The
beast was lying flat on his chest and made no move until he swung his
arms and swept it roughly to the floor. It sprang toward the door,
turned once and scurried down the hall. The next morning he laughed at himself. The cat had often slept on his
aunt's bed and had happened to climb up on his for a cozy place to
spend the night. He felt uneasy though, when he recalled how wide-awake the cat had been
when he opened his eyes. For well over a week nothing further happened to upset him. The cat
skulked out of sight most of the time. Then he had an experience which thoroughly frightened him and he
determined to get rid of his aunt's old pet. Again he had a dream. Again he was in darkness. And this time he was
being smothered. He was rigid, unable to stir, struggling to breathe,
and there was no air to be had. He awoke as before, suddenly, cold with
sweat, and felt his spine tingle when he realized that something soft
and black was pressed firmly against his face. He sat up violently and
groped wildly for the switch. Something plopped on the floor just as
light flooded the room and then the cat paused at the door as before,
turned its yellow eyes on him and disappeared. He sat still for some minutes, while his head whirled. He was
frightened and shocked at the things which he dared not admit to
himself and now a determined rage took possession of him. The next day did not shake his determination. He brooded about the cat
and purposely planned his work so that he could leave early. He let himself in quietly, entered the kitchen and picked up the iron
poker, and then softly started down the cellar stairs. It was here the
cat usually hid itself when it sensed his approach. Pressing the light switch at the bottom, he quickly crossed toward the
coal bins. He had left some wooden crates piled near a window in one
of the bins and now in the light he saw the cat's yellow eyes shining
behind the bottom slats. Springing toward the crates, he swung the poker viciously. The bottom
crate collapsed with a rending of brittle wood and the whole pile
lurched off balance. As he stepped back to avoid being struck, the cat
shot past. Cursing, he started after it, but his foot caught on a crate and he
fell headlong. He jumped up, white with rage, and rushed into the open
cellar. Dust billowed out from the bin and he could not see the cat. He stood back, glaring around the cellar, and waited for the dust to
settle. His foot felt hot however, and glancing down he was shocked to
see his shoe wet with blood. A nail must have penetrated his ankle and
cut a vein. Thoroughly unnerved now, he dropped the poker and hurried
upstairs. He bathed his foot, dressed it and at length sat back, weak with
nervous exhaustion. But now he was more determined than ever. Before
another day had passed he would kill the cat. Although his foot grew sore, his wound was not really serious, and the
next day he went to work as usual. A black mood seemed to settle on
him however, and finally he found it impossible to concentrate on the
various details which required his attention. He felt that until the
cat was destroyed, his peace of mind would never be regained. Towards mid-day he complained of a violent headache, excused himself,
and hurried homeward. Making sure that all the windows were closed and all the doors locked,
he began a slow and systematic search of the house. He started in the
garret and worked downward. By the time he descended to the cellar a half hour had passed and his
patience was nearly exhausted. He poked through the coal bins, inwardly
cursing the elusive beast, and then smashed each crate in turn to
eliminate every possible hiding place. As he mounted to the garret a second time some portion of his anger
gave way to a feeling of faint but persistent dread. He was positive
that the cat had been locked in the day before. He began the search again, ferreting in every conceivable corner,
overturning baskets, scouring the closets, even jabbing the poker in
amongst his aunt's clothing hung in a dusty hall store room. Another hour passed before he gave up. He slumped in a chair, weary and
possessed by a nameless fear, and tried to think. One moment he told
himself he was a superstitious fool, and the next he pictured the cat
as an incarnation of calculated evil and malice. He had heard stories
of the dead entering the bodies of animals in order to wreak their
unholy revenge. Tales of werewolves and vampires had haunted the race
since the misty beginnings of recorded time. Why not a cat? especially
one that had been so closely allied to the dead? one that had, perhaps,
with that strange insight sometimes possessed by high-bred animals,
read his very thoughts? He sprang up, cursing himself for a childish fool, and determined to
put the entire matter out of his mind. He prepared a warm bath, soaked
at leisure, refreshed himself with a highball and sat down to read the
paper. By evening his spirits had improved. He ate a light but well-selected
dinner--since the death of his aunt he no longer denied himself
expensive articles of food--left a note for the woman who would come to
clean in the morning, and settled down to an evening of relaxation with
his books. As he read however, he again found his mind wandering. He glanced up
sharply on a number of occasions, sure that he had seen a shadow move
against the wall. Once he heard, or imagined he heard, a cry just
outside the window. It sounded like the wail of a cat, but there was an
unearthly note mixed in it which lifted the hairs on the nape of his
neck. He sat rigid, bathed with perspiration, and waited for the cry
to be repeated, but the silence flowed on and at last he lay back in
his chair, weak with the strain of expectation. He told himself that
his nerves were on edge; certainly there was no reason to become upset
about a cat prowling outside. Cats prowled, especially at night. Why,
what a fool he had become! He stirred from his chair, mixed himself a stiff drink, and resumed
his book, riveting his attention on every page. He was congratulating
himself on his success when chancing to glance up to momentarily rest
his eyes, he was terrified to see a shape of darkness dart quickly away
from the window. For a second he sat frozen in his chair; then he hurled down the book,
rushed to the door and literally flung himself outside. The long lawn in front of the house lay bathed in soft moonlight and
not even a wind rustled the maple leaves. The lawn and the stone walk
and the garden space against the house were entirely empty. Not a
shadow was out of place. He stood a long time, pondering, listening, peering into the misty
veil of moonlight. Once a moth swooped into the light, causing him an
inordinate fright. At last he closed the door. He assured himself again that his nerves were on edge; he did not feel
too well. He was beginning to imagine things. There was really nothing
to be afraid of--certainly not of a mere cat!