English
中国人
ខ្មែរ
Seldom does one encounter a feline as relentlessly rational as Professor Whiskers, a ginger tom whose skepticism was matched only by his insatiable curiosity. Having spent his nine lives—or so he claimed—debunking supernatural phenomena, he regarded the rumours of a haunted mansion on the outskirts of Grimalkin Village as nothing more than preposterous twaddle. Yet when a sizable reward was offered to anyone who could spend a single night within its crumbling walls, his scientific pride would not permit him to decline. "Ghosts," he mused, twitching his tail disdainfully, "are merely the refuge of the feeble-minded."
No sooner had Professor Whiskers crossed the mansion's threshold than a cacophony of groans and rattling chains assailed his ears, seemingly emanating from every direction at once. Undeterred, he hypothesised that these noises were the product of faulty plumbing and a colony of mischievous rodents, a theory he intended to substantiate with empirical evidence. What he had not anticipated, however, was the spectral figure of a translucent mouse that drifted through the wall, brandishing a tiny sword and uttering threats in an archaic dialect. "Preposterous!" he ejaculated, though his whiskers betrayed a tremulous quiver. It was then that he resolved to disprove, once and for all, the hypothesis that the mansion was haunted.
