And I cursed myself for not locking the inside solid door. What would I do if the screen door started to open?
I would be the next one to scream that night, that was what I would do.
The scratching continued, but the screen door didn’t move. The sound was near the bottom of the door. Maybe the blonde couldn’t walk and had crawled her way around the lake for me to help her.
But that wailing wasn’t quite human.
I had to look. What if it was she, and she was dying?
Still crawling, not having the courage yet to stand, I reached the door and pushed my ear against it.
The scratching continued.
Then I heard a quiet but audible meow.
And immediately breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was simply a cat. But in the back of my mind, I knew no cat I had ever heard had ever made a wailing sound like that. I had heard many cats at night caterwauling. But they never sounded like that. Not even when having sex.
But still . . . it was only a cat.
I stood, brushed the dust off my pants knees, and turned the door knob
—but no cat ever sounded like that—
and opened the door a half inch. There was no light on inside the cabin and no light from the outside, but I could barely make out an orange cat sitting on the top step and pawing at the screen. I reached to my left, felt around a bit for the switch, found it and turned on the porch light.
The cat, a scruffy, tattered, short hair orange tabby, stopped scratching at the screen door and glared up at me. Was it rabid? But then its eyes softened and it gave a soft, pleading meow. Still checking to see if there was foam at its mouth—I knew there were many rabid skunks in these woods, and this cat could have easily tangled with one—but finding no white puss apparent, I opened the solid inner door the remainder of the way. The cat immediately began to purr. Rabid cats didn’t purr. I opened the screen door just enough for the cat to squeeze through.
It didn’t even hesitate. It shot through the opening as soon as it was wide enough, and she immediately started rubbing against my leg—I noticed right away she was a she. She continued to purr, only more loudly.
Before I closed the screen door again, I stuck my head out and looked toward the woods, in the direction of that wailing sound. The cat down on my feet meowed with a soft, almost a little girl’s, voice—no where near the deep guttural of that not-quite human wail. A slight breeze blew through the forest, and the leaves rustled softly, as if nothing could be wrong in the world. Again, I noticed how bright the stars were, and how many of them shone down on the earth. I turned my attention back to the forest.
Only utter blackness stared back at me.
I quickly pulled my head back inside, shut the screen door, locked it, shut the inner door, locked it, turned on the inside light, and bent down to pet my welcome visitor. She was so thin I could feel her ribs, and her fur was matted and torn and full of bristles; she had obviously been through a rough time out there combating nature’s elements. I reached down and she allowed me to pick her up, actually purring even louder. Noticing that the orange and white fur on her forehead formed a solid letter “M,” the name Molli came immediately to mind. “I’ll name you Molli,” I said to her, and she responded by rubbing her forehead against my face. “Because you definitely mollified me when I saw it was only you scratching at my door.”
But cats just don’t make that sound I heard out there. They just don’t.
I had purchased a gallon of 2% milk at the country store, and I put Molli down to find a saucer. She followed me, weaving in and out of my footfalls, forcing me to walk slowly and to keep an eye on my feet. I found were Travis kept the bowls and put one on the floor. As I was pouring the milk, hoping it hadn’t spoiled while I was driving around lost, she immediately forced her way past my arm up to the bowl and started to drink, not having the patience to wait for me to finish. I filled it half way. She still purred while she slurped greedily. She drank what was there in under a minute and, licking her lips, looked pleadingly up at me for more.
I patted her on her head. “If I gave you any more, you’ll probably get diarrhea and regret it later. And I don’t have a litter box for you—yet.” I would have to drive the twenty miles back to Dodsville in the morning to buy one, and some cat food. Already I had made up my mind I was keeping her.
After tonight’s ruckus, I decided I really needed some companionship.
I looked to both picture windows. Neither one had drapes. If anyone, or anything, was out there, it could be easily looking in at me right now and I wouldn’t be able to see it. All’s I could see was my own reflection glaring balefully back at me.
I picked up Molli and sat down with her on the couch. “And another thing we’re going to buy first thing tomorrow morning are some curtains.” She purred and rubbed against my face. The bristles in her fur made it hard to pet her, and I knew they had to be bothering her, so first I worked on removing them. I stuck them into the armrest of the sofa until I had them all out. I had brought with me a comb and a brush, so next I got those from my suitcase and began work on her matted fur.
It was starting to get light in the east by the time I had most of the mats out—I found a pair of scissors in a drawer and used even that to cut away some of the worst ones.
All the time I brushed her I kept thinking, there was no way this cat made that wailing sound. No way at all.
So what did?
When I finally crawled back into bed, Molli curled and fell asleep almost immediately against my thigh.
There were no more problems the rest of my first night’s sleep.
If only that would have remained true for the remainder of my two-week vacation at this cabin in the woods.
The Revenant: A Horror in Dodsville Page 48
