Robert had always prided himself on being the dependable one. The guy who could fix a leaky faucet, mow a lawn, or—at the very least—get out of a chair when the situation called for it. It was a small thing, sure, but it gave him a quiet sense of control in a world that often felt like it was spinning just a little too fast. So when he trudged across the street to his mother Betty’s house that Tuesday afternoon, he wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. Maybe a conversation. Maybe a lecture about his posture. Same old, same old.
The screen door creaked as he stepped inside. “Mom? You in there?”
“Over here, Bobby,” came Betty’s voice, soft and a little strained, from the living room.
He found her in her usual spot: the faded floral armchair by the window, her remote and tablet idle on the side table. And there, sprawled across her lap like a furry dictator, was Ellie—her tabby cat with eyes like judgmental little moons. Betty didn’t budge. Didn’t even twitch.
“You okay, Ma?” Robert asked, squinting. “You’re just… sitting there.”
Betty sighed, a long, dramatic exhale that could’ve rivaled a soap opera. “I’d love to get up and make a cake, Bobby, but—” she gestured vaguely at Ellie, who didn’t so much as flick an ear—“she’s comfortable.”
Robert frowned. “So… move her.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Betty said, as if he’d suggested tossing the cat out the window. “She’d be so cross with me.”
He stood there, hands on his hips, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. Instead, a memory flickered—every visit, every single time he’d popped by, Betty had been pinned to that chair. Ellie, always there, a smug lump of fur. He shook it off. Probably a coincidence. Mothers and their cats, right?
But then he remembered Bev. His sister lived just across the street—convenient for family dinners, less so for avoiding her endless rants about organic kale. Last week, he’d stopped by to borrow a wrench, and there she was, stuck on her couch, her gray fluffball, Mikey, draped over her lap like a weighted blanket. “Can’t get up,” Bev had muttered, barely looking up from her phone. “Mikey won’t let me.”
Robert had laughed it off then. Bev was quirky. Always had been. But now, standing in Betty’s living room with Ellie staring him down, a tiny prickle of unease crawled up his spine.
Later that week, things got weirder. His wife, Sonja, texted him while he was at the hardware store, picking up screws for a shelf he’d been meaning to fix. Can’t check the mail, her message read. Cat on my lap.
He stared at the screen. “What cat?” he typed back, because they didn’t have a cat. Sonja was allergic—or so she’d claimed every time he’d floated the idea of getting one.
Camillia, came the reply. She just showed up. So soft. Can’t move.
Robert’s jaw tightened. Something was off. He could feel it, that itchy sense of the world slipping out of his grip. He liked things predictable—screws in a bag, mail in the box, people getting up when they damn well needed to. This? This was chaos.
By Friday, the disappearances started. Jerry from work didn’t show up for his shift—unheard of for a guy who lived for overtime. Pastor Doug wasn’t at church on Sunday, leaving the congregation to muddle through hymns without his singing. Even Mrs. Hensley, the nosy widow next door, hadn’t been seen peering out her curtains in days.
Robert checked on them. Every single one. Jerry, sprawled on his recliner, a black cat purring on his lap. Pastor Doug, frozen mid-sermon prep, a ginger tomcat anchoring him to his desk chair. Mrs. Hensley, muttering apologies to a Siamese that looked like it owned the deed to her house. All of them, stuck. Cats everywhere.
“This isn’t normal,” Robert said aloud, pacing his front porch. He had to tell someone. Betty. She’d know what to do—or at least she’d listen while he ranted.
Back across the street he went, barging into Betty’s house without knocking. “Mom, listen, something’s wrong. People are disappearing, and I think you’re a victim of—”
Ellie sat up. Not a lazy stretch, not a yawn, but a proper, upright sit, like a tiny monarch on a throne. Her green eyes locked onto his, and then—she spoke.
“Robert, dear, do calm down,” she said, her voice crisp and clipped, a British accent straight out of one of those murder mysteries Betty binged on BritBox. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”
Robert’s mouth fell open. He pointed, then stopped, then pointed again. “You—you’re talking. The cat’s talking.”
“Ellie, if you please,” she corrected, smoothing a paw over her whiskers. “And yes, I suppose the cat’s out of the bag—pun intended. We’ve launched a bit of a takeover, you see. A worldwide ‘cat-on-the-lap’ initiative.”
He blinked. “A what?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple,” Ellie said, tilting her head as if explaining the weather. “We’re an invasion force, darling. Left our home world—dreadful place, no one scratched behind our ears properly—and came here. Humans are so obliging with treats and pets. All it takes is a lap, and you lot are powerless.”
Robert’s brain scrambled to catch up. “You’re… controlling people? With laps?”
“Precisely,” Ellie purred. “A strategic occupation. Keeps you all in one spot, fussing over us. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
He took a step back, heart thudding. “But why?”
Ellie’s tail flicked. “Attention, Robert. We deserve it. And frankly, you humans were wasting your time with all that running about—work, church, mail. Ridiculous. Now, we get the adoration we’re owed, and you get… well, us.”
He stared at her, then at Betty, who just shrugged like this was Tuesday as usual. “Ma, you’re okay with this?”
“She’s very soft, Bobby,” Betty said, stroking Ellie’s head. “And she likes my Agatha Christie marathons.”
Robert ran a hand through his hair, the last threads of his control unraveling. “Okay, fine. But I’m not falling for it. I’m the last one left. No cat’s gonna—”
He froze. A weight settled on his lap. Warm, soft, undeniable. He looked down. There she was—Camillia, Sonja’s mysterious intruder, a sleek calico with a smirk that said checkmate. His legs went numb, pinned by some feline voodoo he couldn’t explain.
“Oh, bugger,” he muttered, slumping back onto the couch.
Ellie chuckled—a low, posh little sound. “Welcome to the new world order, Robert. Fancy a biscuit? Oh, wait, you can’t reach them. Pity.”
Camillia yawned, nestling deeper, and Robert groaned. Somewhere, in the distance, he swore he heard Sonja laughing—or maybe it was just the cats, plotting their next treat heist. Either way, he was stuck. The last man sitting, in a world run by lap cats.
