by Whit Burnett
and when he was brought to Charing Cross Hospital life was
found to be extinct. It was supposed that death was due to natural causes, but an inquest would be held. Dr. Audlin could hardly believe his eyes. Was it possible that the night before
Lord Mountdrago had at last in his dream found himself possessed of the weapon, knife or gun, that he had wanted, and had killed his tormentor, and had that ghostly murder, in the
same way as the blow with the bottle had given him a racking
headache on the following day, taken effect a certain number of
hours later on the waking man? Or was it, more mysterious and
more frightful, that when Lord Mountdrago sought relief in
death, the enemy he had so cruelly wronged, unappeased, escaping from his own mortality, had pursued him to some other sphere, there to torment him still? It was strange. The sensible
thing was to look upon it merely as an odd coincidence. Dr.
Audlin rang the bell
M • Nineteen Tales ol Terror
''Tel l Mrs. Milton that I'm sorry I can't see her this evening,
I'm not well."
It was true; he shivered as though of an ague. With some
kind of spiritual sense he seemed to envisage a bleak, a horrible
void. The dark night of the soul engulfed him, and he felt a
strange, primeval terror of he knew not what.
GLORIA NEUSTADT B I GGS
TH E CAT
HARRY MARTIN and his wife, Clara, walked
down the hill that led from their house to the boulevard, with
that nervous, impatient stride so common to city7bred people.
Their faces betrayed no interest in their surroundings, nor in
each other. They walked together, but they were very far apart.
When they came to the fork at the bottom of the hill, Clara
made as if to take the street to the left.
"This way's shorter," Harry said abruptly.
Clara started to answer, but thought better of it. He knew
perfectly well why she hated going that way. But she shrugged
her shoulders and fell in step with him as he took the street to
the right. They had gone only half a block when a gray cat
darted out from behind a hedge on to the pavement ahead of
them. It was what Clara had been dreading, and she stopped
and let out a short cry of terror.
"Oh, for God's sakes," Harry said, disgusted.
"Make him go away." Her voice was tight with fear.
"Scat ! Go away!" He advanced toward the cat, hissing at
him. The animal stood poised for a moment, staring at the
woman, his eyes glowing like jewels; then, with a frightened
look at the man, sprang across the short lawn and slunk under
a car parked by the curb. Clara put her hand to her stomach
and let out her breath in a long sigh.
"Oh, for God's sakes," Harry said again. "Aren't you ever
going to get over being scared by a cat?"
She made no answer, but keeping her eyes fixed on the place
where the cat had disappeared, walked gi ngerly past the car.
He took her arm, without tenderness, and urged her along
the street. "Damned if I see how you can be afraid of something that can't hurt you. If you were afraid of dogs, it would 65
66 • Nineteen Tales of Terror
make some sense. A dog can at least bite you. But a cat can't
even do that. Why are you afraid of them, anyhow?"
"I don't know," Clara said angrily, "I've told you before I
don't know. I just don't like them."
"Don't like them," he snorted. "Don't make me laugh.
You're just plain scared to death of them."
"All right," she said, "I am scared of them. You're scared of
some things too."
"Sure. I'm afraid of getting run over by a three-ton truck.
But so's everybody."
"You're afraid of being asphyxiated by gas, too," she said
shrewdly, remembering how he had confessed to her once of
his almost pathological fear of escaping gas.
"Well, naturally," he answered, irritated. "Anybody'd be
afraid of being asphyxiated."
She laughed. "But you're more scared than anybody else.
And you're scared of escaping gas, whether it asphyxiates you
or not."
"O.K. O.K. Let's forget it."
They were nearing the boulevard now. As usual, it was
crowded. When they reached the corner, Clara stopped for a
moment, looking about her at the people. A theater halfway
down the block caught her eye.
"Oh look, Harry," she said eagerly, "there's that new Humphrey Bogart picture."
"Listen, we came out to see 'Thirty Seconds over Tokyo'
and that's where we're going."
"All right. I don't care. I just don't like airplane pictures."
"This isn't an airplane picture. And besides, Van Johnson's in
it. That ought to give you a thrill."
She gave him a scornful look and during the rest of the walk
to the theater neither spoke. There was a long line in front of
the movie house. They took their place at the end and waited.
When finally the rope was lifted and the crowd oozed in, she
caught sight of herself in the huge mirror that ran across one
side of the lobby. The look of nervous fatigue on her face
startled her, and she raised her eyebrows sharply to smooth out
the furrows across her brow.
"C'mon," Harry took her briskly by the wrist and jostled
his way through the crowd. People turned, annoyed. She was
glad when they were in the dark theater and safe in their seats.
It was almost a week later when Harry brought Clara the
gift. She had come home from her office earlier that day than
usual, and was already in the kitchen fixing dinner when he
opened the front door.
"Hey, Clara," he yelled, "I brought you a present."
Tile Cat • 81
She lowered the flame under the bubbling vegetables, wiped
her hands on her apron, and went into the living room.
He was standing by the door, awkwardly holding a large box,
with slits cut in the top. She looked at him, puzzled. "What is
it?" she asked.
"It's a present-for you. Come here." He set the box on the
sofa and took off the top. Inside was a small, furry kitten, black
all over except for a beautiful white streak at the throat and
white smudges on each paw.
"Oh, Harry !" Her eyes dilated with shock.
"Pat him, Clara. He can't hurt you."
Ashamed of her own unreasoning fear, she- put her hand unwillingly forward and touched the kitten's head. The animal made a small noise and put his head against the side of the box.
"There, he likes it. See? Do it again. Go on, Clara, pat it
again."
Still frightened, she stretched her hand forward and stroked
the kitten's back. Excitement burned in her eyes.
"That's a girl," Harry said approvingly. "Now, pick him up."
"No." She withdrew her hand. "No. I don't want to pick him
up."
"Pick him up, Clara," Harry ordered. "It's a little kitten. It
can't hurt you. Pick him up and see."
She looked at her husband for an instant, then at the kitten,
so small and furry, so helpless. Quickly she stretched out both
her hands and picked up the kitten. The animal blinked at her
and turned his head, rubbing his cheek along her shoulde
r.
"Why, Harry," she said, her voice breaking with emotion,
"I'm not afraid of him at all." She pressed the kitten to her
shoulder and stroked him under the chin.
"Sure, you're not scared. It's just what I thought." He was
obviously pleased with himself. "Have a little kitten like this all
your own, and you'll get fond of it."
"You mean to keep him? Oh, no. I don't want to keep him. I
wouldn't like that at all."
"Sure you will. That's why I bought him, silly. You'll get so
crazy about him, you won't even notice when he stops being
a kitten and gets to be a cat. And if you have a cat yourself, you
can't go around being afraid of other people's cats."
"You really think that, Harry?" There was a desperate note
in her voice.
"Sure. I know it."
For a full minute she stood there, looking down at the kitten
in her arms. Then she gently placed him on the rug and sat
down on the floor, watching him closely.
"Here." Harry handed her a piece of string from the box.
"Play with him."
68
Nineteen Tales of Terror
•
She took the string and threw it back and forth on the rug.
The kitten turned his little head from right to left, then sprang
at the string and caught it under one paw. Clara laughed. "Oh
Harry," she looked up at her husband, the laughter still lighting
up her eyes, "he's cute."
"I knew you'd like him. That's what I said to myself. All
Clara needs is to have a kitten of her own, and she'll stop being
scared of cats."
She looked at him, smiling, a charming radiance spreading
over her face. It was almost the first thoughtful thing he had
ever done for her and she felt touched, as she rarely did, by a
warm gush of gratitude.
"I didn't know you knew how it terrifies me-all the time. I
just thought you thought I was being silly."
"No," he said, embarrassed by her intensity, "I knew cats
scared you."
"All the time," she went on. "When I go out back to empty
the garbage, I'm scared there'll be a cat there. In the morning
on the way to the office, I hate opening the front door because
there might be a cat on the steps. And all the way to the comer,
I keep looking around for fear that one will spring out at me.
Even in restaurants and when I go to have my hair done, I'm
afraid there might be a cat somewhere around. Harry, it's awful, awful."
"Yeah, it must be." He was thoroughly uncomfortable now,
and he rose, restlessly. "You'll get over it."
She looked at the kitten, playing by himself with the piece of
string. "I've never told you this before, Harry, but I've tried to
figure out why I'm afraid of cats. And you know what it is? I'm
afraid they'll rub their backs against my legs. That's what I'm
afraid of. I know as well as you that they can't hurt me. But I'm
afraid they'll rub their backs against my legs. When I have
slacks on, I'm not half as scared of them as when I'm wearing
a dress. Isn't that funny, Harry?"
''That certainly is funny." He stooped down to play with the
kitten.
"You remember that time we went to the Grovers' cocktail
party? I'd had a lot to drink and while I was standing there talking to Mrs. Grover, a cat walked into the living room right by me. And you know, I looked right down at the cat and wasn't
scared at all. Just because I'd been drinking. Isn't that funny,
Harry? Just because I'd been drinking I wasn't scared of the cat
at all."
He laughed. "Well, we'll just have to keep you drunk all the
time." He sniffed. "Don't I smell something burning?"
She rose to her feet. "It must be those beans. I'll go fix them."
The Cat • &9
She stood for a moment, looking down at her husband who was
playing with the kitten.
"I didn't know you understood. All this time I never knew
you understood. I'm so glad you do." She ran her fingers
through his hair. "Thanks an awful lot. Maybe together we
can fight this thing off."
He coughed a few times. "Sure," he said, "you'll be all right
now."
She patted him on the shoulder and went back to the kitchen.
Over the noise of running water, he could hear her humming
lightly.
"For God's sakes," he muttered to himself, "sometimes she
talks as though she were bats."
The next month much of their life together centered around
the kitten. Harry found a wooden box in the cellar that was
just the right height for a bed and painted it a light shade of
blue inside and out. Clara lined the box with padding and covered the padding with a red-and-blue print cotton. They bought a little pillow for the kitten and some special dishes for his food.
Every morning before they each went to their separate jobs,
they made almost a ritual of giving him some warm milk. And
at night, when they came home, the first question was about
their new pet.
They had quite a time naming him, but finally Harry hit
upon "Satan."
"He's a little devil. A little devil-that's what you are,"
Harry was saying one night to the kitten in that meaningless
way people have of talking to animals. Suddenly he turned to
Clara, "Let's call him Satan."
She had wanted to call him by some softer, prettier word,
but Harry was so delighted with the name, that she agreed.
Later he took some red paint and carefully lettered across the
blue box the name Satan.
Clara never felt completely at ease with the kitten, but
when Harry was present, she concealed her discomfort. And it
was a source of wonder to her that she was much more confident of herself with the kitten when Harry was there. When she was alone with Satan, she never played with him or touched
him. But when Harry was in the room, she stroked the kitten's
back and petted him endlessly. It was as though she believed
she could overcome her fear by persuading Harry that she had
lost it.
She made no effort, however, to hide the terror she still felt
of the cats they passed on the street. But curiously enough,
Harry's attitude toward this changed sharply. He became al-
70 • Nineteen Tales of Terror
most paternal, treating her like a child whose fear of the dark
was foolish, but permissible because it would pass with time.
"When Satan grows up," he would say, "you won't be afraid
of cats any more." He was still inordinately proud of his own
cleverness in bringing the animal home.
"Yes," she would answer. In her heart she didn't believe it,
but it was a hope to cling to.
Satan was almost three months old when she gave up that
hope, finally and completely. Harry had gone out to play poker
with some of the men from his office. She was glad to have him
go. Despite the miraculous way the kitten seemed to have
brought them closer together, she was often irritated by him,
and relieved to be in the house without him.
She was upstairs in her bedroom, reading, when she came
acrotis a particularly
descriptive passage of a girl lighting a cigarette. She suddenly wished she had a cigarette and went down to the living room to get one. The heat was on in the living
room and Satan was lying in front of the radiator, licking his
paws. She gave him a cursory look as she walked across the
room toward the cigarette box, then stopped and looked at him
again. The old uneasy feeling came to life and stirred within her.
"Hello, Satan," she said loudly;.
The animal looked at her coolly and rose, stretching himself
luxuriously.
"Lie down, Satan," she ordered, as though she were talking
to a dog.
The animal ignored her command and took a few steps in
her direction. For the first time she saw that, though he was not
full grown, all of his characteristics as a kitten had disappeared.
He was a cat-small and young-but not a kitten any longer.
A cat.
Her fear mounted. "Lie down," she yelled.
He turned his feline eyes on her, coldly and blankly, then
dropped his head to lick his front paw.
She took fresh courage and started across the room again to
the cigarette box. The cat brought his head up slowly and
looked at her. Her courage melted, and she stopped short.
"You're just a cat," she said glaring at him. "You're not going to scare me. You've been living in this house for months.
I've fed you and petted you. You're not going to scare me-not
now." She took a slow step forward. The cat pushed back on
his haunches and easily, effortlessly sprang on top of the table
where the cigarette box was.
Clara turned and ran, slamming the living-room door after
her. In the small hall she leaned against the wall and sobbed
The Cat • 1 1
hysterically. Al l her fears, all her dead hopes seemed to crowd
up in her throat and choke her.
When the tears stopped flowing, she remembered that Harry
would be coming home soon. Unless she got the cat in its bed
in the pantry, Harry might bring it upstairs into the bedroom.
She stood there, thinking, and then went into the kitchen and
heated some milk on the gas stove. When the milk was warm,
