Cosmo

I've always been a cat person, and when I first saw Cosmo, I knew he was special. He was a beautiful tabby cat with those distinct brown and black stripes, a pristine white chest, and eyes – oh, his eyes. They were a vivid, almost unnatural green, wide and incredibly observant. He loved to curl up on my most colorful blanket, one white paw often peeking out from beneath his snoozing form. He seemed like the perfect companion, a picture of feline serenity. But as the weeks turned into months, I started to notice things. Small, unsettling things. It began subtly, with objects in my apartment moving when I was sure I'd left them elsewhere. A book on the floor, a mug on the wrong shelf. I dismissed it as my own forgetfulness, a byproduct of a busy week. But then, Cosmo would be sitting there, watching me, his wide green eyes following my every movement. Sometimes, it felt less like curiosity and more like… observation. One night, I woke to a strange scratching sound. It wasn't coming from outside; it was right by my bed. I turned on my lamp, heart pounding, to find Cosmo perched on my nightstand, his head cocked. His gaze was fixed not on me, but on the wall behind my headboard. There were faint, fresh scratch marks, like tiny claw prints, appearing on the paint. Yet, Cosmo's paws were clean, and he wasn't making a sound. I tried to rationalize it. Maybe I had scratched it without realizing? But the marks felt too deliberate, too uniform. I stroked Cosmo, trying to calm my nerves, and he purred, a low rumble that vibrated through me. But his eyes, those piercing green eyes, never left that spot on the wall. It was as if he was seeing something I couldn't, or perhaps, guiding my attention to it. The incidents escalated. I'd hear whispers when no one else was home, always faint, always just at the edge of hearing. I'd feel a cold breath on my neck in an empty room. And every time, I'd find Cosmo nearby, his green eyes fixated on the source of my unease. He never seemed scared, only deeply, profoundly aware. My friends joked that I had a haunted cat. But it wasn't a joke to me. I started researching local legends, stories of spirits tied to animals, anything that could explain the bizarre occurrences. I even looked into specific breeds, wondering if some cats had a sixth sense for the paranormal. Nothing fit perfectly, but the more I delved, the more I felt a chill that wasn't just from the drafts in my old apartment. One evening, as I was reading in bed, Cosmo jumped onto my lap, purring loudly. I reached down to pet his soft fur, admiring his beautiful brown and black stripes. His white chest rose and fell rhythmically. He looked so peaceful, resting on my colorful blanket. Then, he slowly lifted his head, those wide green eyes locking onto mine. For a split second, I saw something in them – something ancient, knowing, and utterly devoid of feline innocence. The next morning, the scratching on the wall was deeper, forming an intricate, unreadable symbol. Cosmo was nowhere to be found. He simply vanished. I searched for weeks, posted flyers, but he was gone. I still live in that apartment, and sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint purr, or I catch a glimpse of green eyes in the shadows. I don't know what Cosmo truly was, but I know this: the creepypasta about the green-eyed cat? It started with him.