harlotte lay awake in her bed. She tried to let her thoughts drift off and take her away to sleep, but they would not. She hadn’t slept well since her mother’s death. It had been five years, but she still did not sleep well. There was a presence with her all the time.
Montague was sleeping. He always slept in her bedroom.
Charlotte petted him. He did not wake up, but he began to dream. His soft little paws began to jitter and dance. His whiskers and mouth began to twitch. His tail swatted the air.
“What are you dreaming, Montague?” Charlotte asked.
There was the smell of milk. This smell was strange. You or I would not recognize it as milk, but it was milk. It had no sweetness. The brain that smelled it did not understand sweetness, but it understood milk. It was a cat’s brain.
The cat followed the smell of milk. There were two smells that could excite the cat above all others: milk and blood.
It chased the smell of milk and found that it was running through a huge field. Large grasses rose over its head, up into the sky, providing cover. Dewdrops formed on the blades of grass, but the cat did not mind the water. It was a hunter in the field. It could smell milk. It saw movement through the grass, half-hidden, disappearing. This excited the cat. Its tail twitched. It crouched on the ground. Its bottom rose into the air. Its fur became a sensory organ. Its body tensed, finding its perfect balance. It eyed the greenery in front of it, watching for the movement—watching for the prey.
The cat hovered there for a long moment. All of its senses were at their height, waiting for the perfect moment to spring.
The cat was a machine that was designed to hunt. This was its purpose. It was a vicious animal, a noble hunter.
It purred, unaware that it was purring.
Its eyes caught the swift movement. Its nose caught the strong whiff of the scent it had followed. Its ears rotated toward the sound of grasses moving, of feet shuffling. Its mouth watered.
It pounced. The grasses parted in front of the cat, and its sleek body flew through the air. Its claws were extended. Its teeth were white flashes.
When the cat landed, it hit its mark.
The thing it fell upon, its unnamed prey, was strange and thrilling. It was cold and soft. It parted before the cat’s claws and insinuated itself in between the cat’s toes. The prey did not squeal or squeak. It was large. It was all around the cat. It made the cat excitedly jump in the air and then land again, in the cold, soft, slippery prey.
In the way of dreams, the prey became the cat’s environment. The grass, the field, and the dew were gone. Everything was cold and white and creamy.
The cat bit at the stuff. The taste made the cat wild with excitement. This stuff was like milk and yet unlike milk. It was cold and smooth and soft. The cat licked its paws, but soon they became wet and sticky. The cat extended its claws. It yowled. It dug into the slippery coldness that surrounded it.
Within the cold, frothy, milky stuff, the cat dug into a solid meaty thing. All of its cat instincts were aroused. This new prey, a meaty prey, was hiding in the other stuff. The cat’s claws dug into the meaty thing, tearing skin and releasing blood. The cat’s nose twitched. Its mouth was open to absorb the scents that assaulted it. Here was milk. Here was blood. The cat dissolved into a frenzy.
Then, there was a light. It was a small, round, wispy light that appeared in the air. It danced around the cat, teasing it, tantalizing it. The cat chased after the light, jumping into the air with amazing feats of acrobatics.
The surroundings were changing again. The cat was on flat, barren ground. The light moved quickly and randomly through the air above. The cat jumped higher and higher. Its fur was sticky and matted with a mixture of blood and cream.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.” The noise seemed to come from the light, further enthralling the cat.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”
Everything was stimulating. Everything was exciting.
The cat jumped and twirled.
The light flashed in the sky above.
The light twirled and giggled.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”
With one unearthly effort, the cat jumped with deadly accuracy. At last, its paw hit a solid mass. The light fell to the ground. It stopped. It lay on the ground. It was still.
The cat stopped. It looked at the light, the silent red light that lay on the ground.
Tentatively, the cat reached out with its paw. It gave the light a gentle little tap.
The light expanded and opened out. The light opened its mouth. The light was giant and angry. The light had teeth. The light swallowed the cat and ate it.
The cat screamed.
Beyond the mouth of the light, there was pain and fear, but then all of that cleared away.
The cat experienced a moment of clarity.
It knew that it was a cat. It lived in a gray stone house that was built by a madman to attract the energy of madness. It was a predator and was meant to hunt. It had been domesticated to live with men. Instead of being preyed upon, it was petted and fed. Instead of preying, it played with a string.
The cat, understanding all of this, was filled with anger.
It woke.
Charlotte was petting the sleeping cat.
Montague jumped up from the bed and began dancing around.
“Montague,” said Charlotte, “are you okay?”
The cat did not seem to hear her or know that she was there. He ran around the room. He bounded up the walls. He rushed out the door.
Charlotte followed. Montague raced down the stairs and went to the kitchen. He danced around the kitchen floor and finally stopped still in front of the icebox.
Charlotte stood at the kitchen door and watched.
Montague clawed at the air in front of the icebox door.
Charlotte walked up and opened the door. The cat jumped up and knocked down a container of ice cream. Montague jumped into it, ripping and tearing. He got ice cream on his head, on his fur, on his paws. He yowled and screeched. Ice cream droplets sprayed all over the kitchen.
Suddenly, the cat stopped. He stood, bedraggled in the middle of the container of ice cream. His tail twitched. He looked at the air. Then, he began to jump. He jumped higher and higher. He fell in the ice cream, skidded across the kitchen floor, and stopped.
“Montague?” asked Charlotte.
She walked to where the cat lay, in one corner of the room. She kneeled down to look at him. He was on his side, breathing peacefully. His paws were twitching. It seemed as though he had never woken up, as if he were still dreaming.
Charlotte reached out and petted him. Her hand came away sticky with ice cream and loose fur.
As she tried to wipe the sticky residue away, she clearly heard a voice behind her.
“I am murdered.”
The cat jumped up. Charlotte turned around.
There was no one in the kitchen.
Montague ran out of the room and out of the house.
Charlotte never saw the cat again.
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