Ronnie told it to himself over and over at supper time. But that didn't do any good, telling it to himself. It was the guys he had to tell it to, and fast. He had to explain it before election tomorrow—
"Ronnie. What's the matter? You sick?"
"No, Ma."
"Then why don't you answer a person? I declare, you haven't said ten words since you came in the house. And you aren't eating your supper."
"Not hungry."
"Something bothering you, son?"
"No. Leave me alone."
"It's that election tomorrow, isn't it?"
"Leave me alone." Ronnie rose. "I'm goin' out."
"Ronnie!"
"I got to see Joe. Important."
"Back by nine, remember."
"Yeah. Sure."
He went outside. The night was cool. Windy for this time of year. Ronnie shivered a little as he turned the corner. Maybe a cigarette—
He lit a match and a shower of sparks spiraled to the sky. Ronnie began to walk, puffing nervously. He had to see Joe and the others and explain. Yeah, right now, too. If they told anybody else—
It was dark. The light on the corner was out, and the Ogdens weren't home. That made it darker, because Mrs. Mingle never showed a light in her cottage.
Mrs. Mingle. Her cottage was up ahead. He'd better cross the street.
What was the matter with him? Was he getting chicken? Afraid of that damned old woman, that old witch! He puffed, gulped, expanded his chest. Just let her try anything. Just let her be hiding under the trees waiting to grab out at him with her big claws and hiss—what was he talking about, anyway? That was the cat. Nuts to her cat, and her too. He'd show them!
Ronnie walked past the dark shadow where Mrs. Mingle dwelt. He whistled defiance, and emphasized it by shooting his cigarette butt across the fence. Sparks flew and were swallowed by the mouth of the night.
Ronnie paused and peered over the fence. Everything was black and still. There was nothing to be afraid of. Everything was black—
Everything except that flicker. It came from up the path, under the porch. He could see the porch now because there was a light. Not a steady light; a wavering light. Like a fire. A fire—where his cigarette had landed. The cottage was beginning to burn!
Ronnie gulped and clung to the fence. Yes, it was on fire all right. Mrs. Mingle would come out and the firemen would come and they'd find the butt and see him and then—
He fled down the street. The wind cat howled behind him, the wind that fanned the flames that burned the cottage—
Ma was in bed. He managed to slow down and walk softly as he slipped into the house, up the stairs. He undressed in the dark and sought the white womb between the bedsheets. When he got the covers over his head he had another chill. Lying there, trembling, not daring to look out the window and see the glare from the other side of the block, Ronnie's teeth chattered. He knew he was going to pass out in a minute.
Then he heard the screaming from far away. Fire engines. Somebody had called them. He needn't worry now. Why should the sound frighten him? It was only a siren, it wasn't Mrs. Mingle screaming, it couldn't be. She was all right. He was all right. Nobody knew . . .
Ronnie fell asleep with the wind and the siren wailing in his ears. His slumber was deep and only once was there an interruption. That was along towards morning, when he thought he heard a noise at the window. It was a scraping sound. The wind, of course. And it must have been the wind, too, that sobbed and whined and whimpered beneath the windowsill at dawn. It was only Ronnie's imagination, Ronnie's conscience, that transformed the sound into the wailing of a cat . . .
4
"Ronnie!"
It wasn't the wind, it wasn't a cat. Ma was calling him.
"Ronnie! Oh, Ronnie!"
He opened his eyes, shielding them from the sun-shafts.
"I declare, you might answer a person." He heard her grumbling to herself downstairs. Then she called again.
"Ronnie!"
"I'm coming, Ma."
He got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and dressed. She was waiting for him in the kitchen.
"Land sakes, you sure slept sound last night. Didn't you hear the fire engines?"
Ronnie dropped a slice of toast. "What engines?"
Ma's voice rose. "Don't you know? Why boy, it was just awful—Mrs. Mingle's cottage burned down."
"Yeah?" He had trouble picking up the toast again.
"The poor old lady—just think of it—trapped in there—"
He had to shut her up. He couldn't stand what was coming next. But what could he say, how could he stop her?
"Burned alive. The whole place was on fire when they got there. The Ogdens saw it when they came home and Mr. Ogden called the firemen, but it was too late. When I think of that old lady it just makes me—"
Without a word, Ronnie rose from the table and left the room. He didn't wait for his lunch. He didn't bother to examine himself in the mirror. He went outside, before he cried, or screamed, or hauled off and hit Ma in the puss.
The puss—
It was waiting for him on the front walk. The black bundle with the agate eyes. The cat.
Mrs. Mingle's cat, waiting for him to come out.
Ronnie took a deep breath before he opened the gate. The cat didn't make a sound, didn't stir. It just hunched up on the sidewalk and stared at him.
He watched it for a moment, then cast about for a stick. There was a hunk of lath near the porch. He picked it up and swung it. Then he opened the gate.
"Scat!" he said.
The cat retreated. Ronnie walked away. The cat moved after him. Ronnie wheeled, brandishing the stick.
"Scram before I let you have it!"
The cat stood still.
Ronnie stared at it. Why hadn't the damn thing burned up in the fire? And what was it doing here?
He gripped the lath. It felt good between his fingers, splinters and all. Just let that mangy tom start anything—
He walked along, not looking back. What was the matter with him? Suppose the cat did follow him. It couldn't hurt him any. Neither could old Mingle. She was dead. The dirty witch. Talking about cutting his tongue out. Well, she got what was coming to her, all right. Too bad her scroungy cat was still around. If it didn't watch out, he'd fix it, too. He should worry now.
Nobody was going to find out about that cigarette. Mrs. Mingle was dead. He ought to be glad, everything was all right, sure, he felt great.
The shadow followed him down the street.
"Get out of here!"
Ronnie turned and heaved the lath at the cat. It hissed. Ronnie heard the wind hiss, heard his cigarette butt hiss, heard Mrs. Mingle hiss.
He began to run. The cat ran after him.
"Hey, Ronnie!"
Marvin Ogden was calling him. He couldn't stop now, not even to hit the punk. He ran on. The cat kept pace.
Then he was winded and he slowed down. It was just in time, too. Up ahead was a crowd of kids, standing on the sidewalk in front of a heap of charred, smoking boards.
They were looking at Mingle's cottage—
Ronnie closed his eyes and darted back up the street. The cat followed.
He had to get rid of it before he went to school. What if people saw him with her cat? Maybe they'd start to talk. He had to get rid of it—
Ronnie ran clear down to Sinclair Street. The cat was right behind him. On the corner he picked up a stone and let fly. The cat dodged. Then it sat down on the sidewalk and looked at him. Just looked.
Ronnie couldn't take his eyes off the cat. It stared so. Mrs. Mingle had stared, too. But she was dead. And this was only a cat. A cat he had to get away from, fast.
The streetcar came down Sinclair Street. Ronnie found a dime in his pocket and boarded the car. The cat didn't move. He stood on the platform as the car pulled away and looked back at the cat. It just sat there.
Ronnie rode around the loop, then transferred to the Hollis Avenue bus. It brought him over to t
he school, ten minutes late. He got off and started to hurry across the street.
A shadow crossed the entrance to the building.
Ronnie saw the cat. It squatted there, waiting.
He ran.
That's all Ronnie remembered of the rest of the morning. He ran. He ran, and the cat followed. He couldn't get rid of the cat. He ran.
Up and down the streets, back and forth, all over the whole neighborhood; stopping and dodging and throwing stones and swearing and panting and sweating. But always the running, and always the cat right behind hun. Once it started to chase him and before he knew it he was heading straight for the place where the burned smell filled the air, straight for the ruins of Mrs. Mingle's cottage. The cat wanted him to go there, wanted him to see—
Ronnie began to cry. He sobbed and panted all the way home. The cat didn't make a sound. It followed hun. All right, let it. He'd fix it. He'd tell Ma. Ma would get rid of it for him. Ma.
"Ma!"
He yelled as he ran up the steps.
No answer. She was out. Marketing.
And the cat crept up the steps behind him.
Ronnie slammed the door, locked it. Ma had her key. He was safe now. Safe at home. Safe in bed—he wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over his head, wait for Ma to come and make everything all right. There was a scratching at the door.
"Ma!" His scream echoed through the empty house.
He ran upstairs. The scratching died away.
And then he heard the footsteps on the porch, the slow footsteps; he heard the rattling and turning of the doorknob. It was old lady Mingle, coming from the grave. It was the witch, coming to get him. It was—
"Ma!"
"Ronnie, what's the matter? What you doing home from school?"
He heard her. It was all right. Just in time, Ronnie closed his mouth. He couldn't tell her about the cat. He mustn't ever tell her. Then everything would come out. He had to be careful what he said.
"I got sick to my stomach," he said. "Miss Sanders said I should come home and lay down."
Then Ma was up the stairs, helping him undress, asking should she get the doctor, fussing over him and putting him to bed. And he could cry and she didn't know it wasn't from a gut-ache. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. It was all right.
Yes, it was all right now, and he was in bed. Ma brought him some soup for lunch. He wanted to ask her about the cat, but he didn't dare. Besides, he couldn't hear it scratching. Must have run away when Ma came home.
Ronnie lay in bed and dozed as the afternoon shadows ran in long black ribbons across the bedroom floor. He smiled to himself. What a sucker he was! Afraid of a cat. Maybe there wasn't even a cat—all in his mind.
"Ronnie—you all right?" Ma called up from the foot of the stairs.
"Yes, Ma. I feel lots better."
Sure, he felt better. He could get up now and eat supper if he wanted. In just a minute he'd put his clothes on and go downstairs. He started to push the sheets off. It was dark in the room, now. Just about supper time—
Then Ronnie heard it. A scratching. A scurrying. From the hall? No. It couldn't be in the hall. Then where?
The window. It was open. And the scratching came from the ledge outside. He had to close it, fast. Ronnie jumped out of bed, barking his shin against a chair as he groped through the dusk. Then he was at the window, slamming it down, tight.
He heard the scratching.
And it came from inside the room!
Ronnie hurled himself upon the bed, clawing the covers up to his chin. His eyes bulged against the darkness.
Where was it?
He saw nothing but shadows. Which shadow moved?
Where was it?
Why didn't it yowl so he could locate it? Why didn't it make a noise? Yes, and why was it here? Why did it follow him? What was it trying to do to him?
Ronnie didn't know. All he knew was that he lay in bed, waiting, thinking of Mrs. Mingle and her cat and how she was a witch and died because he'd killed her. Or had he killed her? He was all mixed up, he couldn't remember, he didn't even know what was real and what wasn't real anymore. He couldn't tell which shadow would move next.
And then he could.
The round shadow was moving. The round black ball was inching across the floor from beneath the window. It was the cat, all right, because shadows don't have claws that scrape. Shadows don't leap through the air and perch on the bedpost, grinning at you with yellow eyes and yellow teeth—grinning the way Mrs. Mingle grinned.
The cat was big. Its eyes were big. Its teeth were big, too.
Ronnie opened his mouth to scream.
Then the shadow was sailing through the air, springing at his face, at his open mouth. The claws fastened in his cheeks, forcing his jaws apart, and the head dipped down—
Far away, under the pain, someone was calling.
"Ronnie! Oh, Ronnie! What's the matter with you?"
Everything was fire and he lashed out and suddenly the shadow went away and he was sitting bolt upright in bed. His mouth worked but no sound came out. Nothing came out except that gushing red wetness,
"Ronnie! Why don't you answer me?"
A guttural sound came from deep within Ronnie's throat, but no words. There would never be any words.
"Ronnie—what's the matter? Has the cat got your tongue—?"
The Hungry House
AT FIRST THERE were two of them—he and she, together. That's the way it was when they bought the house.
Then it came. Perhaps it was there all the time, waiting for them in the house. At any rate, it was there now. And nothing could be done.
Moving was out of the question. They'd taken a five-year lease, secretly congratulating themselves on the low rental. It would be absurd to complain to the agent, impossible to explain to their friends. For that matter, they had nowhere else to go; they had searched for months to find a home.
Besides, at first neither he nor she cared to admit awareness of its presence. But both of them knew it was there.
She felt it the very first evening, in the bedroom. She was sitting in front of the high, old-fashioned mirror, combing her hair. The mirror hadn't been dusted yet and it seemed cloudy; the light above it flickered a bit, too.
So at first she thought it was just a trick of shadows or some flaw in the glass. The wavering outline behind her seemed to blur the reflection oddly, and she frowned. Then she began to experience what she often thought of as her "married feeling"—the peculiar awareness which usually denoted her husband's unseen entrance into a room she occupied.
He must be standing behind her, now. He must have come in quietly, without saying anything. Perhaps he was going to put his arms around her, surprise her, startle her. Hence the shadow on the mirror. She turned, ready to greet him.
The room was empty. And still the odd reflection persisted, together with the sensation of a presence at her back.
She shrugged, moved her head, and made a little face at herself in the mirror. As a smile it was a failure, because the warped glass and the poor light seemed to distort her grin into something alien—into a smile that was not altogether a composition of her own face and features.
Well, it had been a fatiguing ordeal, this moving business. She flicked a brush through her hair and tried to dismiss the problem.
Nevertheless she felt a surge of relief when he suddenly entered the bedroom. For a moment she thought of telling him, then decided not to worry him over her "nerves."
He was more outspoken. It was the following morning that the incident occurred. He came rushing out of the bathroom, his face bleeding from a razor-cut on the left cheek.
"Is that your idea of being funny?" he demanded, in the petulant little-boy fashion she found so engaging. "Sneaking in behind me and making faces in the mirror? Gave me an awful start—look at this nick I sliced on myself."
She sat up in bed.
"But darling, I haven't been making faces at you. I didn't stir from this bed since
you got up."
"Oh." He shook his head, his frown fading into a second set of wrinkles expressing bewilderment. "Oh, I see."
"What is it?" She suddenly threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, wriggling her toes and peering at him earnestly.
"Nothing," he murmured. "Nothing at all. Just thought I saw you, or somebody, looking over my shoulder in the mirror. All of a sudden, you know. It must be those damned lights. Got to get some bulbs in town today."
He patted his cheek with a towel and turned away. She took a deep breath.
"I had the same feeling last night," she confessed, then bit her lip.
"You did?"
"It's probably just the lights, as you said, darling."
"Uh-huh." He was suddenly preoccupied. "That must be it. I'll make sure and bring those new bulbs."
"You'd better. Don't forget, the gang is coming down for the housewarming on Saturday."
Saturday proved to be a long time in coming. In the interim both of them had several experiences which served to upset their minds much more than they cared to admit.
The second morning, after he had left for work, she went out in back and looked at the garden. The place was a mess—half an acre of land, all those trees, the weeds everywhere, and the dead leaves of autumn dancing slowly around the old house. She stood off on a little knoll and contemplated the grave gray gables of another century. Suddenly she felt lonely here. It wasn't only the isolation, the feeling of being half a mile from the nearest neighbor, down a deserted dirt road. It was more as though she were an intruder here—an intruder upon the past. The cold breeze, the dying trees, the sullen sky were welcome; they belonged to the house. She was the outsider, because she was young, because she was alive.
She felt it all, but did not think it. To acknowledge her sensations would be to acknowledge fear. Fear of being alone. Or, worse still, fear of not being alone.
Because, as she stood there, the back door closed.
Oh, it was the autumn wind, all right. Even though the door didn't bang, or slam shut. It merely closed. But that was the wind's work, it had to be. There was nobody in the house, nobody to close the door.