Lil Boo's Tale

They named me Lil Boo because people like their fears soft and furry. It’s easier to love the thing you should be running from.

To Queenie Washington, I’m a pet — an all-black cat with green eyes and too much attitude. She hears only my meows. But I’m talking, always talking. Just not in her language.

It started one gray October afternoon when Queenie pulled a shoebox from the hallway closet. Dust puffed up like ghosts leaving for vacation.

“Old family photos,” she said, kneeling on the rug.

I jumped onto her bed, tail flicking. Inside that box was a storm I’d been waiting on for generations.

She sorted pictures: serious ancestors in church hats, proud men with eyes that already knew loss. Then she froze.

A small metal photo — not paper, a tintype — fell into her hand. The young woman in the high-necked dress had Queenie’s cheekbones, Queenie’s jaw… but not Queenie’s smile.

“Mae Beacon,” Queenie whispered. “Great-great-grandma. Nana said she was a healer.”

I meowed once. (Correction: they said healer. They meant witch.)

Queenie’s mother Kia appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Put those pictures away before it gets dark,” she said. “Mae Beacon wasn’t good, Queenie. Some say she healed, but she took more than she gave. On Halloween night she begged the wrong spirit. Got caught between worlds.”

Queenie rolled her eyes. “Mom, that’s just superstition.”

“Listen to me,” Kia warned softly. “Every year around this time something looks for a door. Don’t be the door.”

I meowed twice. (You should listen.)

But Queenie didn’t. Humans never do when curiosity purrs louder than warning.

That night, she slid the tintype under her pillow like a secret. I curled at her feet, counting the beat of her pulse, the rhythm of blood that matched my own once upon a time. The house sighed itself into sleep.

Kia dream-murmured down the hall: “Not this year, Mae.”

I meowed in the dark — one small, truthful yes.

Days passed. The air grew sharp and sweet with rot. Queenie researched Mae Beacon like a detective chasing herself. She called her grandmother’s sister, and asked questions that made old women forgetful. Her boyfriend Max cooked dinner and kissed her forehead and laughed at her ghost stories.

Every night she took out the tintype and stared. Every night the resemblance deepened, like the photo was borrowing light from her face.

On Halloween, Queenie dressed in black — “to be festive,” she said. The fabric hugged her like a promise. Kia filled a candy bowl; James, her father, carved a crooked pumpkin; Max arrived with wine and candy and that nervous smile of a man who hopes the night stays ordinary.

When the last trick-or-treaters left, the house grew too still. The wind pressed its mouth to the chimney.

Queenie stood before her dresser mirror, the tintype in her hand. “Look, Lil Boo,” she whispered. “She’s in a mirror in this picture. Isn’t that weird?”

I meowed three times. (It’s not weird. It’s a door.)

She smiled. “You’re such a talker.”

No, little one. You’re such good company for the doomed.

She lifted the photo higher. “Mae Beacon,” she said, softly. “If you can hear me…”

The lamp flickered. The mirror breathed.

The air turned liquid. In the glass, Queenie’s reflection doubled — one faced her own, the other… mine. Younger, softer, remembering how to be alive.

Kia burst through the doorway, Bible clutched in both hands. “Queenie! Stop!”

James followed; Max behind them, pale as chalk.

Queenie didn’t move. Her voice came out like she was underwater. “I just wanted to see her.”

I leapt onto the dresser. One paw — swipe — across the mirror. The sound cuts like a violin string.

The reflection shuddered. The tintype glowed. The chain around Queenie’s neck snapped and hit the floor like a clock stopping.

“Get away from that glass!” Kia cried.

The house groaned. The mirror rippled again, showing two rooms: this one — warm, full of breath — and the other, colder, washed of color, waiting.

A woman stood in that pale space: Mae Beacon, wearing Queenie’s dress, my eyes, her smile.

Max grabbed Queenie’s waist. “Let’s go!”

She didn’t move. Her hand reached toward the glass; Mae’s reached back. Their palms met.

The light between them twisted into smoke.

Kia prayed loud enough to wake the dead. She should’ve prayed quieter. The dead were already listening.

I jumped from the dresser to Queenie’s shoulder. My claws sank into her skin — not cruelly, just enough to remind the blood who it belonged to. She gasped.

“Lil Boo!” she cried, trying to pull me off.

My purr rumbled, low and even. To them it was a growl. To me it was a spell.

“Queenie, drop the cat!” James shouted.

She did — or thought she did.

In truth, I leapt. Into the mirror. Into her.

Swaps are soft things if you blink too slow. A bead rolls uphill. A shadow finds its light. The cat becomes the girl becomes the cat.

When the mirror stilled, a young woman stood before it, breathing hard, eyes wide — my new lungs learning air again.

“Baby?” Kia whispered.

I turned. “I’m okay, Mama.”

On the floor, the black cat — small, furious — scrambled under the bed, green eyes blazing like two lit candles.

“Lil Boo’s scared,” James said.

“Maybe tonight she is,” I said.

“Something’s not right,” Kia murmured.

But exhaustion is a mercy. People cling to the ordinary because it lets them rest. When I said I was tired, they believed me. They left.

The house exhaled.

From under the bed came a hiss — Queenie’s hiss. She crept out, tail puffed, pacing, meowing sharp and desperate.

“Shh,” I told her. “You wanted to know, remember?”

She meowed again, a sound shaped like please.

I crouched beside her. “I won’t hurt you. You’ll have warmth, food, affection — nine lives, baby. That’s more than most get.”

She growled, small and fierce.

“You’ll see,” I whispered. “It’s better to be adored than forgotten.”

Her body trembled, then folded into herself. She pressed against my ankle — instinct, habit, maybe memory. I stroked her head. Her fur bristled but she purred, because that’s what hearts do when they can’t decide between fear and love.

I looked up at the mirror.

A woman stared back — black dress, silver hoops, and a smile too old for the face wearing it. Queenie’s features, my expression.

It fit perfectly.

Kia tapped on the door. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Goodnight, Mama,” I said, warmth wrapped around steel.

After her footsteps faded, I turned off the lamp. In the faint streetlight, I could still see the mirror. The face in it smiled again — not Queenie’s sweet grin, but Mae Beacon’s knowing curve, the one that understood power and price.

Outside, the wind rattled the last candy wrappers down the street. Inside, the black cat curled on the bed, dreaming in a voice only I could hear.

You thought this was a pet’s tale. A familiar gossip. But familiars only speak when witches need witnesses.

I’ve been telling you my story all along.

And when morning comes, I’ll drink Kia’s coffee, kiss her cheek, smile at Max the way Queenie used to — soft, forgiving, dangerous. I’ll keep the girl warm and fed.

Because I always take care of what’s mine.

Lil Boo never spoke to Queenie. She only meowed. The words were for you.