And for the record, no, I hadn't been drinking

I've written extensively here about my lifelong fear of ghosts, but in all my years, I've never actually seen or experienced one. Much.

When I first moved into my apartment, there were a few nights when I'd be drifting off to sleep or would be woken up by what felt like a cat jumping on the bed. I don't have a cat, and haven't had a cat since I was a kid, but for 13+ years of my adolescent life, I was woken up regularly when my cat Pookie would join me in my childhood twin-size bed. I remember his weight, the sudden indent in the covers, and, when this happened four years ago, it didn't scare me so much as spook me. For all the fear that a translucent Victorian female figure might inspire should I find one in my kitchen, the idea that a ghost cat wanted to keep me company at night was more baffling than terrifying.

After that first year, I never experienced the possible ghost cat again. I never even called it a ghost cat until the last time I found myself studying this stuff on the Internet, and came across a conversation about something similar. It was the first time I remembered the incidents, and thought, oh, okay, it is possible. Then, last night I woke up to the sound of a heart beating. Or, rather, the feel of a heart beating and the comforter next to me moving up and down along with it. It wasn't my heart. My heart was beating slow and steady, almost ridiculously slow. Whatever was next to me was round and fit in the crook of my arm - I could feel it's shape in my sheets. And rather than scare me, it was comforting, and I let the heartbeat lull me back to sleep.