The Feline

The Feline



Evan Masters stared at the shiny, neon-encircled wall clock at The Harbor, his favorite watering hole. It was getting late. He had stopped at The Harbor after work, intending to just have a couple Manhattans to relax—as he often did after a stressful day. But that night was different. No. He hadn’t run across any of his buddies from work to insist that he stay longer. He had remained at the bar stool that night because he was afraid to go home. He kept telling himself how silly he was acting. Just plain silly. Afraid of a thing like that. It was only a stuffed animal of some kind. How could it possibly hurt him. But the thing was waiting for him at home.

To make matters worse, it was Halloween night. Some of the patrons at The Harbor were dressed in the usual costumes: witches, vampires, pirates…that sort of thing. Most of the crowd had wandered off into the night—probably to go home. Tomorrow was another work day. Normally, Evan would have enjoyed the festive atmosphere. But that night, his mind was preoccupied with that darn thing perched atop his dresser, it’s ruby red eyes burning into his imagination.

He had acquired the thing at an auction. Old lady Wilhelm, a kindly lady of German descent, had finally given up after ninety eight years of life. Heart attack, he'd heard. But there were rumors that she had been found with a terrified look frozen on her face. The auction drew a large crowd. The Wilhelms had acquired many items over the years that were now considered antiques. Marta Wilhelm’s husband, Axel, had died many years ago. Marta Wilhelm was well loved in the neighborhood—especially among children. She was always baking some kind of pies or cakes she made from old German recipes and inviting the neighbor kids in. Everyone spoke to Mrs. Wilhelm, usually when they saw her working in her garden. Evan had also spoken with Mrs. Wilhelm. She told Evan how she and her husband had immigrated to the United States in 1934. She loved this country, but she missed Germany. She also spoke of how much she missed her husband, whom she said had died of a heart attack. Evan had never met Axel Wilhelm. He died before Evan moved into the small house across the street. Mrs. Wilhelm didn’t say much about the way her husband had died. But there was something about the way she squinted her eyes and turned her head away when she said “heart attack” that caused Evan to wonder if there was more to his death than she was saying.

Evan purchased several items from the estate auction. He bought a clock that, upon the hour, sent little wooden men in and out of a folding door. He purchased some old newspapers dating back to the thirties. And there was the thing. No one wanted to buy the thing. The thing was a stuffed animal of some kind. One person at the auction said it looked like a lynx. It was definitely some breed from the cat family. It had been artfully posed in a crouching position, its long teeth bared, and mounted upon a wood base. The darn thing looked so realistic…like it could just jump out at you. Finally, the autioneer decided to just give the thing to anyone who wanted it. Evan thought it silly for people to be scared of a stuffed animal. He politely accepted it.

Evan had thoughtlessly placed the thing upon his dresser. He managed to go to sleep that first night, despite its red eyes peering at him through the darkness of his bedroom. But the thing had given him a nightmare. He sprang up in bed with what appeared like the animal standing on his chest, staring at him. He remembered going limp from terror, of his head falling back to the pillow. Then he heard something that sounded like the cry of a baby, then the patter on the floor, as if the thing had jumped off the bed. He must have passed out, because he awoke an hour later. The animal stood atop his dresser, still mounted on its wood stand, and still very much dead. It was a nightmare, a nightmare he would never forget. But, he assured himself, it was just a nightmare. He was a grown man, not a child. He refused to let something as bizarre as a bad dream bother him—or so he thought. But when he left for work that day, he regretted not throwing the thing in the trash.

So there he was, sitting at the bar, half-swacked on Manhattans, trying to get up the courage to go home. The bartender was starting to give him the evil eye. It wasn't officially closing time yet, but he was a tired bartender, and he was telling Evan every which way he could without actually telling him, to go home. Reluctantly, Evan finally left.

Despite a nervous system dulled by alcohol, Evan felt more jittery than he’d ever felt. While he drove home, he kept glancing in the backseat of his car, but there was never anything unusual there but upholstery and his briefcase from work. And by the time he pulled in his driveway, stopped, and got out, he couldn’t believe he was actually opening his trunk to get the tire iron. “C’mon…Get a hold of your self, man,” he said aloud. But no way was he going in that house without some kind of weapon.

His hands were sweaty as he gripped the tire iron. He unlocked his door and slowly opened it. One hand found the wall switch, and he cast light on his living room. He slowly trod towards the bedroom. As he neared the bedroom where the damn thing was, he halted. He listened. Nothing. He resumed his trek to the bedroom and was just about to open the door when the antique clock, the one he’d bought at the auction, suddenly struck midnight. He whirled around and stared at the little wooden men as they made their hourly trip out one folding door and in another. He sighed. He had to get a hold of himself. It was a dream, a damn dream—nothing else. He felt childish and admonished himself for being so silly. He opened his bed room door and switched on the light. The stuffed animal was right where he’d left it that morning. There was no way that thing was alive, no way it could have paid him a visit last night. But he approached it carefully, a sweaty, trembling hand still gripping the tire iron. He stared at the thing a moment, then he reached over and touched it gently, recoiling his hand, just in case. The thing didn’t move. Of course it didn’t move, he told himself. It was dead. It was stuffed. Why should it move. Now he was really beginning to feel silly. He chuckled at the power of his imagination and threw the tire iron on the bed. He sat down on the bed and removed his shoes. He looked back at the stuffed animal, the cat, or lynx, or whatever it was… It was actually kind of a pretty animal, he thought. But the way the taxidermist had posed it, crouching as it was, an animal ready to spring on its prey… It was rather frightening. He would throw it away in the morning.

Evan went to the bathroom to relieve his bladder of it’s Manhattan burden and returned to the bedroom. Suddenly, the bedroom light flickered. “No. Don’t go out. Please don’t go out,” he breathed. But the light didn’t cooperate with his fears. He found himself standing in darkness. An eerie sound came from the direction of his dresser. It sounded like wood splintering. He reached over and laid a trembling hand on the animal. He felt its fur vibrate in his hand. His hand shot back when he realized the animal had moved! A piercing, mournful cry—the kind a baby might make, came from the animal. He gasped as the animal pulled its paws out of the wooden base and sprang at him. Its powerful claws gripped his chest. Its razor sharp teeth sank into his neck. He fell to the floor as the animal kept ripping and tearing away at his flesh.

When the police found his body, his mouth and eyes were wide open and frozen in a ghastly stare. There weren't any marks or contusions on his body. The medical examiner ruled his death a coronary. From the evidence of the tire iron on his bed, the police believed he had an intruder and had literally been scared to death. Of course, no one suspected the stuffed cat, or lynx, or whatever it was, on his dresser. No one looked at it close enough to see the spot of blood in its mouth.

The End