“No harm, mate, I’m cool with it,” said James Dewer in a British accent as thick as stew. He took a step in Noel’s direction, which, despite his amiable demeanor, frightened the heck out of Noel.
“I think I should go,” Noel said, edging away.
“Oh, you aren’t going anywhere. We have plans for you,” said Isobel.
That damned smile.
“Plans?” asked Noel.
“We ’aven’t even eaten, yet,” said James.
“I’m not really hungry. Just let me go, okay? I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“I don’t think so,” Isobel said.
Noel prepared to spring toward Isobel, but James Dewer, sensing his intention, had him in an armlock within seconds. Noel had never seen anyone move so quickly and damn, he was strong.
“Why are you doing this?” Noel asked, struggling fruitlessly to get free.
“You were easy,” said Isobel. “So unbelievably easy.”
“People know I’m here. My parents… my friends. I told them I was going to Fryeburg, Maine.”
“No you didn’t. Besides, you have no friends, Noel, that’s one of the reasons I chose you,” said Isobel. “And, well…I told you a little white lie. We’re in Turner, Maine, fifty miles from Fryeburg, which, of course, you wouldn’t know. All anyone back in Taylors Falls might know is that you were seen walking along Ferry Street carrying a backpack. Gee, it appears you ran away from home, Noel, unhappy boy like you. It makes sense.”
Isobel strode to the outer wall of the room and slid what looked like a letter opener into a small slot. A spring activated and a small seam appeared. She slid back a panel, exposing a window. She repeated the process on another window and pulled a thin remote from her pocket. With a jab of her thumb, the lights in the room went dark, although the room remained lit by silvery spears of moonlight through the windows.
Noel thrashed wildly, but James Dewer’s grip tightened and his breathing became a guttural growl. The man’s arms thickened as he squeezed Noel’s chest. The boy gasped in pain as his ribs compressed. He twisted, frantically trying to face his captor to reach for his eyes, but when he saw James Dewer’s face, all strength left him. The man’s mouth, now a gnarled maw, twisted and elongated. Long protuberances sprouted from within, curving into feral, ivory spikes. Hair sprouted from his crevices and pores, turning the ghastly sight beastly.
“Almost dinnertime,” said Isobel. “The full moon makes my man hungry. The disadvantage of living in a small town is that everybody knows everybody’s business. Too many missing sheep, cattle, or people, becomes painfully obvious. With small-town mentality and mass hysteria, hell, one person cries werewolf and next thing you know there’s a lynch mob. I’ve had to find alternate means to feed my man when he gets hungry. Fortunately, full moons only happen about once a month.” She smiled her too-pretty smile at Noel and winked. “I’ll leave you men alone to get acquainted.”
Hot breath moistened the back of Noel’s neck as the beast lifted him into the air.
“Oh, honey. Hold it a moment,” Isobel said, pausing on the stairway.
The creature halted, long ropes of drool spilling from its maw. It snarled its hunger but held Noel suspended against the ceiling.
“Sorry, Noel, but there’s only one teacher’s pet for me.” Isobel disappeared up the stairway, her exit finalized by the solid clack of the door closing. The now-moonlit room offered Noel a view of the creature, transformation complete. It resembled no creature he had ever seen.
It slammed Noel’s body to the tiled floor, driving the wind from him and snapping a bone in his forearm. It dragged him into the back room and slammed the door. The pain was brutal and blinding as Noel’s fractured arm flopped to and fro. Huge and terrifying, it leapt onto the schoolboy’s back and embedded long, brutal tusks into his neck, severing Noel’s spinal cord from his brain stem. All feeling fled from his extremities, and as the creature feasted, Noel opened his eyes one final time and saw the pile of clothing he had come across earlier in the darkness. Within the pile lay a maroon-and-gold jacket, the team colors of Nottingham High School. On the torn and blood-streaked sleeve was the name Kyle, embroidered in a fine white turned grey.
Kyle Grainger.
FROM A PURR TO A ROAR
DAY 1
“Hey, dickhead, wake up!”
Greg heard the voice, demanding and condescending, but not loud enough to break through his hypnopompic bubble. He continued drifting in his semi-sleep oblivion until two rapid swats to his face carried him over to wakefulness. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as his vision wavered in and out of focus. He sensed something close to his face, but too near to identify in the shadowy room. He withdrew from the blurred entity until the image sharpened and a shape formed into the owl-eyed countenance of his cat, who was staring at him petulantly.
Kotik was a large Russian Blue, a bulky combination of solid and soft that pushed the twenty-pound mark, wrapped in a shorthair coat the blue-gray hue of a stormy sky. His broad, complacent face normally had an etched-on expression that said the world was his oyster, except for those nights when he took up sentry duty inches from Greg’s face. It was a little disconcerting, awakening to staring eyes, but it seemed to be part of the intrinsic nature of cats, and in Kotik’s case, a routine part, so Greg had learned to dismiss it.
He started drifting back to sleep, but two more swift whacks brought him back.
“Come on, man. I have to take a shit!” said Kotik.
Greg’s eyes sprung open.
Did the cat just talk?
Kotik continued staring at him with a look that could be interpreted as anything from I want to cuddle to your liver would be delectable. He sat with one paw slightly raised, ready to dole out another serving of feline indignation.
“I’m not shitting, guy…well, actually, I will be soon if you don’t open the fucking bathroom door.”
Greg didn’t move, but his mind was suddenly alive as his thoughts shot off in a thousand different directions. No freaking way, was his only distinct one.
“Okay, I warned you,” said Kotik. He got to his feet and arched his back in the universal posture of impending defecation. “Okay, I’m in crap-stance! You got about five seconds before I drop a dookie, and with that third-rate gutter sludge you’ve been feeding me, I can’t promise to do you a solid, if you know what I mean.”
“No!” Greg cried. He quickly shimmied out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom door, and swung it open.
The cat leaped serenely to the floor and coasted past Greg, shooting him a glance that looked genuinely smug. “A little psyche goes a long way, especially with the simple-minded,” he said.
Greg watched him saunter into the bathroom, where his litterbox was located.
My fucking cat’s talking to me! he thought, trying to wrap his head around it, and then came the realization, My cat’s an asshole.
Was it the knock on the head? he wondered, rubbing the spot where a 4” x 8” x 12’ chunk of lumber had hit him while at work. Someone had left a stray timber atop the stacked skid when he had moved it from one rack to another. He had lucked out for the most part. Fortunately, the fork truck’s cab cover had deflected the falling lumber so that it wasn’t a direct hit, but it had careened off another skid and connected with him solidly enough to give him an egg-sized knot that was still tender to the touch three days later.
This was the only thing that made sense to him: a good shot to the head, three days for the brain trauma to fester, and now his cat was talking to him. He wondered if a crack to the pumpkin could turn someone psychotic. Maybe he should have gone to the hospital after all, but as was so often his way, not wanting to be a nuisance, he played it down.
He walked to the bathroom and peered inside. Kotik was standing inside the cat box, sifting a paw through the kitty litter as if searching for gold nuggets. He stopped and stared expectantly at Greg.
“Are you going to stand there and watch me dump? You got some weird ki
nks? How about some privacy?”
“Oh, sorry!” said Greg. He ducked back into the bedroom. “But you watch me all the time,” he said defensively, feeling chastised.
“That’s different, cats are curious by nature,” Kotik said, grunting. “Oh, man, this isn’t going to be pretty, better break out the Febreze. I’d do it, but you know… no opposable thumbs.”
Greg coughed and moved farther away from the doorway.
“Hey, I warned you. It’s your fault, amigo. I’m not asking for filet mignon, but fucking generic? Really? I mean, this has been weighing on me. This relationship feels one-way, bro. And you know I would deliver fresh game to your doorstep at least twice a week if you let me out, so how about a little fairness here, Judy?”
“Judy?”
“Judge Judy! Who do you think?”
“How do you know about Judge Judy?” Greg asked.
I can’t believe I’m talking to my cat!
“You’ve got that boob tube going most of the time. You think I just lay around sleeping all day?”
“Don’t you?”
“Fuck no! I pay attention and I have acute hearing.”
“I thought it was dogs that had acute hearing.”
“Dogs suck.”
Greg heard scratching and the hiss of kitty litter hitting the bathroom floor.
“Could you try to keep the litter in the box?” he complained.
“Really? You’re the douche-nozzle who decided I was an indoor cat.”
Kotik emerged from the bathroom, sat on the runner in the bedroom and proceeded to lick his forepaw. Greg grimaced with revulsion.
“Hey, I don’t exactly like it either, but my only other cleaning options are my water bowl or your toilet. By the way, you’d do well to learn how to use a toilet brush. You may think those swirls you leave behind are art, but they’re freaking revolting.”
“Why isn’t your mouth moving?” Greg asked.
“What? Why would my mouth be moving?”
“When you talk to me…your mouth doesn’t move.”
“Of course my mouth doesn’t move, you dumbass. Cats can’t talk.”
“But I can hear you.”
“So? I can hear you when yours doesn’t move.”
Was this an elaborate joke? he wondered, scanning the room for hidden cameras or speakers. Battling a sudden sense of paranoia, Greg followed his cat as he strolled lazily out of the bedroom, down the hallway, and into the kitchen.
Isn’t paranoia a symptom of schizophrenia?
“Are you, uh, saying you can read my thoughts?”
“Sure. Think of something,” Kotik said, rubbing his head repeatedly against a chair leg.
Screw you, Greg thought.
“Nice!” Kotik replied. “Screw you, too, ass maggot.”
“We can read each other’s minds?” Greg said in wonderment. “This is fucked up.”
“Why is it fucked up?” asked Kotik.
Greg hesitated, weighing what his cat had just told him. “This isn’t new to you?”
“No.”
“You’ve always been able to read my thoughts?”
“Well, yeah, speaking of fucked up. Haven’t you?” Kotik asked, sounding incredulous.
“No. Not until today.”
“Well, that certainly explains a lot,” said the cat.
“Kotik!” Greg suddenly blurted.
“What?” the cat replied, watching his master search the room for evidence of a pranking.
Would Cheryl prank me? Greg wondered of his girlfriend.
“Most assuredly,” said Kotik.
“But she has no sense of humor,” Greg said.
“Pranks aren’t always humor-driven. Some are hate-driven and she’s a complete bitch, so I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“She’s not a bitch!”
“The hell she ain’t! And she’s a cat hater, too.”
“No, she isn’t,” Greg protested, nearly whining.
“Yes, she is, and you’re either in denial, or just stupid,” said Kotik. “I can read her mind, numb-nuts. She hates me and she isn’t very fond of you, either.”
“Oh yeah? Then why is she with me?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing. What do you see in each other? Both of you are about as sharp as pudding and she has the personality of paste. Plus, she’s ugly.”
“No she’s not, she’s gorgeous and built! Have you noticed her rack?”
“Dude, I’m a fucking cat. We have no more interest in racks than you have in…well, authenticity and intellect, obviously,” said Kotik. “By the way, there are no cameras, microphones, speakers, or little magic genies hiding around the room. I would have seen her installing them. Though, maybe you should invest in a camera.”
“Me? Why? What are you implying?”
“I’m implying nothing. I’m saying. She comes here when you’re not around, Bozo.”
“She does?” Greg asked, taken aback.
“Yeah. You’re an idiot for giving her a key. You’ve been together, what, three months? Why don’t you add her to your bank account, and while you’re at it make her beneficiary to your life insurance and 401(k).”
In hindsight, it probably had been a little impulsive, giving her a key so soon in the relationship, but Greg couldn’t figure out why she’d come here when he was at work.
“Maybe it’s your inheritance,” said Kotik.
“How would she know about that?”
“Don’t know, but your mother goes tits up six months ago, leaves you a sweet parting gift, and Maleficent shows up shortly afterward. Do the math.”
“That’s rather harsh. Are all cats like you?”
“Yeah, sensitivity isn’t exactly our forte.”
Greg stared at Kotik, contemplating what he had just been told.
“Stop staring at me, it’s B-movie creepy,” said the cat, backing beneath the table. “Don’t you have to get up for work soon? Shouldn’t you get some sleep? Just think… maybe you’ll wake up and find out this was all a dream.”
It was an appealing concept since he was feeling confused and very surreal. “Yeah,” Greg said. He turned for his bedroom, but he had a feeling sleep wouldn’t come easily.
“Prick,” Kotik murmured as Greg closed the bedroom door.
The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. Greg had somehow managed to get back to sleep—if he’d ever been awake—but he awoke feeling hazy and sleep deprived, and the night’s events all seemed obscured and miles away.
His mind was still on Kotik as he showered and dressed, though he resisted looking for the cat. Denial made it easier to grasp. He finally spotted him as he passed through the living room on his way to the front door.
Greg stood in the foyer, half expecting the cat to make a comment, but he knew it was foolishness. It had clearly been a dream. Kotik was blithely stretched across the top of the couch, seemingly oblivious to his presence.
“I’m off to work, Kotik. Hold down the fort, will you?” Greg said.
The cat lifted his wide head, looked at his master, and then lowered it back down, unimpressed.
Greg left for his job at Lumbertown, feeling a little better. He was still tired, which did not mix well with fork trucks and large skids of wood, but he’d somehow make it through the day.
Greg arrived home at five that evening. The workday had been long and miserable due to fatigue, but he concluded that his encounter with Kotik the previous evening had been a dream or some kind of mental aberration. Maybe it was simply voices in his head. Maybe he’d gone manic and took a header off the walls of sanity. Maybe he was just tired. He was certainly suffering the symptoms of sleep deprivation.
He kicked his shoes off at the door, made his way into the kitchen, and took a Diet Coke from the refrigerator. He grabbed the remote, switched the television on to truTV, and dropped onto the couch. Kotik was sprawled along the back, much in the same position as when Greg had left nine hours earlier.
On Fridays, Greg usually binge-watc
hed The Smoking Gun Presents: World’s Dumbest…, since the station ran several episodes in succession. Cheryl worked until closing on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Last call at The Kilted Keg was at two in the morning, and cleanup kept her there until three, so on those nights, she didn’t come over.
Greg sipped from the soda can and glanced at Kotik, still dozing in place, or so he thought until the cat opened one eye inquisitively.
“You been lying there all day?”
“That’s a stupid question,” said Kotik.
“Oh God, really?” Greg let his head fall back against the cushion but regretted it as a bolt of pain jarred him, emanating from the welt on his head.
“What?” asked the cat.
“Okay, I’ll play,” said Greg. “You’re fat, you’re lazy, and you’re a cat. Why was it a stupid question?”
“Because the answer makes no difference; it’s a waste of words and isn’t worth a thimble full of shit.” Kotik climbed to the cushion and sat. “Is the bimbo coming over tonight?”
“If you mean Cheryl, no, it’s Friday.”
“Which doesn’t mean diddly-squat to me. I have no idea what day it is, nor can I differentiate between one day and another,” said Kotik. He raised his leg and proceeded to lick his balls.
“Do you have to do that?”
Kotik paused in his ministrations and looked at Greg incredulously. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you and the demoness going at it. I’ve seen where you stuff your face, so you have no grounds to criticize where I put mine.”
“Fair enough, I guess, but it’s not quite the same. I don’t lick myself,” Greg said.
“Oh, I’m sure you would if you could,” Kotik challenged. “Besides, you have your hag friend to do it for you. It’s not as if I can just grab my dick and scrub it clean, or whack-off, like you do whenever your balls tickle, so give me a break. I’m an indoor cat in a single-cat house and it gets a little fucking lonely around here, bub, if you catch my drift.” He continued his bathing.
“It’s not the same now that you can talk, or whatever it is you do. It changes things, like you should know better now that I know you have intelligence.”
A Variable Darkness: 13 Tales Page 20
