by Whit Burnett
she poured it into the eat's dish and set it on the floor of the
pantry. Softly she called "Kitty, kitty, kitty. Come here, Satan.
Come have a little milk."
. There was no sound. She remembered that the door to the
living room was shut and that the cat couldn't get to her, even
if he heard her. She switched on all the lights and walked back
to the living-room door, throwing it open wide. The cat was
lying in front of the radiator again.
She went back to the kitchen. The pantry door opened into
the kitchen and she stood behind the door, grasping the knob.
Louder this time, she called "Come, Satan. Come kitty, kitty,
kitty."
She could hear the tap of the eat's paws on the tiled floor of
the dining room. Her hand clenched the knob tighter. The cat
walked into the room and with only a brief look at her went
directly to the pantry where the dish of milk was waiting. Instantly she slammed shut the pantry door and locked it. Relief swept her. But now that she had the cat where he couldn't get
to her, she had to see what he was doing. Cautiously she parted
the curtains over the glass pane in the upper half of the door.
The animal, startled by the noise of the slamming door, had
turned his head and was looking up at the glass pane with
frightened, gleaming eyes.
They stood there that way for a minute, the woman on one
side of the door, the cat on the other. Then the woman, overcome by nausea, dropped the curtains and stumbled upstairs to her bedroom.
The next morning, when the alarm went off, she didn't get
up.
"I don't feel so well this morning, Harry. Think I'll take the
day off."
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, yawning.
"Nothing special. I think I'll just stay in bed for a while."
He looked at her. "Wish I could get away with staying home
for a day." He got out of bed sluggishly and began to get
dressed.
"Why don't you have breakfast out, Harry? Be a change for
you."
12
Nineteen Tales of Terror
•
"I'll get myself something to eat. You don't have to bother."
"No," she said sharply, "you'd better go out. I forgot to get
coffee and I think we're out of eggs, too." She was lying.
"O.K. Maybe it would be good to have breakfast out for a
change."
She lay in bed quietly until he was ready to leave, and then
raised her cheek for him to kiss.
"You don't look sick," he said.
"I'm not sick," she retorted. "I just feel like staying in bed."
•'It's all right with me." He started out the bedroom door,
then stopped.
"You want me to feed the kitten?" he asked.
"No," she said quickly. "I'll feed him."
"O.K. Don't forget to take care of him.",
"No," she answered, as he walked down the tairs, "I'll take
care of him."
Mter he had gone, she stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling.
She would have liked to stay in bed aU day, but she had worked
in offices of one kind or another for too many years to be able
to throw off the habit of doing things on schedule. She rose,
showered and dressed, and called the office. Then she went
downstairs for breakfast.
In the kitchen, she walked to the pantry door, parted the curtains, and looked at the cat. He was busy cleaning himself and didn't see her. She thought of the fruit and eggs and butter in
the refrigerator in the pantry, but knew that she would rather
go without food than have another session with the cat. So she
fixed some dry toast and coffee and sat down in the dining room
to eat it.
She thought of calling the pound of the S.P.C.A. to come for
the cat, but was afraid if she called them that they would ask
too many questions. She thought of poisoning him too, but put
that out of her mind.
.
Whatever she did, she would have to do quickly, before
Harry came home and without Harry's knowing about it.
Restlessly she walked into the living room and looked out the
window. A young boy walked by, kicking at the pavement with
his sneakers. Impulsively she opened the window and called
"Oh, boy! Boy!"
The boy turned. It was the Johnson kid from down the street.
"Come here a minute, Jimmy," she called.
The boy crossed the lawn and stood by the window, smiling
politely.
"How would you like to make a dollar?" she asked, smiling
coyly.
He looked down at his feet. "I haven't got time to mow your
lawn, Mrs. Martin. If vou ask-"
The Cat • 13
"I don't want you to mow the lawn, Jimmy,'' she interrupted
him. "I want you to do a little favor for me-sort of a secret
mission."
"What d'ya want me to do?'' he asked suspiciously.
"I have a cat here, and I want you to give it to somebody
for me."
"Why, sure." His face broke into a grin. "Who to?"
"I don't care. Just give it to anybody, long as they don't live
in this neighborhood. Just take it on a streetcar until you see
somebody you'd like to give it t�and give it to them."
He looked puzzled. "Don't you want the cat yourself?"
"No," she said firmly. "Listen, Jimmy, I want you to do this
for me, without a lot of questions. All right?"
"Why, sure, Mrs. Martin. Where is the cat?"
"In the pantry. The back door is unlocked and you can go
around there and get it. Then get on a streetcar and give it
away. You understand?"
"Yeah, yeah, I understand."
"Good for you !" She turned away from the window to get
the money. When she came back, the coy smile was on her face
again. "Jimmy, I'll give you two dollars if you promise not to
tell Mr. Martin about this. What is it you kids say-'cross my
heart and hope to die'?"
He laughed uncomfortably. "I won't tell anybody. You can
trust me." He took the two dollars from her and went around to
the back of the house.
She stood there motionless, listening to him opening the
door, talking to the cat, closing the door and coming back to
the front of the house. She waved good-by to him as he walked
across the lawn holding the cat under his arm, and then shut the
window.
The rest of the day she spent preparing herself for Harry's
home-coming. When she heard the click of his key in the front
door, she was ready.
"Hullo, Harry," she called cheerily.
"Hullo," he answered, "How's Satan?"
"I don't know," she said calmly, coming into the living
room. "I haven't seen him all day. I think he must have run
away."
"Run away?" Harry looked startled. "What do you mean?"
"I don't quite know myself," she said casually. "I was hanging out some laundry and I forgot to shut the back door. When I came back in, the cat wasn't in the pantry. I called and called
him, but he didn't show up, so I thought he must have run
away."
_
"What did you just say?" He walked slowly toward her, his
small eyes narrowing with suspicion.
14 �
� Nineteen Tales of Terror
"What do you mean? You heard what I said."
"That's it. I heard what you said. You said 'the cat wasn't in
the pantry.' You didn't say 'kitten.' You've never called him a
cat before. " He was standing directly in front of her now, and
suddenly he reached forward and grabbed her by the wrist.
"You're lying," he said in a low voice. "You got rid of Satan.
It turned into a cat all of a sudden and you got scared. You got
rid of it. Didn't you? Ha. Telling me you were sick this morning. I knew you were lying. You just wanted to stay home so you could get rid of that cat, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't." She pulled her hand away from him. "I was
sick this morning. And don't grab my wrist."
"I'll grab worse than your wrist. You got rid of that cat yourself, didn't you? Didn't you?"
"Yes, if you want to know so much, I did. What's it to you?"
"Crazy, that's what you are. Plumb loony. A grown woman
and you get scared of your own pet-your own pet-that we've
fed and played with for months.''
She advanced toward him with a cold fury. "Don't you call
me crazy! The only crazy thing I ever did was to marry you.''
"Plumb crazy." He began to pace up and down the living
room. "I bring her home a kitten and she says-" he pitched
his voice high in a mocking imitation of hers, " 'Oh Harry,
isn't he cute? I'm not afraid of cats. I'm just scared they'll rub
against my leg�.· " He dropped his voice down to its natural
register. "You better go get your head examined."
"Get out of here," she screamed at him. "Get out and stay
out."
He sensed that his mocking words had hurt her, so he pitched
his voice high again. " 'I didn't know you understood, Harry,' "
he imitated her, " 'I'm so glad you understand.' "
She walked closer to him and slapped him full across the
face. He grabbed her hand. "Who did you give that kitten to?"
"None of your business. Get out of here."
"I'll get out of here when you tell me who you gave that
kitten to."
"I'm not telling you, so you might as well-" She cried out
as he squeezed her fingers.
"You're going to tell me who you gave that kitten to, or I'll
round up every cat in the neighborhood and bring them all
back here."
She stared at him wide-eyed, stunned by his threat and by
the realization that he was capable of carrying it out.
"Let go of my hand. and I'll tell you."
He dropped her hand.
"I gave it to a man who walked past the house.''
"What man?"
The Cat • 15
"I don't know. He just happened to be walking past."
"You don't know his name or where he lives?''
"No.H
"You're lying. You know something about him."
"I'm not lying." She looked him straight in the eyes.
He picked up his hat and coat and walked to the door. "Well,
I'll find him. And if you're lying, God help you."
He slammed the door after him, and she sat down on the
sofa, weak and faint. For a long time she sat there, not thinking, just staring at the floor. Finally her thoughts began to collect themselves. She roused herself, reached out for a cigarette, and lit it. As she smoked, she thought about leaving Harry for
good. She could pack and get out tonight, before he came
home. She stood up, thinking about going upstairs to pack, but
she was so enervated that she sat down again. Tomorrow, she
thought. Tomorrow I'll do it.
A chill began to shake her and she realized how cold it was
in the room. A few logs lying neatly in the fireplace caught her
eye. She thought how warm and cheering it would be if she
had a fire and though it was a great effort, she rose and walked
wearily across to the fireplace. A wicker basket holding some
kindling wood lay by the hearth. She picked up some of the
sticks and began preparing the fire. One long heavy slat with
nails protruding from one end caught on the sleeve of her dress.
She stooped to pull the material away.
An odd noise made her turn around. The front door at the
far end of the living room was opening quietly. Through the
door came Satan.
Her face distorted in terror. The front door closed quickly
and she heard Harry's steps going swiftly along the little walk
to the street, then dying off in the distance.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. The
cat took a few steps forward and sprang up on the arm of the
big chair in the middle of the room. Resting on his haunches, he
sat there perfectly still, his eyes fastened on her.
She became consumed by panic and holding her hand to her
stomach, she rocked back and forth, sobbing pitifully. The
cat watched her, making no move.
"Oh God," she said out loud, "I can't s.tand it. I can't stand
it." She got to her feet. She was still holding the wooden slat
with the nail and brandishing this in front of her, she started to
walk across the room to the front door. Just as she passed by
the chair, the cat climbed down from the arm to the floor. Her
self-control completely deserted her and she began to run,
screaming, for the door.
But the cat was there first. Conscious now only of fear, she
lashed out at him with her arm so that the wooden slat nearly
16
Nineteen Tales of Terror
•
hit him. He jumped back, startled, against the wall. Wildly she
brought her arm down again and this time the slat struck him
full across the body and one nail drove itself into his head. It
happened so fast, he made no noise at all. Just fell over in a
hideous little heap, the board still fastened to his head.
She fell back, staring at the dead cat in horror. Then she
dropped on the sofa, clapping her hands over her eyes, pressing
her fingers so hard against her face that her nails dug into her
forehead. One long sob broke from her lips, but after that
she was quiet. Her hands slipped down from her face. She sat
there spent, exhausted.
Suddenly an unholy eagerness lit up her face. She looked
around the room, as though the familiar furniture would help
her to formulate the plan of action taking shape in her mind.
Her eyes, then her body came alive. She stood up. Her legs
were shaking so she had to hold on to the arm of the sofa, but
after a moment the shaking stopped. Without another look at
the cat, she left the room and went upstairs to her bedroom.
She walked directly to the closet, pulled out her hat and coat,
and picked up the pocketbook lying on her dresser. She tried
to put on some lipstick, but her hand was shaking so badly she
gave that up. Methodically, she went into the bathroom for her
toothbrush and tooth paste, returned to the bedroom, and took
a clean nightgown out of the drawer. She folded some cleansing
tissues around the brush and paste, rolled them up neatly in the
nightgown, and put them in her purse. Her hairbrush and
comb and some cold cream went in next.
Her mind was crystal clear now, and the shaking only spasmodic.
She opened the desk drawer, took out several war bonds and the bank book, shook some coins out of a pig bank
on the desk, and scooped up some change in the stamp box. All
these she plunged into her bag . . With one final look around to be
sure she had forgotten nothing of immediate importance, she
walked out of the room.
Halfway down the stairs, the shaking started again and she
had to lean against the banister, unable to go on. After a minute it stopped, and she continued down the stairs, through the dining room and into the kitchen.
The kitchen was in complete darkness, but without turning
on the lights she walked directly to the stove, her steps sure and
firm from years of habit. Without fumbling, she turned on each
burner and as the flames leaped into being from the four jets,
she leaned over and blew them out, one by one. With a final
puff, she blew out the pilot.
"Gas," she said aloud, letting out the "s" in a long sibilance
Tbe Cat • 1l
that echoed the soft hiss of the escaping gas. ''That's what he's
afraid of."
She laughed a hard, ugly laugh, then quickly walked to the
back door and left the house.
ISAK DINESEN
THE YO U N G MAN
W I TH THE CARNAT I O N
THREE-QUARTERS of a century ago there
lay in Antwerp, near the harbour, a small hotel named the
Queen's Hotel. It was a neat, respectable place, where sea captains stayed with their wives.
To this house there came, on a March evening, a young
man, sunk in gloom. As he walked up from the harbour, to
which he had come on a ship from England, he was, he felt, the
loneliest being in the world. And there was no one to whom he
could speak of his misery, for to the eyes of the world he must
seem safe and fortunate, a young man to be envied by everyone.
He was an author who had had a great success with his first
book. The public had loved it; the critics had been at one in
praising it; and he had made money on it, after having been
poor all his life. The book, from his own experience, treated
the hard lot of poor children, and it had brought him into contact with social reformers. He had been enthusiastically received within a circle of highly cultivated, noble men and women. He had even married into their community, the daughter of a famous scientist, a beautiful young woman, who idolized him.
