrolled his phone.

"Okay, okay, he’s alright," Mark admitted one night, scratching behind Milo’s ears. "You were right. We needed a pet."

I should have been happy. But by then, I’d already noticed it—his routine.

Every day, at exactly 3:07 PM, Milo would stop whatever he was doing, climb onto the couch, and stare at the wall. For 23 minutes.

No blinking. No movement. Just staring.

At 3:30 PM sharp, he stretched, hopped down, and rubbed against my legs like nothing happened.

At first, I thought it was funny—a little cat quirk. Cats are weird. I laughed about it with my friends.

"Probably a ghost," they joked. "Cats can sense those things."

But one day, I tried to pick him up while he was staring and he turned on me.

A deep, rattling hiss. Pupils dilated. Ears flattened. His little body vibrating with anger—then he lunged.

I screamed as his claws raked across my stomach. The sharp sting followed immediately, hot and wet. I gasped, looking down. My shirt was damp. Sticky. Blood. A deep, jagged scratch ran across my abdomen.

The moment I put him down, he turned back to the wall. Staring. Like nothing had happened.

Then the accidents started.

Little things at first.

That day, I was working late—my inbox overflowing, my head pounding. I leaned back, stretching, rubbing my tired eyes.

Break time.

I wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a protein bar—chocolate almond, my go-to. I peeled the wrapper and took a bite. Then stopped. Something was wrong. The texture was off. Oily. Wrong. A wave of nausea rolled through me as the taste hit—Tuna.

Rotten, thick, briny. It clung to my tongue like something dead. I gagged, stumbling to the sink, spitting into the drain, wiping my tongue with the back of my hand.

My breath came in short, panicked bursts. It was a chocolate almond bar. No fish. No seafood. No reason it should taste like that.

I turned back to the living room. Milo was still staring at the wall but his ears twitched—ever so slightly—like he was listening. A slow, steady purr rumbled from deep inside his chest.Watching.

The next day, I tried to ignore it. I had work to do. Deadlines. I buried myself in emails, forcing my mind to stay present.

Then—3:07 PM. I swallowed hard.

3:10. Milo leapt onto the couch.

3:15. My hands trembled over the keyboard.

3:20. I was drenched in sweat.

And at 3:21 PM, the ceiling fan groaned.

I felt it before I heard it—an unnatural weight pressing down. The overhead light flickered. Then the sound. A deep, wrenching creak.

I looked up.

The fan wasn’t moving. It was shaking. The screws grinding loose. Plaster cracking in jagged lines along the ceiling and —a deep, sickening pop.

I dove aside just as the entire fan tore free, crashing onto my desk. Metal blades buried into the wood like knives. My monitor shattered, coffee splattering across the floor in an explosion of glass and ceramic.

I lay there, panting, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I turned my head.

Milo had moved from the couch. I looked at my watch—3:30 PM. So slowly, I swear his mouth moved. No sound. Just shaping the words, Missed again.

That night, I confronted Mark.

I lifted my shirt, revealing the still-healing claw marks. "He stares at the wall every day at 3:07 PM. And every time he does—something happens."

Mark sighed. "Sarah, come on." He pointed at Milo, curled up by the fireplace, purring softly. "Look at him. He’s fine."

"You don’t see what I see."

He rolled his eyes. "You work from home, babe. Maybe you’re just lonely. A little too focused on the cat."

The next day, I set up my phone on the coffee table, angling the camera to capture the couch, the wall, and most importantly—Milo so that when 3:07 PM rolled around, I was ready.

A tension, thick and humming, settled over the room like a warning. I swallowed hard, checking the time. 3:10. Three minutes in.

I sat at my desk, pretending to work, but my focus was entirely on him.

Then, I smelled smoke.

A wisp of gray curled from the kitchen. My stomach dropped.

The stove. No—I wasn’t cooking. I hadn’t even gone near it today.

My chair clattered to the ground as I bolted to the kitchen. The burner was on, glowing an angry orange. The dish towel beside it was already curling at the edges, blackened, smoldering. The fire leapt to the curtains.

"Shit. Shit."

I grabbed the extinguisher from under the sink and pulled the pin. Foam blasted over the flames, choking them out before they could spread further.

I turned toward the living room. Milo was still sitting there. Unmoved. Unblinking. Watching. And just like that, at 3:30 PM, he stretched, hopped down, and brushed against my leg with a soft purr—like nothing had happened.

I could barely breathe. My hands were shaking as I grabbed my phone from the coffee table.

"This time, I caught you, you little bastard!"

The moment I heard Mark’s keys in the door, I bolted from the couch. My hands were still shaking, adrenaline buzzing through my veins.

“Mark!” I nearly tripped over Milo as I ran to him. The cat slinked between my legs, purring as if he hadn’t spent half hour of the day warping reality.

Mark barely had time to drop his bag before I shoved my phone in his face.

“I got him. I recorded the whole thing. Now you’ll believe me.”

Mark sighed, rubbing his temples. “Jesus, Sarah, what now?”

I didn’t bother explaining—I just hit play.

The footage loaded but there was just… me sitting on the couch, in Milo’s spot. My hands folded neatly in my lap. My body still. My eyes, wide and unblinking, locked on the wall.

I watched, horrified, as my on-screen self didn’t move for exactly 23 minutes. Then, at 3:30 PM, I blinked. I stood up. Walked back to my desk and started typing—like nothing had happened.

My entire body went cold.

“No,” I whispered. “That’s not what happened. That’s not what happened, Mark. I was in the kitchen. The stove turned on. The fire—”

Mark turned to me, his concern deepening.

“Sarah,” he said, his voice soft. “Honey… you’re not a cat.”

The blood drained from my face.

“I think it’s time to up your meds.”

Milo pushed against Mark’s leg, purring loudly, rubbing his little face against his shin.

Mark sighed, bending down to scratch under the cat’s chin. “At least someone’s normal around here.”

I staggered back. My legs felt weak, my mind spiraling. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t. But the video… The footage said otherwise.

That evening my fingers trembled as I pulled up the number for the shelter. It rang twice before a familiar voice answered.

“Green Haven Animal Rescue, this is Kelly.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “Hi, um… I adopted a cat from you a few months ago. His name is Milo.”

Silence.

Then a cautious “Yes… I remember Milo.”

There was something in her tone. Something guarded.

I pushed forward. “I just—I was wondering if you could tell me anything about his previous owners?”

A pause. “Why?”

I hesitated. I couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d think I was insane.

“I—uh—just wanted to know more about where he came from. He’s got some weird habits.”

Another pause. A deep breath.

“Milo’s had four previous owners.”

I stiffened. That many?

“Do you have their names?”

Kelly sighed. “Sarah, I don’t think—”

“Please.”

A long silence stretched between us. Then, she rattled off four names. I wrote each one down.

Karen Woods. Alan Reed. Debra Mitchell. John Lanning.

“What happened to them?” I asked.

Another pause. Then, softer: “Look them up.” The line clicked dead.

I stared at the names on the notepad, my heart pounding. Slowly, I opened a browser and typed in the first name.

Karen Woods. A local news article popped up. Found dead in her home. Cause of death: fatal head injury after a mysterious fall down the stairs. Time of death: between 3 and 4 PM.

My stomach clenched.

I searched the next name.

Alan Reed. House fire. Cause unknown. Time of death: 3:21 PM.

My hands shook.

Debra Mitchell. Drowned. In her own bathtub. 3:15 PM.

John Lanning. Car accident. Brakes failed. Died instantly. 3:28 PM.

I slammed my laptop shut, my breath ragged.

Four owners. Four freak accidents. All between 3 and 4 PM.

I looked over at Milo. He was sitting in his usual spot on the couch. Watching me.

I wasn’t taking any chances.

That night, I grabbed the cat carrier from the closet, my pulse pounding in my ears. Milo was curled up on the couch, tail flicking lazily, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t resi...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ie2hy0/every_day_at_307_pm_my_cat_milo_sits_in_the_same/