The Nine Lives of Gregory H. Barnes

**Origin story for Greg in The Mystery of the Ugly Baker. He is the cat at the post office who is a reincarnated mailman in the town of Piecrust.**

Gregory Hiram Barnes died on a Tuesday.

Death caught him completely unaware—desperately trying to extract a ferret from a sorting machine. The machine made an ungodly noise, metal gnashing against metal, and Greg's last thought before his necktie yanked him into the mechanical maw was:

What kind of asshole brings a ferret to a post office?

Death, as it turned out, involved considerably more paperwork than advertised.

"Next," called a bored voice from behind a frosted glass window labeled PROCESSING.

Greg shuffled forward, still wearing the remains of his postal uniform, now accessorized with sorting machine oil and what appeared to be ferret droppings.

"Name?" The clerk—an entity with too many eyes and skin that shimmered between translucent and opalescent—didn't look up from her computer terminal.

"Gregory Barnes."

"Occupation?"

"Postal worker. Thirty-seven years."

"Cause of death?"

Greg cleared his throat. "Industrial accident."

The entity's eyes—all fourteen of them—blinked in unison. "Says here 'death by extreme stupidity with ferret as accessory.'"

"That can't be right," Greg protested.

"System doesn't lie, sir." The entity tapped something into her computer. "Ah, I see the issue. You weren't supposed to die today." She frowned, causing several eyes to disappear into folds of shimmering skin. "Clerical error. Happens sometimes when Mercury's in retrograde."

"Does that mean I can go back?" Greg asked, heart lifting.

"Oh heavens no," the entity laughed, a sound reminiscent of wind chimes in a hurricane. "The body's already been processed. But we'll need to find you a temporary vessel while we sort this out."

"Temporary vessel?"

"Standard procedure for premature terminations. We reincarnate you until the paperwork catches up." She stamped something with enough force to shake the counter. "Looks like there's an opening in... feline placement? Perfect! You'll be a cat until we resolve this."

"A cat? No, wait—"

"NEXT!"

And with that, Greg Barnes hurtled downward through reality, compressing, shrinking, growing fur, developing a tail, and landing with a distinct thump on four paws in the very post office where he'd died hours earlier.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

He tried to vocalize this sentiment, but what emerged was an indignant "MEOW!"

Oh fantastic. Death by industrial ferret wasn't humiliating enough. Now I'm reincarnated as walking allergen bait.

Greg stretched, feeling unfamiliar muscles pull and shift. His new body felt simultaneously constricting and oddly liberating. His senses overwhelmed him—smells he'd never noticed permeated the post office: ink, paper, the ham sandwich Edna from Accounting had hidden in her desk three weeks ago, the distinctly unwashed essence of Earl the night janitor.

Pull yourself together, Barnes. This is temporary. Bureaucratic error. They'll fix it.

He padded across the floor toward his old desk, intent on finding something—anything—to help his situation. The world looked different from thirteen inches off the ground. Massive. Intimidating. Full of stomping feet ready to crush an unsuspecting feline.

"Hey! A cat!"

Greg froze as Becky, the teenage mail clerk with perpetually black fingernails and a penchant for wearing funeral attire to work, rushed toward him. He'd hired her three months ago despite her complete lack of qualifications because she'd been the only applicant who didn't ask about dental benefits.

"How'd you get in here, little guy?" Becky scooped him up before he could escape. "Aren't you handsome with your grumpy little face?"

Put me down, you walking Hot Topic advertisement. I am your superior!

"MEOW!" Greg protested, wriggling in her grasp.

Becky held him at eye level, her heavily mascaraed eyes narrowing. "Wait a minute..." She peered closer. "Mr. Barnes? Is that... you in there?"

Greg stopped struggling.

You can tell it's me?

"Holy shit," Becky whispered. "It is you. Your soul's practically screaming through those cat eyes. Same disapproving glare you gave me when I put the 'Out of Order' sign on the men's bathroom last week."

You can understand me?

"Meow?" Greg tried.

"I can't understand cat—just see the soul spark in your eyes," Becky said, carrying him to the break room and closing the door. "My grandma's a witch."

Of course she is. And I suppose you're telling me all of Piecrust is magical?

"Meow meow meow?"

"Pretty much everyone in Piecrust has some connection to the magical world. How do you think we process all those weird packages that smell like brimstone?" Becky set him on the break room table. "You seriously never noticed? Dude, we send more mail to alternate dimensions than we do to Canada."

Greg's feline brain struggled to process this information. Thirty-seven years at the post office and he'd never noticed anything unusual. Well, except for Mrs. Wilkins' monthly packages that occasionally croaked. And the letters addressed to 'The Void, Apartment 3B.' And that one time the mail sorter started speaking in tongues...

I thought that was all normal postal weirdness.

"Hold on," Becky said, rummaging through her messenger bag. She pulled out a notebook covered in pentagram stickers and started drawing symbols. "This might help temporarily. Grandma made me memorize this spell for emergencies. It's basically magical duct tape. Not perfect, but it gets you talking for a bit."

She completed the circle, sprinkled what looked suspiciously like catnip around it, and muttered something under her breath.

A mild electric shock passed through Greg's new body. His fur stood on end.

"Can you speak now?" Becky asked.

Greg opened his mouth. "This is the most ridiculous—" He stopped, surprised to hear his own voice, albeit higher pitched than usual. "It worked! How?”

"Basic soul-voice connection spell. Only lasts about an hour though." Becky shrugged. “Grandma says it's essential knowledge for dealing with transformed beings.”

"Does this happen often around here?"

"You'd be surprised how many people end up transformed in Piecrust. Remember Old Man Jenkins? He was a turnip for three weeks last year after he insulted Madge's garden gnomes."

Greg's tail twitched involuntarily. "Your grandmother—she can change me back?"

"Not exactly. Reincarnation is different from transformation. Transformation's a spell; reincarnation's cosmic bureaucracy." Becky chewed her black-painted lip. "But the coven might know someone who can help."

"Coven?"

"Yeah, the ladies who run the knitting circle? They're all witches. They use the post office as their magical correspondence hub."

Greg's new feline heart sank into his furry stomach. "Those old bats? They spend twenty minutes buying a single stamp!"

"Because they're enchanting them, genius. Each stamp gets a different spell depending on—"

The break room door banged open, cutting Becky off mid-explanation. Earl the janitor stood in the doorway, mop in hand.

"Becky? Who're you talking to?" His gaze fell on Greg. "Is that a cat? Health code violation! I'm telling Mr. Barnes!"

"Um, Earl..." Becky began.

"Too late!" Earl shuffled away, presumably to report to a dead man.

Greg's whiskers twitched. "We need to find these witches. Now."

"Can't. They only meet on Wednesdays and full moons."

"Then what am I supposed to do until then?"

Becky scooped him up again. "For now, you're the post office cat. I'll take you home after my shift."

The indignity of it all.

"Absolutely not," Greg hissed. "I refuse to be reduced to an office pet. I ran this place!"

"And now you're thirteen inches tall with a tendency to attack dust particles. Life's weird that way." Becky set him down. "Stay here. I'll get you some tuna."

At the mention of tuna, Greg's stomach growled traitorously. His feline tongue ran over unfamiliar teeth.

I do not want tuna. I am a human being with sophisticated tastes.

His stomach growled again.

Perhaps a small amount of tuna. For sustenance only.

As Becky left, Greg explored his new form, jumping experimentally from the table to a chair. His muscles responded with unexpected grace. He landed silently, perfectly. A surge of satisfaction rippled through him.

Maybe this won't be completely awful until they fix the paperwork.

A flicker of movement caught his attention. His tail. His own tail, swishing back and forth like a taunting metronome.

What are you doing? Stop that.

The tail continued moving of its own accord.

I said stop!

The tail flicked mockingly.

Greg narrowed his eyes.

You think you're clever, but I'm onto you.

He crouched, hind legs tensing, then pounced on his own appendage with predatory focus. It escaped, somehow attached yet elusive. He spun, attacking with increasing fervor.

"Ahem."

Greg froze mid-spin, one paw still raised to strike. Becky stood in the doorway, holding a can of tuna and wearing an expression that fluctuated between amusement and concern.

"Having a moment with yourself there, boss?"

Greg sat down, attempting to reclaim his dignity by licking his paw nonchalantly. "I was merely... testing my reflexes."

"Right. Well, I brought lunch." She emptied the tuna onto a paper plate. "Eat up. We've got mail to deliver."

"I'm not delivering mail as a cat."

"Not with that attitude." Becky smirked. "But there's something weird going on with the mail system, and I think it might be connected to your... situation."

Greg paused mid-lick. "Explain."

"Letters are disappearing. Not all of them—the boring human ones are fine. But anything with magical residue vanishes between sorting and delivery."

"And no one noticed this before today?"

"We thought it was normal postal inefficiency. No offense. But the coven says magical mail keeps the town in balance. Spells encoded in letters, charms tucked in packages—it's how they ward off bad luck, regulate weather, and keep eldritch horrors from nesting in the mayor’s attic again. If those deliveries start vanishing..." Becky trailed off, frowning. "Piecrust could get very weird, very fast."

Greg's fur bristled. "I ran a tight ship!"

"Whatever. Point is, something's interfering with magical correspondence, and on the same day you die and come back as a cat? That's not coincidence."

Greg mulled this over while devouring his tuna with embarrassing enthusiasm.

Missing magical mail. Unexpected reincarnation. Bureaucratic error.

"You think someone messed with my death on purpose?"

"Maybe." Becky checked her watch. "We should get back out there. Your spell's only good for another forty minutes."

After wolfing down the last morsel of tuna, Greg followed Becky into the main post office. The afternoon rush had begun—the usual suspects lined up for service, plus a few Greg had never noticed before: a woman whose shadow moved independently of her body, a man with gills poorly concealed by a turtleneck, and what appeared to be a sentient potted fern wearing sunglasses.

How did I miss all this? Was I blind as a human?

The front door opened with a jingle, and something in Greg's new brain screamed DANGER. His fur stood on end as a man in a FedEx uniform sauntered in.

"Clive," Greg hissed.

Becky glanced down. "You know the FedEx guy?"

"Not a guy. A monster. A mail-destroying, package-mangling demon who delights in leaving 'sorry we missed you' slips without even knocking."

Clive approached the counter, smiling with too many teeth. "Package for Drusilla Nightshade?"

The name struck a chord. Drusilla—one of the infamous knitting circle witches. The one who always complained about her hemorrhoids in excruciating detail while buying international stamps.

"I'll take that," Becky said, reaching for the package.

"Need a signature," Clive insisted, eyes flickering briefly to Greg. His expression changed—subtle, but unmistakable. Recognition.

He knows. Somehow, he knows it's me.

Becky scribbled on Clive's electronic pad. As the FedEx man turned to leave, he locked eyes with Greg and made a small slicing motion across his throat.

Once Clive departed, Greg's voice returned. "He recognized me!"

"That's impossible."

"Then why did he threaten to slit my throat?"

"Maybe he doesn't like cats?"

"Or maybe he's involved in whatever's happening here." Greg paced the floor, tail lashing. "I need to see Drusilla's package."

Becky picked up the small box. "It's just labeled 'URGENT: MAGICAL COMPONENTS.'"

"Subtle."

"Welcome to Piecrust." She shook the box gently. "Should we open—"

A thunderous squawk interrupted her as a large black shape hurled itself against the post office window. A crow—unnaturally large, with eyes that burned red—pecked furiously at the glass.

"CAW! CAW!" it screeched, staring directly at Greg.

"What the hell is that?" Becky asked.

"I think," Greg said slowly, "that's Clive."

The crow continued its assault on the window, leaving tiny fractures with each strike of its beak.

This isn't what I signed up for. Greg thought miserably, watching the demented bird's attempts to reach him. One second he'd been a normal postal worker with a pension plan and hemorrhoids of his own, the next he was thirteen inches tall with a homicidal crow-man hunting him.

The window cracked.

"We need to hide," Greg said, as a feeling of dread washed over him. "Now."

Becky scooped him up and dashed toward the back room, but before they reached it, the window shattered. The crow burst through in an explosion of glass and feathers, transforming mid-flight into a man—not quite Clive, not quite crow—his FedEx uniform ripped at the shoulders, his fingers elongated into talons, his face stretched into a grotesque beak-like protrusion.

"BARNES!" the creature screeched. "I KNOW IT'S YOU!"

Customers screamed, diving for cover. Earl emerged from the bathroom with his mop raised like a weapon.

"Give me the witch's package!" Crow-Clive demanded, advancing on Becky. "And the cat!"

"Never!" Becky clutched both Greg and the package to her chest, backing toward the sorting room.

Greg's mind raced. Why does he want me? Why the package?

He wriggled free from Becky's grasp, dropping to the floor.

"Greg, no!" she cried.

But Greg had spotted something—the mail chute in the wall, the one that connected to the basement sorting facility. A tight fit for a human, but perfect for a cat.

I'll lead him away from Becky, find help.

"Get the package to Drusilla!" Greg yelled, darting across the floor.

Crow-Clive lunged for him, talons extended. Greg dodged, feeling those razor claws graze his tail.

"Come back here, you mangy excuse for reincarnation!" the crow-man screeched.

Greg reached the mail chute and leapt, diving headfirst into its metal passage. He slid down, down, down into darkness, the sound of Crow-Clive's frustrated howls fading above him.

The chute twisted unexpectedly, plunging at an impossible angle. Greg tumbled through, no longer falling but spinning, the metal walls around him glowing with strange symbols. This wasn't the basement. This wasn't even the post office anymore.

The chute deposited him with an unceremonious thump onto a floor made of... paper?

Greg stood shakily, trying to orient himself. He stood in a vast room with towering walls of letters—millions upon millions, stacked from floor to ceiling. Letters yellowed with age and fresh ones with crisp edges. Envelopes of every size, shape, and color.

A sign hung overhead: "DEAD LETTER OFFICE: INTERDIMENSIONAL BRANCH"

Well, shit.

"Welcome, Gregory Barnes," boomed a voice behind him.

Greg turned to find himself face-to-face with an entity resembling the Postmaster General from his employee handbook—if the Postmaster General had fourteen eyes and tentacles for arms.

"Who are you?" Greg demanded, fur bristling.

"I think you know," the entity smiled with too many teeth. "I'm your new boss."

The Postmaster's tentacle extended, offering Greg a small white envelope. It was addressed to him—not cat-him, but human-him—in his own handwriting. The postmark read "TOMORROW."

"I believe," said the Postmaster, "we have much to discuss about your... permanent position."

Greg took the envelope between his teeth, his feline heart pounding with dread and curiosity.

What have I gotten myself into?

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE COMMENTS DUE TO WORD COUNT LIMIT!!