The Stray

It’s best never to feed them.

Illustration by Shane Bzdok

The storm comes without warning. Dark clouds spin like cotton candy, swirling into a devil’s tower looming directly over the farm. Day transforms into an otherworldly twilight, until finally, the ominous front unleashes a wallop of rain, with thunder so booming that it rattles the panes and shakes the floorboards. Our framed wedding photo jumps from the plaster wall, yet the glass somehow manages to stay in one piece.

Just my luck. We get the storm of the century while John is off negotiating the price of our crop with government suits in the city. The old house is big. Even bigger at night, and spooky as hell during a storm like this. No use trying to sleep.

As the energy of the storm’s violent tantrum subsides and the angry clouds march on to conquer other lands, I slip into John’s oversized waders and waddle out into the corn to make sure all is well. Thank God, there was no hail.

I stop some twenty yards into the field, where I turn off the flashlight to take in the night. The cool air is a welcome relief from weeks of relentless summer heat. I close my eyes and take long, deep breaths, inhaling the heavy petrichor scent of a rain-soaked earth.

The crickets are chirping, and a light breeze flutters through the long leaves of the corn. Opening my eyes and looking up, I am surrounded by the towering stalks, directing my gaze to a billion blinking stars. I can’t help but feel a bit untethered.

Then, something crashes through the stalks a few yards away. What the fuck was that? I snap the flashlight on. Another crash to my left. Then another, closer.

And then, screams. Piercing, tortured screams.

My heart bursts out of my chest. The flashlight falls from my hands, and I run, but the boots are too big and in seconds, I’m flat on my stomach in the mud.

Somewhere behind me, the screaming spikes in rapid succession, until it flattens out into a scratchy quartet of feral growls.

Jesus, Meg, get a grip. Just a bunch of dumb cats for Christ’s sake.

I pull myself up from the mire and walk a few paces back to retrieve the flashlight. I point it in the direction of the sound, but see no feline standoff. Whatever it was, the dispute seems to have been settled. That, or they’ve managed to kill each other. One can hope.

God, I hate cats. What the hell are they doing out here, at this time of night? And why do they always have to sound so creepy? Everything they do is so fucking creepy.

I trudge back toward the dark and empty house where I’ll try to find slumber in a lonely bed.

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I’m pulled from the shallows of sleep by three calls of the tiny wooden bird in the German clock on the wall.

That’s when I hear them.

The pattering of their paws across the porch. The scraping of their claws on the window panes. The panting of their breath at the window just above the head of my bed.

I hear them.

They are speaking to me in whispers, demanding to be fed. Their voices are rough, like the rubbing of dead leaves between my hands. I squinch my eyes closed and cover my ears, praying they will leave.

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The next morning, I butcher a chicken. I set aside a thigh and leg for myself and then carve up the rest, dumping the entire mess of puckered yellow skin, pink meat, hollow bones, and even the guts onto a wooden tray. Maybe if I feed them, they will let me sleep.

Later that evening, as the sun sinks below the tips of the windbreak pines, I pull the tray from the icebox and set the deconstructed chicken on the porch. I change into my nightgown and crawl into bed, where I lie still as stone, waiting.

I didn’t think I would sleep, but the next thing I know, I’m awoken, again, by the sound of three calls of the cuckoo.

I hear them.

They are feeding on the chicken, and they have no manners. I hear the squelching of the pink meat between sharp teeth, the crunching of bones, and the sloppy slurping of innards.

When they are not burping and belching, they are giggling, and despite the sultry heat of the August night, the sound of their childlike laughter chills me to the bone. I pull the thin blanket over my face and begin reciting the Lord’s prayer.

Soon, the feast is over. I pray they might be leaving, but suddenly, the empty tray crashes against the front door. An eruption of shrill laughter quickly descends into threatening growls. Meowerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Cats. Just a bunch of stupid cats. What are you afraid of, Meg? What would John think if he saw you cowering under the covers like this? A scardy cat, scared of cats.

I throw the blanket aside, jump out of bed, and draw the curtain from the window near the door. I flick the switch to the porch light, but the dead bulb still hasn’t been replaced. Damn you, John.

The only light comes from the half-moon hanging in the sky. In the heavy darkness, I see no hint of furry felines, only the overturned tray and the glistening spatter of fatty bits. The only sound now is that of the crickets, a sound that somehow makes the late summer heat feel even more oppressive.

Just as I am about to return to my bed, I see them. Cat eyes, dozens of them, glowing with the moonlight as they stare back at me from the pitch black shadows beyond the porch. They blink in unison, followed by a long, low, guttural growl. Meowerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Damn you, demons! I charge out the door and march to the edge of the porch, but they are gone. Nothing left but the crickets and the wind in the corn.

Back inside, I release the breath I was holding, lean back against the door, and bunch the sides of my nightgown between my fingers to stop my hands from shaking.

Scardy cat.

---

The next evening, I grab the hatchet and take the heads from two more chickens. I don’t even bother plucking them. I pair the offering with a bucket of creamy milk I enticed from one of the cows in the barn.

Next, I pull John’s double-barrel from the wall and grab a fistful of shells from the kitchen drawer. It’s time to deal with these bastards once and for all.

It’s best that John is away. He would try to take them in. He would want to keep them. Name them.

Not these little fuckers. I snap the loaded barrels back into place.

---

Assuming these four-legged assholes are punctual for their 3:00 AM snacktime, The hands on the clock put us at about 10 minutes until the main event. I’m at the kitchen table, still in a t-shirt and jeans, my hair pulled back into a sloppy braid to keep it out of my face. It’s been a long time since I smoked a cigarette. I would kill for one right now.

I drain the last of the coffee into my mug, stir in some of the cream, and add a couple of packets of raw sugar. I didn’t mention the cats to John when he called earlier because I didn’t want him to talk me out of what’s about to happen. I check the shells in the shotgun for the hundredth time and then lean it against the wall near the door.

The bird coo-coos for the third time and then retreats behind the small hinged door on the clock. A heavy thud on the porch announces their arrival. I walk to the front and grab the shotgun, putting my ear to the door.

I have my hand on the knob, but can’t find the nerve to turn it. The sounds are horrific. Like a savage pack of hyenas ravaging a fresh kill. The chewing, tearing, slurping, and sucking are interrupted only by bone-chilling squeels of laughter.

“Go away!” I scream, pressing my hand against the door.

The terrible sounds pause. The silence hangs in the air as I press my ear again to listen. Did they leave?

BAM!

The force of the strike to the door sends me stumbling backward.

KABAM! The entire door creaks and cracks, as bits of plaster fall from the ceiling above. I raise the shotgun and aim it at the door. I can’t stop my hands from shaking.

Meowerrrrrrrrrrrr. BAMM! The door splinters and pops from the top hinge.

I squeeze the trigger twice, nearly dislocating my shoulder and reducing my hearing to a high-pitched ringing. The second spread of buckshot enlarges the bouquet of holes from the first, both hitting low-center in the wide oak door. I relish the sound of pain-filled wailing from the other side, and the patter of their manic steps as they flee from the porch.

But my hope is short-lived. The feigned retreat was nothing more than putting distance between them and the door. A freight train of pounding paws charges across the porch and slams into the massive door with a force so devastating that it blows the battered oak to pieces. I’m showered in splintered shards of wood.

Peering over my forearm, my brain struggles to translate what my eyes witness. There, completely eclipsing the frame of the doorway, is a single, hulking silhouette, outlined in nappy black fur.

A small, gurgling whimper comes from somewhere near the creature’s shadowy center, the sound of a child crying. Then, a dozen sets of eyes pop open. Angry eyes. Hungry eyes. Lustful eyes. All looking at me.

Dear God in heaven, protect me.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” I turn the gun in my hands, gripping the end of the barrels like I’m holding a bat. I slowly back away from the creature.

Menacing growls come from more than one source on the nightmarish body. Meowerrrrrrr. Meowrrr. Meowgrrgrrgrr.

“What do you want? GET OUT! ”

The scratchy, ravenous moans grow louder, chanting in unison as the monstrosity takes a lumbering step over the obliterated door.

Meowrrrrr…meower…mower…more. more. MORE.

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Author’s Notes

This story was inspired by the Macabre Monday prompt, “Negative Space.”

Challenge: Write a monster scene, but never explicitly describe the entity or its origin. Use spatial cues, sensory dissonance, and character reaction to imply its presence. Let the reader feel its shape through what’s missing.

Okay, so I may not have followed the rules to the letter, but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. In the spirit of the challenge, I did try to stay away as much as possible from descriptions of the creature, but my main tactic was misinformation. From the title up until the final scene, I wanted the reader to have the image of typical cats in their mind, only to surprise them with the true horror that appears at Meg’s door in the end.

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