Let me start by telling you that I'm not too fond of cats. I never have. They always seem to have an ulterior motive. They quickly shift from purring playfulness to attacking apex predators. I used to call them "demons" as a joke. It is no longer a joke.

I am sitting on the kitchen floor with a knife firmly in my hand, pointing at the cat. His eyes are glowing red, and his fur is standing up. If I didn't know any better, I would say he doubled in size. I think I got my breath back after an hour of the cat and me staring at each other in a standoff. What I am about to tell you will sound like an exaggeration, but I swear it is the truth.

It started with a dream come true. Sandra asked me to house-sit for the weekend while she jetted off to Paris. Sandra! Ask me! To housesit! I will let that sink in for a minute.

I've had a crush on Sandra since we met in college. I've spent most of that time trying to escape the dreaded friend zone. It seemed to be working. I was over at her house more often, making her meals. We talked more about our future aspirations, and I noticed how prominent I was becoming in her plans.

Sandra loved animals, particularly cats. She recently adopted an older cat named Muffin from the ASPCA and told me his tragic backstory. He bounced from home to home, always being returned to the shelter. They lost count after five, but nobody ever explained why Muffin was no longer welcomed. The staff found Muffin a joy, and to be honest, so did I. Every time I visited Sandra, Muffin would find his way to my lap.

Watching the house was easy. I spent the first day cleaning up (Sandra can be a mess) and fixing things around the house. It was fun, but I never saw Muffin. I just assumed he was hiding, waiting for Sanra to come back.

That night, however, I heard a strange sound. I can't describe it except to say, "This is how horror movies start." It was more of a deep grumbling or maybe an organic revving. At one point, I thought it was Buddhist monks chatting.

The following day, I saw Muffin—well, what I thought was Muffin. It was too big, but no other cats (or bears) were in the house. It had to be Muffin. At around noon, Muffin started attacking my legs. It was playful, I thought, until I noticed all the blood running down my leg. This is why I don't like cats, but Sandra will be home soon.

Then I heard it speak. I say it because Muffin was gone. There was no cute furry pet; it was a demon. No, I am not exaggerating. It chased me around the house for several hours, telling me that Sandra was his. I needed to go before something terrible happens to me.

I pulled out a knife to defend myself, but Muffin Demon continued to attack. It was direct and savage. See these cuts on my face? The rips in my shirt with deep gashes on my arms and chest? I finally managed to throw it off, and we've been sitting in this stalemate ever since.

It has not been silent. It wants to eat my eyelids. It wants to use my empty body cavity as a litter box. It was unnerving. I've never been that scared in my life.

When Sandra finally came home, Muffin turned around and ran to her. I don't know where the demon went, but Muffin soon purred softly in Sandra's arms.

Sandra didn't believe me when I told her what had happened. She giggled at the physical evidence up and down my body, calling it "horseplay." She was so glad that we were getting along.

She said her goodbyes, put Muffin down and walked into her house. Muffin sat and stared at me, his tail moving back and forth on the floor. As I walked out the front door, I heard his voice, which will forever haunt my dreams.

"I look forward to your next visit."