"Her Addictions: Cats and Postcards"

Raine Solara:" It started with one stray. Then hundreds. She didn’t name them. She archived them. Each tail flick has a timestamp. Each purr a password. The postcards are messages she never wrote. Yet they arrive every Thursday. Always addressed to herself. Let me tell you the story from the beginning, as Lucien Vale (a collector, not of antiques or art, but of promises) told the WTTQ: 

Just cats and postcards

"There was once a crumbling manor on the edge of the forgotten woods, known only to those who needed it most. Inside, a velvet-draped parlor glowed with the light of countless candles, where portraits of strange places and long-lost faces watched from the shadows. It was here that Anjelikka made her home — if you could call it a home at all.

Last count of postcards received 1813

Anjelikka was a seer, a collector of lost messages, and a keeper of secrets. No one ever saw her true face. When visitors came — and they always did, eventually — she wore a different mask. Sometimes a fox. Sometimes a bat. But most often, a furious, wide-eyed black cat with a cracked porcelain grin.

The postcards arrived without fail every Thursday.. Sometimes dozens at once, sometimes only one. They bore strange stamps from places that didn't exist anymore — places like Whisperpoint, The Glass Isles, and Vermilion Hollow. Sometimes scented like places she hadn't been. Sometimes smeared with weather from storms no one could remember. Always, they were addressed to Anjelikka, and always, they contained riddles, warnings, or cries for help written in curling, desperate ink."

   DRAXTOR: "She sent these to herself? Every week? I mean… It’s weird, right? Even for Second Life. Who needs this many stamps and postcards? I said this two years ago."

[Watch at 0:46]

"It was said that the postcards were sent by the other cats, the lost children of Anjelikka’s coven, scattered across the veils of time. Each message called her back to a different mystery, a different soul in need of saving or sealing away.

Is this Lucien Vale?

Tonight, a special reading was happening. Across the blood-red table sat a visitor — a man in a devil mask, fidgeting with worry. His heart was heavy, and the hourglass in the center of the table was already bleeding out sand at an alarming pace.

Anjelikka, in her cat mask, delicately set down a crystal sphere and drew three cards from her worn tarot deck. Each card mirrored a different postcard pinned to the wall behind her:

One showed a crumbling tower beneath a storm of black birds.

Another, a masked figure crying behind a violet curtain.

The last, a garden where the flowers were all made of human eyes.

The devil-masked man swallowed hard. He knew, without Anjelikka even speaking, that he had little time left.

In the candlelit gloom, the air shimmered. A black cat — a real one — slinked from the shadows and leapt gracefully onto the table, scattering postcards into the air. Each one fluttered down like a dying star, whispering secrets that only Anjelikka could hear.

And the clock, as promised, was running out

Smiling behind her mask, Anjelikka leaned closer and spoke the first words of the night:

"Your fate," she purred, "was sealed the moment you answered the postcard's call."

And somewhere, far beyond the manor, another postcard began to write itself.

Viewer Advisory: Do not open postcards addressed to your future self unless you've fed the cat first. They bite if the story isn't finished.