Feral

For Kit­ty and Priss

Orange neon tub­ing let­tered a sign that hung bolt­ed with rust­ed rebar to the sand­stone above the Silent Harp’s entrance. Lynette saw dark yel­low paint peel­ing behind lights that flick­ered with the hiss of chem­i­cals react­ing with electricity.

After dark, this no-doubt beck­oned drunk­en New York­ers inside with rich promis­es of debauch­ery and music. Right now, she could tell this place would creak in the oppres­sive city heat. Above her, the words TAP ROOM BAR became ROOM BA, then clipped back again with a pop that threat­ened to shake the appa­ra­tus free from the wall.

An unpleas­ant thrum of anx­i­ety hung in her chest as she crossed over the entrance to the place. As a loca­tion for a first date, this wouldn’t have been any­where close to her ide­al choice. Green, vel­vet-rimmed bar stools. Walls cracked with thin, wood­en pan­el­ing. No menus: no kitchen. Still, this place was local, meet­ing her and Peter halfway between their own spaces with­in the arter­ies of Man­hat­tan. Should she reject him, he could walk home, as could she. If she liked him, her place wasn’t far. So she’d agreed to meet him here.

The bar was almost emp­ty, but she felt heavy and observed already. Sure­ly Peter had spot­ted her. Seen her awk­ward gaze flit­ting over emp­ty chairs, seek­ing his. But no- an old­er cou­ple sat by one end of the bar, and anoth­er soli­tary man sipped at some­thing, two chairs by. The bar­tender paid them no atten­tion, instead focus­ing on her phone as she texted. There was no one else here.

Lynette made her way to the oth­er side of the bar, where she could sit undis­turbed. She reached below its wood­en sur­face, found a hook, and strung up her hand­bag. Next, she peered towards the back rooms, into the shad­ows that swirled there. Saw booths to the side, torn uphol­stery adorn­ing the sur­faces. She felt uneasy and need­ed a moment to col­lect her­self. Her make­up was a rush: in this humid­i­ty, her mas­cara would streak down her cheeks. The restroom was to the back, she thought. She’d find it. Col­lect her­self, take a breath with the mir­ror to assess her appear­ance, and force these thoughts away. 

“Hey there! I love that dress,” announced the bar­tender instead. 

“Oh, thank you,” Lynette replied. “I just ordered it. It just arrived.”

“I love that,” the woman said. She poured Lynette a glass of water and placed a nap­kin beside it. 

Lynette asked the bar­tender to decide her evening’s sig­na­ture on her behalf and appre­ci­at­ed the look of approval nod­ded her way. She’d felt self-con­scious in her dress too, that sen­su­ous low-cut high-rid­ing silk thing that felt insin­cere to wear, let alone become. Well com­ple­ment­ing the shoes that bit into the back of her feet, already blis­ter­ing her skin. Still, both arrived in time for sum­mer, fit great, and were unworn until now. And she’d seen women wan­der­ing worse-for-wear in sim­i­lar choic­es in the park recently.

She retrieved her phone from her hand­bag, flipped its cam­era lens to face her, and peered into her reflec­tion. Her make­up wasn’t smudged, after all. Her hair wore the summer’s humid­i­ty well- gen­tly curled, shoul­der length. Per­haps she’d stroke it if she liked Peter. Lean into him and gig­gle while she toyed at its ends, like she’s unaware that she’s doing it, teas­ing him by acci­dent. Watch the breath catch in his throat, his ver­bal appar­el lost in the upcom­ing flood of alco­hol and attrac­tion. Her lip­gloss was vis­i­ble if he was con­scious enough to look- but believe her, it was there. 

The bar­tender reap­peared and placed a gen­er­ous pour of red wine on the bar. Grin­ning, Lyn­nette lift­ed it to her lips and took a heavy sip.

“This is deli­cious, thank you,” Lynette said.

“Mmm hmm,” the woman agreed.

“Hey, Lyn­nette?” announced a man’s voice behind her. As Lynette stepped off her chair to wel­come him, she smelled the heavy cologne exud­ing from his cloth­ing and skin. 

“Peter? Peter,” she said. A bris­tle of unshaven cheek brushed hers’ as he pre­sumed to kiss her. Then she leaned back away from him to review. He looked close enough to his pro­file pic­ture.  Dressed more casu­al­ly than she’d have liked. Heav­ier set than in his pho­tographs, not mus­cu­lar. He was taller than her. She felt a tin­gle of attrac­tion to him- she could gaze at this. What was that scent he was wearing?

“Shall I get you a mer­lot to match?” the bar­tender asked Peter.

“No. I want a beer.” Peter said.

“Sure thing. Some­thing light?”

“Didn’t you hear me? That’s what I said, yes,” he direct­ed. Lynette saw the woman wince at his words.

Rude, Lynette thought. That was rude. 

“Sure,” the bar­tender said. Her eyes flicked towards Lynette, and she dis­solved away to pre­pare his drink.

“Hey, at least the ser­vice is quick,” Peter said. 

Strike one, Lynette thought. You have two more. Please don’t be a prick. 

“Yes. She’s nice. She made a good choice of wine,” she said as she brought the glass to her lips and sipped.

They slid into the con­ver­sa­tion well and leaned into each oth­er as they test­ed their shared air. One strike down, two remain­ing- she hoped their rap­port would deep­en through­out the evening.

“So, what are you look­ing for when you meet some­one on the app?” Lynette asked.

“That’s a fair question.”

“Clas­sic.”

“And the hon­est answer?”

“Please. Then I’ll tell you.”

 “The hon­est answer. I’m not look­ing for any­thing, exactly?”

“Oh, real­ly?” she asked, her eye­brow raised. “Because most peo­ple on here are just look­ing for a hookup.”

“Depends on the per­son,” he offered. “If we liked each oth­er enough, then, I’d have to say I’d just want to see.”

“Peo­ple can like each oth­er and still just be look­ing for a hookup.”

“Yes, and if a hookup hap­pens when I’m dat­ing, and if it’s just that, then it’s just that. And that’s great. I wouldn’t com­plain. I mean, I haven’t com­plained. In the past.”

“I’m sure. I’d hope not,” Lynette said. He was cir­cling the rim of his glass with his fin­ger­tip, she saw.

“But if we decid­ed to see where things led, then I’d be open to more, at least? I don’t feel any press­ing need to be with some­one, but it would be nice. So I’d want to be care­ful and see where we wound up? I mean, if I just want­ed a hookup, I’d say so. But irre­gard­less I’d nev­er want some­one to feel any pres­sure, ever.”

Irre­gard­less, she thought. Sec­ond strike. She watched him sip his beer. His fin­ger con­tin­ued to glide along his glass. If he was ner­vous, he didn’t betray this through his body lan­guage or tone. Ah, I’ll allow it, she thought then, and wait­ed for him to con­tin­ue. It was a good answer, at least one that would do. And she liked the tim­bre of his voice well enough. 

 He sunk the last of his drink, rest­ed the glass on the bar and con­tin­ued. “Zero pres­sure, you know? Espe­cial­ly in Manhattan.”

“Right. Sure. You said that ear­li­er, incidentally.”

“What bit?”

“About ‘not feel­ing pres­sure.’ When we were messaging.”

“Oh, did I?”

“Yes. I thought that was pret­ty fair. So you’re the first per­son I’ve dat­ed in a while. I delet­ed the app for a while, actually.”

“Real­ly? Why?”

No, of course not, Lynette thought. “I just need­ed a break.”

She sipped her last and sig­naled the bar­tender to refill them. The place was begin­ning to liv­en now. And she’d noticed that their serv­er had stayed near­by her through­out their talk. Let her lis­ten, Lynette thought, judge away. There was noth­ing to learn that her date hadn’t preached before, to count­less women before Lynette. Through numer­ous sum­mer evenings and prac­ticed con­ver­sa­tions, every lure rehearsed and rein­forced through rep­e­ti­tion. As it was with her and each and every one who’d ever dat­ed in New York City.  Lis­ten all you like. 

“Alright, so, your turn,” Peter said.

“Turn for what?”

“You said you’d tell me if I told you, and I did. So it’s your turn.”

“Hmmm. I did, didn’t I? I’m look­ing to find some­one who likes cats,” Lynette answered.

“Cats?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a cat lady?”

“I am.”

“A crazy cat lady?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s fan­tas­tic. I’m a crazy cat guy, would you believe.”

“Are you? Do you have one?”

“I have.”

Lynette turned away from him and reached for her phone. Her fin­gers were slip­pery, her grip soft­ened by the wine. She dug her nails under­neath the device and pried it from the table.

“I’m seri­ous- I love them,” Peter said.

“I believe you,” Lynette assured him. She held her phone towards him, open­ing her mouth to savor his per­fumed scent. On its sur­face, she revealed a pho­to­graph and tilt­ed it his way. She stud­ied his face for a hint of insin­cer­i­ty as he looked. “This is Eurus. She’s the best cat. I adopt­ed her as a kit­ten from a lit­ter from a friend. So you could say she’s a res­cue. Her moth­er was a fer­al. That makes her fer­al, too.”

 Lynette scrolled through the pho­tographs, show­ing pic­ture after pic­ture of her pet. She set­tled on a self­ie tak­en with Eurus nuz­zled against her chest, its paws on her shoul­der, its head cud­dled against her cheek. Its long hair melt­ed into her own as Lynette grinned into the camera. 

“She suits you,” Peter said.

“Thank you. I use this pic­ture on my lock screen,” Lynette con­tin­ued. She snapped the phone off and dropped it back on the bar. “I like to be remind­ed of her like that when I’m not home. She’s not what she used to be, but I keep her close. They get old. They age. So that’s Eurus.”

“Is she your familiar?”

“Famil­iars are sup­posed to be black. She’s white.”

“Yes, she’s- she’s long-haired Siber­ian?” Peter asked.

“Yes! That’s right. She is.”

“They make the best cats.”

“Eurus is the best cat,” Lynette concluded.

Eurus wasn’t a Siber­ian; she was an Ango­ra. But at least he rec­og­nized a breed. For now, that was close enough. 

Sliv­ers of con­ver­sa­tion seeped between their drinks. Peter’s fin­ger­tip con­tin­ued to dance along his glass’s rim, explor­ing its loop’s sin­gu­lar des­ti­na­tion to the rhythm of their con­ver­sa­tion as if try­ing to sum­mon a counter melody from his drink. His eyes remained trained on hers’ as he stroked it back and forth, faster and firmer.

He’s doing that on pur­pose, she thought.

“I need to go to the bath­room,” she said. She took her nap­kin and placed it on top of her glass. As Lynette stood how­ev­er, Peter reached for­ward and imped­ed her with his arm. Next, he leaned across the bar.

 “Do you mind look­ing after these for us while my friend steps away?” he asked the bar­tender. He took the drinks, reached these to the woman who col­lect­ed them and placed them onto her side of the counter, out of Lynette’s view. Then Peter came for­ward, clos­er to Lynette. “You don’t mind, do you? This is our first meet­ing, after all. Just so you feel com­fort­able. I mean, I could be anyone.”

#

Upon her return, Peter col­lect­ed their drinks. 

“Thank you, Tessie,” he said to the bar­tender, and then to Lynette: “Your wine is done. Shall we order another?” 

“Okay. So I was think­ing,” Lynette began.

“Let’s move over there,” Peter inter­rupt­ed. He nod­ded behind her towards the back of the bar. “It’s get­ting loud in here, and I’d love to con­tin­ue our ear­li­er con­ver­sa­tion, and it looks qui­eter over there.”

Lyn­nette looked behind her, focused on the haze of emp­ty booths. 

“Is that right?” she said. 

Now his eyes were flit­ting over her fig­ure, too. He was drink­ing her in, gaw­ping at chest and thighs. And he didn’t seem to be try­ing to hide this. The alco­hol was swirling in her thoughts, but she was enjoy­ing his atten­tion nonethe­less. You’re not going to try and kiss me right here? she thought.

“It’ll be qui­eter,” he repeat­ed as he began to tug her away.

“Shots first,” she said. Pulled back to the bar and drew the bartender’s atten­tion. “Yes. Tequi­la. Tequi­la then booth.”

Tessie met Lynette’s gaze alone- she didn’t look at Peter. Nor did the woman smile again while they remained.

#

After Lynette set­tled their tab, Peter guid­ed her by her arm, and they stum­bled out­side. A cat howled in dis­sent against the clang­ing sounds of form­less city machin­ery.  Dark­er now, the sun had sunk under the sky­line behind bat­ter­ies of ten­e­ments that extin­guished the last of the day­light. A yel­low medal­lion car purred by, its TAXI sign hum­ming through the evening’s acrid air. Peter hailed the dri­ver, but its light clipped off as it trun­dled away, anoth­er pas­sen­ger in tow already. Dirt bloomed from under its wheels, dust­ing their legs.

“It’s not far. Plus I like to walk,” Lynette said.

They made their way toward Cen­tral Park West.  She’d walk him to her non­de­script stu­dio, some­where near Colum­bus Cir­cle. He could feign inter­est in her until then. Then he’d deceive his way into her sanc­tu­ary before final­ly rob­bing her blind.

Peter’s con­cern grew. Lynette (or was it Lyne? Lin­sey? It didn’t mat­ter any­more) was sober enough, at this moment, to lead him to her pri­vate grot­to of trin­kets and rich­es. Not that he had much idea what jew­el­ry of hers’ might be of any val­ue- that would be up to Tessie. And Tessie would arrive lat­er, ruck­sack in tow. But he knew this woman wouldn’t remain upright for long, and if she col­lapsed in the street, this whole set­up would be a wash. He wished he could have bun­dled her into that damn taxi instead. Then again, he was broke: the two cents he could rub togeth­er wouldn’t even fare them around the block. 

Lynette led him towards the cross­walk where they came to rest. Cars carved past them by the brown­stone build­ings as they wait­ed for the light to change. Where were they, around 80th Street? Cen­tral Park ran length­wise. A car­niv­o­rous wound fes­ter­ing with evening jog­gers, dog walk­ers, and odd­balls who solicit­ed any­one who’d offer the scant­est atten­tion. Easy prey, all of them, he thought. He felt dis­dain for each.

“Yes, I like to walk, too. I love the city,” he said. “I nev­er want to leave here.”

Lynette pirou­et­ted on her toes to face him. He locked his grin in place and forced a sigh as he kissed her. Her pas­sion would keep her coher­ent, he hoped. He could fer­ment this. Cup­ping her breast with one hand, he reached the oth­er along the inside of her leg again and buried his fin­gers inside her dress. She gasped and tilt­ed her head back, her pupils’ holes, threat­en­ing to devour him in their depths. She bit at his lips as he pressed.

If she did col­lapse before they reached her home, he’d flee. They were in a spoilt neigh­bor­hood: a squab­ble of Upper West lords and ladies would gath­er to guard their poor young kin as she drooled into the gut­ter like so much dis­card­ed lit­ter. She’d awak­en in an East Side hos­pi­tal, a quick ambu­lance ride away, her mem­o­ries of the evening torn from her by the drug.  Dis­charged by this time tomor­row. But he was hard­ly being hon­est with his iden­ti­ty. Tying a name to a dat­ing pro­file was triv­ial. Craft­ing a per­sona was not. And sure, the drug would rout her abil­i­ty to asso­ciate mem­o­ries and ren­der any con­scious­ness com­plete­ly moot when it took her. But they’d find it in her blood for sure. Then he’d have to shed his skin again. More­over, Tessie would be furi­ous as the dose hadn’t been the eas­i­est she’d pro­cured for this grift.

Now Lyn­nette was kiss­ing his neck. With one hand, she slid her fin­ger­tips between them, under the hem of his shorts. Her oth­er thumbed at his crotch. 

“Let’s get back to yours first,” he said, push­ing her away. 

#

When she reached the oth­er side of the street, she knelt, focus­ing on some­thing by her feet. She squealed with delight as she reached out to pet the orange shape. Peter saw she’d found a cat. It began to purr.

“Well, would you look at you! You’re so beau­ti­ful,” she told the cat. It stretched its front paws in front of her, hind legs upright, invit­ing her con­nec­tion. With a long ten­ta­tive meow, the ani­mal pushed its head into her hand, prod­ding at her fin­ger­tips. As Lynette pet­ted, it swished its tail from side to side as if sweep­ing the street clean behind them.

“Oh! Where did he come from?” Peter asked. 

“I have no idea. She was just sud­den­ly there,” Lynette said. She ran her hand along the cat’s length with care. It meowed, fur shim­mer­ing in the street­light, respond­ing to each stroke like a rip­ple in a river.

“You’re very brave,” she said to the cat. Then, to Peter: “They’re noc­tur­nal. I won­der if she’s a stray. She must be look­ing for food.”

Dur­ing these deduc­tions, the cat purred in agree­ment. Lynette cir­cled her fin­gers around its tail and, with one long stroke, dis­en­tan­gled her­self from the fur. She grinned at Peter as she made this motion, her eyes peer­ing at his crotch again.

“So you col­lect strays?” Peter asked. The cat danced between Lynette’s legs, its tail whip­ping at the hem of her dress.

Peter hat­ed cats. He thought they were beasts. But he reached down to pet the dirty lit­tle thing any­way.  At his approach, its ears twitched back­ward towards Lynette. Peter moved his hand a lit­tle clos­er to the animal’s face. The cat’s back carved into a light­ning arch as it hissed at him. He recoiled and the cat ran from him, tak­ing refuge behind Lynette again. It stood rigid and peered at Peter through her dress, its tail stuck upright in the air.

Lynette offered her hand behind her for the cat to sniff. It accept­ed the peace offer­ing, rubbed its face against her fin­gers, and relaxed as it purred for her alone. Then it was gone, dart­ing away from them to hunt at the shad­ows of the Park. Lynette laughed at Peter.

#

Hav­ing reached the foy­er of Lynette’s apart­ment now, that laugh had become loos­er, her cadence less precise. 

“I col­lect­ed her whiskers as they fell out. Each time I found one I placed it in a tin. I was going to make them into a bracelet but they weren’t long enough so I made a ring instead. Lit­tle ring of white whiskers,” she told him. Now she slurred, he noticed: her last phrase pro­nounced “why whizzers”. She held her hand up to his face and waved her fin­gers for him to see. As if wor­ried her nails would claw his skin, he pushed her away. “Oh, I’m not wear­ing it today,” she said.

“Show me when we arrive.”

“It’s a walk-up, just two flights,” she said, point­ing towards the stairwell.

Peter glanced around the entry­way. The build­ing lacked a door­man. This was good; one less risk of iden­ti­fi­ca­tion. He held his head down­wards in a furtive motion to stay hid­den from any hall­way cam­eras and won­dered at the wealth he’d dis­cov­er inside her home. Her reveal did not bode well. Home­made junk jew­el­ry held no val­ue oth­er than the sen­ti­men­tal, and he couldn’t trade on that. She had a box of mon­ey hid­den under her bed, he hoped, some­thing stowed away from the pry­ing eyes of stu­dent loan col­lec­tion or who­ev­er. He’d be sure to look.

“Then you can meet Eurus,” Lynette slurred.

Peter was relieved the drug had begun the blunt work of melt­ing her mind to mush. This would be a quick process now, not imme­di­ate. But the dim­ming, frag­ile light in her head would soon flick out. By the door of her stu­dio, Lynette fum­bled at her lock, and they were inside.

“I’d give you a guid­ed tour, but there’s not much to see,” she said.

“No, this is a love­ly place,” Peter replied. Lynnette’s mod­est space lit up to reveal her in rich­er clar­i­ty. In the back of her room, thick, dark black­out cur­tains blocked the city.  A large, antique wood­en wardrobe stood open, and a tongue of clothes spilled onto the floor. Tessie would make quick work of these when she arrived lat­er. This fur­ni­ture propped up a fig­ure-length mir­ror dec­o­rat­ed with pho­tographs of lovers or friends. An over­sized OLED tele­vi­sion stood on the oth­er side.

“The bathroom’s by the door. I need a minute and I’ll be back,” Lynette said. Peter saw she was los­ing her foot­work, her ear­li­er grace now a list­less drag. She swayed like a spin­ning top about to tum­ble to grav­i­ty, her ener­gy almost spent.

“Take your time. I’ll be right here,” Peter said as Lynette shuf­fled into the bath­room and away.

Peter con­tin­ued his audit. He spied a video game con­sole by the TV.  Excel­lent. At the back of the room, her bed stretched, opu­lent and tidy. Car­toon cats danced on the sheets. Sim­i­lar sketched por­traits of the things hung on the walls like claw marks. Thick sage scent­ed the air, mask­ing the smell of her cat. He’d for­got­ten about that damn cat. Could it be hid­ing? The room didn’t betray any signs of feline co-occu­pa­tion. He couldn’t see a lit­ter box any­where. No cat hair flit­ting through the air’s musk.

By Lynette’s bed stood a table. A clean, lace sheet dressed its sur­face, lit white by an ornate lamp. On this table, two small black and white pho­tographs framed Eurus. In the left pho­to, the cat sat upright, its expres­sion alert. To the right, she lay on her back, trust­ing her bel­ly to the air.

Between the pic­tures was a glass con­tain­er, a thick gold­en rim bal­anc­ing its base upright. He rec­og­nized the type imme­di­ate­ly. Cloches like these lined 5th Avenue jew­el­ry store win­dows and masked the loot of pawn­shops every­where. Cov­er­ing this was a thick, red hand­ker­chief, obscur­ing what­ev­er jack­pot hid with­in. Tak­ing care not to dis­turb the pho­tographs, he took a cor­ner of this cloth and tugged it free. It drift­ed to the table.

Peter yelped and stepped back. A small skull grinned at him from inside the jar. 

The skull glared upwards through emp­ty ovals. Ridges of yel­low jaw­bone chis­eled against the glass. Frozen fangs were inch-long nails that bit the air.

What in the absolute liv­ing fuck is this, Peter thought.

Some­thing brushed his shoul­der. Fin­ger­tips came to rest on his skin.

“That’s Eurus,” said Lynette. “Say ‘hi’ to our guest, Eurus.”

“You have a skull in your home,” Peter said.

“That’s not weird, is it? I like keep­ing her close to me.”

Peter looked back to the table. The dead ani­mal perched, con­sid­er­ing him with deep, vac­u­ous sock­ets. Not a sin­gle string of griz­zle dripped from the bone. All skin long since sheared away, leav­ing Eurus’ pol­ished head, tend­ed after death with care, pre­served in a snap­shot of grief.

“It’s impor­tant you under­stand,” Lynette said. “Under­stand” spo­ken as a bro­ken mur­mur. “Please be care­ful around her, okay?”

Lynette tried to pull him towards the bed. Her grip slid off his arm, and she tum­bled onto the mat­tress. She breathed in long, deep strokes, suck­ing in the air in mechan­i­cal reflex. Her gaze glazed open as she stared above her into noth­ing at all. 

Final­ly, Peter thought. He lift­ed her arm, held it aloft, and then let it fall to the mat­tress again. Next, he peered into her eyes for any glim­mer of con­scious recog­ni­tion. Lynette had short­ed out, com­plete­ly. She mari­nad­ed in the drug.

“May your dreams be sweet, Lynette,” he said as he rolled her onto her side. Uncon­scious or not, he pre­ferred she faced away from him. She could vom­it in her stupor.

Next, Tessie. He found his phone in his pock­et. A cas­cade of angry text mes­sages demand­ed his atten­tion through the silent relief of Do Not Dis­turb. Tessie’s shift at the Silent Harp end­ed soon; the phone’s clock read 7.30. Peter ignored the furi­ous mes­sage his­to­ry and cut to the matter’s quick.

“She’s uncon­scious. Sec­ond floor, no ele­va­tor,” he typed, “and no concierge either. Prob­a­bly secu­ri­ty cam­eras but I didn’t see any.”

“Okay,” pinged Tessie’s response a beat lat­er. “Get start­ed. I’m get­ting cut from here in an hour.”

Peter looked over to the skull that grinned at him from the cor­ner of the stu­dio. Silent laugh­ing mad­ness judged fol­ly in reply.

“What will Tessie make of you?” he asked.  She’d find some worth in the dead cat, he was sure. She’d make a vase. He’d buy her flow­ers to match, plant them in the brain­pan. The cra­ni­um dared at him with a grin.

Peter relayed Lynette’s address to Tessie, then deposit­ed the phone back in his coat. He found Lynette’s hand­bag lying by the studio’s door. He unzipped it and tum­bled her pri­va­cy onto the floor: wal­let, cig­a­rettes, vapor­iz­ers, tam­pons, and keys. A book dropped and flopped open, reveal­ing a well-read page. Paper-thin, dried red petals spilled out from its leaves like shards of stained glass. Lynette’s rose-gold wal­let glis­tened among the debris.

In the wal­let: a fifty, two twen­ties. He deposit­ed them in his pock­et. A cred­it card gleamed. As he turned the wal­let over in his hand, a claw­ing meow announced itself from the cor­ner of the room. Peter exam­ined the back of the wal­let for cash or a card­hold­er or any­thing else he could claim, when:

“Meow,” insist­ed the small voice.

Peter looked back over to the bed. Lynette’s vacant fig­ure breathed, her chest ris­ing and falling. Then he spied the table: the crum­pled hand­ker­chief, the pic­tures, the cloche.

The skull had moved.

Peter dropped the purse. An unwel­come shiv­er rose through him, lick­ing at his blood. He start­ed at the dead cat. Eurus’ skin­less head hadn’t turned much, only by degrees. Like it had creaked towards him in a silent hunt while he’d focused else­where. He thought to where he’d been stand­ing when he pulled the hand­ker­chief from the table. He looked back to the entry­way and retraced his steps. Then he turned to peer into those silent holes again.

A vehi­cle pass­ing out­side must have dis­lodged the thing. Vibra­tions shak­ing through the brick of the build­ing, into the bone. These apart­ments were old, their foun­da­tions frag­ile. He could explain the meow­ing too, just waft­ing upwards from the street below, echo­ing through near­by rooms. Adren­a­line was con­fus­ing his sens­es and that was all.

Unmov­ing in the glass, Eurus gri­maced at him. 

Kick­ing the con­tents of Lynette’s bag across the floor, Peter strode to the table. He peered back into each of the yel­lowed eye sock­ets in turn. Inspect­ed the dark dia­mond sym­me­try of a nose. The lamp above dimmed down. Shapes sharp­ened in the shad­ows, com­ing into fur­ther clar­i­ty as he looked. 

Then he was else­where. He saw long black scratch­es coil below him and dis­till like liq­uid into streets. Mon­u­ments of jade loomed, refract­ing into space above him, obelisks yawn­ing at the night. A criss­cross mesh of detail whipped into place and made real. Rust­ed vehi­cles lay dis­man­tled in the dark. Embers of fire rum­bled through ancient dwellings, each starv­ing inhab­i­tant long since immo­lat­ed in soot. Road signs set in bite-marks: a bas­tardiza­tion of mean­ing for no one. Clad in the crooked torn met­al: a U, an L, and a T. A bro­ken H, worn away by time and neglect.

These pat­terns start­ed to turn him, now- ori­ent­ed him with­in this new space as he flew unmoored above. A tidal wave of move­ment poured under­neath: the claws of a thou­sand hun­gry cats tear­ing at each oth­er as they raced, tum­bling through the streets of this dying, alien city. Some­where below, some­one was scream­ing as paws rent their flesh away. The flood of cats moved through the cob­ble­stoned roads and red-tiled roofs. As one, they raced around a once ivy-clad tow­er, a black mass of moss mutat­ing in the dark. Every night they ran, trip­ping and tear­ing as they went. 

The scene dis­solved. Eurus mocked Peter through grit­ted teeth. He rubbed at his eyes, will­ing these sights to fall away, scale-like, from his vision. A spit­tle of phlegm streaked along his chin. He’d been drool­ing, and his head throbbed through his tem­ples. What was hap­pen­ing to him?

Peter lift­ed the hand­ker­chief from the table and dropped it back on the jar to hide Eurus. Then he rotat­ed the cloche away from him so that it faced the cor­ner of the room and away. Fuck Tessie, he was leav­ing as soon as he could.

He dragged the game con­sole from the floor and tugged at its cables until they clipped away from the tele­vi­sion. He tossed this by the studio’s door.  Next, the bath­room. Dirty tow­els lay strewn on the floor. A faucet leaked into the sink, drip­ping with an irreg­u­lar tim­ing. Else­where above, a mir­rored cab­i­net caked in flecks of tooth­paste and soap. Dust sprin­kled across his warped reflec­tion. He looked awful, he real­ized, red-faced and sweaty. Peter opened the cab­i­net. Safe­ty razors, face cream, and a med­ica­tion bot­tle. Opi­ates, he hoped. At least, that would be some­thing. He lift­ed these and shook them, unrec­og­niz­ing the brand name on the label. Tessie would know what these are. He placed the bot­tle in his pocket.

A long, bleat­ing meow came from around the cor­ner. Sus­tained in its pitch, it per­sist­ed, drilling into Peter’s ear.

The sound stopped the moment he stepped back into the bed­room. On the table, by the bed, the hand­ker­chief had fall­en from its mount. Eurus had turned around to face him again.

“I’m going to grind you down to dust,” Peter said. In three strides, he was by the table. He tore the cloche from its base and took the skull into his hand.

The bone was cold to the touch. Dag­ger-like fangs hung down­wards from rows of jagged teeth. Then Eurus gaped open and sunk those fangs into his wrist.

#

Tessie hadn’t heard from Peter since her shift at the Silent Harp had end­ed. She found the place with enough ease, but Peter wasn’t answer­ing the woman’s buzzer. His text mes­sages, nei­ther. His unre­spon­sive­ness wasn’t unusu­al, but she would make her frus­tra­tion clear nonethe­less. Their part­ner­ship only worked if they com­mu­ni­cat­ed which meant answer­ing his damn text mes­sages when he received them. They had read receipts enabled for a reason.

A pass­ing neigh­bor allowed her access, think­ing noth­ing of her back­packed, hood­ed fig­ure as she squeezed past into the building’s foy­er: anoth­er anony­mous New York­er, a thief pass­ing in the night. As she mount­ed the stairs to begin her ascent, she thought she could hear the dis­tant sound of uphol­stery torn from fur­ni­ture. A long, low rip, like a knife tak­en to cloth. On the sec­ond floor, the lights began to flick­er over­head: dull, frac­tured yel­low cast­ing the hall­way in a sick, pal­lid glow. And the car­pet under her feet began to feel unfirm, sog­gy like her foot­falls were sink­ing into the stair­case. She looked down and saw her shad­ow loom­ing ahead of her, coil­ing along the dirty brown fab­ric as a cry called out from some­where above.

As she turned the cor­ner onto the next land­ing, she felt the wind whip­ping at her face. A win­dow over­look­ing the street had shat­tered, sharp shards scat­tered across the stair­well. Tessie stepped over the glass. Peer­ing through the win­dow into the night, it struck her how dark the street had become out­side, how dis­tant the city looked, through rain now falling from the black­ened sky like rivulets of crude oil spilling across burned paper. Anoth­er cry came from above, draw­ing her on: the shrill scream of a fer­al ani­mal caught between fight and flight. Anoth­er tear silenced the sound, like a dag­ger through thin material.

This place is a fuck­ing dump, Tessie thought as she made her way. But the thought was for­got­ten as a heavy wave of nau­sea rose from her stom­ach, drown­ing her throat with reflux. That smell! Some­thing rot­ted here, sick­ened in these hall­ways, infect­ing the pas­sage­ways with decay.

A sharp bolt of pain lanced across the back of Tessie’s ankle. She tripped for­ward. She had time to break her fall with her wrist before her head col­lid­ed with the ground. Behind her, a black shad­ow blinked out of sight and down the stair­well in a shim­mer of speed. As Tessie propped her­self back up, she felt the wet fab­ric beneath her, stain­ing her hand with that scent. Ani­mal piss, she thought. The floor’s cov­ered in ani­mal piss.

A thick mis­ery throbbed from the back of her ankle. Her blood was seep­ing down her sock and into her shoe. Some­thing had cut her, some­thing sharp and vicious, tear­ing into her ten­don with a razor-sharp agony of rage.

She leaned over the stairwell’s rail­ing. A cat stood below her on the stairs, glar­ing up at her with slit­ted eyes that glint­ed in the dark in a fury. It lift­ed its paw and swiped the air between them, wield­ing the claws that had torn into her skin just sec­onds ago.

“You’re dead meat, you lit­tle fuck­er,” Tessie growled as it dart­ed down the stairs and out of view.

She was where she need­ed to be, at least. The woman Peter had marked would have some­thing for her leg, most like­ly. That woman would pay for the pain Tessie was feel­ing now. A flash of anger replaced her nau­sea. The woman who’d been kiss­ing Peter. Devour­ing him with her lips.

The hall­way stretched beyond. Rows of crooked apart­ment doors stood locked on either side of her, obscur­ing the val­ue with­in. Wealth, here?

She lift­ed her back­pack from her shoul­der and read­ied it for col­lec­tion. Find­ing the door open, she stepped inside.

#

Peter writhed on the hard­wood floor, pinned by a shad­ow cling­ing to his chest: anoth­er black cat claw­ing at his face with damp, crim­son-mat­ted paws. He squint­ed up at Tessie through a tus­sle of blood-streaked hair. With a swipe of the cat’s talons, his head swung aside as his cheek ser­rat­ed open. The skin hung torn from his face in thick, wet strips that slapped against the floor with each paw strike. One of his eyes had become unspooled from its sock­et and twitched against his cheek, flap­ping on the nerve. Anoth­er claw cut it clean away to roll free along the floor toward Tessie, leav­ing a thin trail of liq­uid behind it before com­ing to rest between them.

“Tessie,” wailed Peter, his voice a pan­icked falset­to, through the smat­ter­ing strikes as he kicked at a sec­ond cat, this one cal­i­co, that gnawed at his feet. A third flayed at his wrists, its white fur stained pink as it bit.

Where the hell did they come from? Tessie thought. And now Peter struck out at the ani­mals as he drove his feet against the floor. His foot con­nect­ed with the black cat, and it fell away from him. It hissed as it land­ed between Peter and Tessie, its back becom­ing a whip-like arch as it read­ied itself for a fur­ther attack. Then, the cat saw the eye­ball that still looked up at Tessie from the floor by her feet. A paw swipe bat­ted it away to roll like a mar­ble under the bed upon which Lynette’s still uncon­scious body lay ignored, unaware of the chaos demol­ish­ing the room around her.  The cat pounced after it, van­ish­ing into the shad­ows beneath the prone woman.

“Tessie,” Peter plead­ed again as he propped his shoul­ders against the wall, still kick­ing at the cats with his feet, reach­ing towards Tessie through the tsuna­mi of movement.

Tessie gripped his out­stretched hand and felt his fin­gers sticky with liq­uid as she pulled him free. Behind them, above the bed, the cur­tain began to move. The cloth sep­a­rat­ed as a cat squeezed through the open win­dow. Fol­lowed by anoth­er. Then anoth­er. Then they were spilling through the gap like cur­dled milk.

#

She sup­port­ed Peter’s frame as they stum­bled back down the hall­way towards the stairs. Perched above the apart­ment door­ways behind nar­row win­dows, Tessie could see sta­tion­ary fig­ures, each sit­ting alert and motion­less, their expres­sions trained on their prey as she limped by. Peter’s weight labored against her injured ankle, her ten­don seared with heat as they went. 

Peter’s words lisped through his injured face. He made lit­tle sense.

“It made me see things, Tessie. Where every­thing had died apart from them, and now they’re here.”

“Help me,” she grunt­ed, “I can’t car­ry you on my own.”

Peter stead­ied him­self against the door­ways. Some­thing was scratch­ing against those doors, the sound of sharp nails splin­ter­ing the wood.

“But it was dead too. It bit me, but it was dead. She kept her cat in a jar but it was dead too,” he said.

“They didn’t look dead to me. You, on the oth­er hand, we need to get you to a hospital.”

“Not the cats. Eurus,” he moaned. He smeared stains against the hall­way walls. He’d lost a lot of blood. 

“Eurus. Okay. Tell me when we get to the hos­pi­tal,” Tessie said.

#

As they descend­ed the stairs, light­ning struck the black sky through the open, bro­ken win­dow. At the same time, the ceil­ing light above them surged out with a crack­le, plung­ing the build­ing into dark. Tessie tripped and fell free from Peter’s grasp. She tum­bled for­ward onto the land­ing among the shat­tered glass that glis­tened below. And this was strange because two of those shards now merged with her hand: sharp, painful growths skew­er­ing her palm and wrist like sliv­ers of crystal. 

Tessie howled. She held her punc­tured hand in front of her toward Peter, like she pre­sent­ed him with a bro­ken flower, a cru­el reward for their evening’s efforts. Blood trick­led into her sleeve. Their dark world was tak­ing on a red tinge now; her vision fil­tered through dan­ger and pain. They need­ed to escape this ran­cid build­ing. Need­ed to find a hos­pi­tal and soon.

At the top of the stairs, a small row of eyes lit the dark­ness, black dag­gered pupils glis­ten­ing through illu­mi­nat­ed grey. The form­less shape of a cat hissed at Peter and Tessie.

#

“What’s hap­pened?” Tessie plead­ed as they spilled from the build­ing and onto Colum­bus Cir­cle. Because the city had become a cracked reflec­tion of their home, warp­ing their view across its sur­face like they looked into a bro­ken mir­ror. The once opu­lent inter­sec­tion now lay beseeched by a vast chasm that swal­lowed the stat­ues and cut into the park ahead. A coil of black soot rose from that gap and plumed towards a dis­tant tree line, where the thin shapes of dead branch­es curled like scar tis­sue across a fetid wound.

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Peter lisped.

Car­cass­es of rust­ed vehi­cles smat­tered the ruined street like met­al insects- long since upturned, poi­son­ing the atmos­phere with cop­pery rust that cor­rod­ed the air. A cat was perched atop the near­est, lick­ing at its over­sized paw. Its head hung down­wards from a long slop­ing neck, its mouth agape as it drank in the air. The ani­mal was so very big, Tessie saw.

“What do you see? You’ve only got one eye. What could you pos­si­bly be seeing?”

“This isn’t New York,” Peter said.

And the build­ings that rose around them were no longer the grand sky­scrap­ers that once stood as a tes­ta­ment to Manhattan’s excess. Tall mono­liths replaced the lav­ish­ness instead- each tow­er­ing above like tomb­stones, fea­ture­less and flat and green, angled upward and stretch­ing until their tips dis­ap­peared into the night sky above. Red embers of a dis­tant fire roared some­where in the dis­tance, paint­ing the jade with orange gloam­ing as the remains of this new city burned away.

Tessie peered towards a near­by store­front. This had once been the entrance to a mall, a rich jeal­ousy she’d delight­ed in thiev­ing with Peter in their ear­li­est days of con­quest and grift. Form­less shapes swirled with­in its open maw, its sig­nage hang­ing askew and crum­pled across the entrance.  Cats roamed the black­ness inside, she knew, danc­ing in the dark among the dirt.

That sign was writ­ten in a vari­a­tion of mean­ing she could almost read, almost under­stand: semi­otics not entire­ly her own that hurt her head as she scanned the sym­bols. She looked around at oth­er unfa­mil­iar shops- places she’d known and robbed for years. Each sign pat­tered with that same alien, illeg­i­ble font: a lan­guage whol­ly ignored by the cats roam­ing the ancient streets around them.

“Where are we, Peter?”

“It’s called Ulthar. The place Eurus showed me when-” Peter began to reply before the long wail of an angry ani­mal broke into his response, cut­ting off his words at the root.

More cats had appeared on the street. They pep­pered the cracked side­walk ahead, scores of small black, white, and orange shapes, each stand­ing alone but with shared intent. One of them, a tri-col­ored runt, began to hiss. The sound was met with anoth­er, and then anoth­er, until a cho­rus of buzzing cries advanced toward Tessie and Peter as the ani­mals moved clos­er. The cats were stalk­ing them now, round­ing on the bleed­ing fig­ures who had dared to invade this space.

Tessie looked behind her toward a street that led fur­ther into the burn­ing city. More cats moved here, too, flank­ing their escape.

“This way,” Peter called as he grabbed Tessie’s arm and pulled her away.

#

A hole that had once been a sub­way entrance opened in the ground like a gap­ing mouth, its gul­let slop­ing down­wards onto weath­ered stairs. They ran into the depths while the fer­als cir­cled and pounced at their heels.

“They’re herd­ing us,” Tessie called as Peter entered the sta­tion. But she fol­lowed Peter all the same as they stum­bled into the earth. Flu­id was trick­ling into his remain­ing eye, and all he could taste was blood seep­ing into his mouth from his wound­ed cheek. They need­ed to stop soon. Need­ed to find some­where safe or he was going to die.

He heard a shriek com­ing from behind him. Tessie had fall­en again and lay face down on the steps. She looked up at Peter. He saw the glass still embed­ded in her bro­ken hand and heard the wail of her voice as she reached for him.

Then the cats were upon her. They flood­ed into the hole above like a pour of liq­uid, swirling through the station’s entrance. She became enveloped in shape, blan­ket­ed in a mess of fur and teeth. Her screams rever­ber­at­ed through­out the tun­nel as they bit at her, their fangs gnaw­ing at her feet, her flesh, her neck.

She screamed again as they dragged her back up the stairs and away.

#

Peter made his way to the back of the plat­form. He leaned against the wall and looked down into the tun­nel that leered deep into the bow­els of this alien earth. From deep with­in this hole, a breeze emanat­ed, waft­ing towards him like warm breath.

Tessie was gone. He was alone. Alone but for the cats who had begun to descend again, slink­ing along the floor towards him. He was trapped, he knew, lost in the dark with the cats that cir­cled his feet.

A cat glanced against his leg with a hiss. He tum­bled back­ward, los­ing his bal­ance as he fell from the plat­form onto the tracks below. As he lay on the tun­neled ground, he looked up at the cracked stone of the ledge that jut­ted out above. 

A row of eyes peered down at him, slow­ly blink­ing their dark lit­tle pin­pricks as they watched him still. The hor­i­zon­tal pairs didn’t move. Not a purr nor a hiss leak­ing from their sil­hou­ettes. They were watch­ing him die, wait­ing for their final prey to bleed out on the ancient tracks that hadn’t seen sen­tient move­ment in millennia. 

Peter rotat­ed his head to face the depths of the tun­nel. That breeze licked his cheeks again, gen­tly rous­ing him towards its depths, car­ry­ing with it its sour, metal­lic scent.

That air must be com­ing from some­where, Peter thought. Shad­ows swirled in the gloom into the yawn­ing dis­tance that stretched away. But the air- it must be com­ing from anoth­er exit.

Peter rose. He found his cell phone tucked safe­ly among the tat­ters of his coat. Then he flicked on the device’s torch and flood­ed the sta­tion with light.

The cats recoiled from the glow and scat­tered past the blood­stain: all that remained of Tessie. Then they were gone. Hold­ing the torch­light in front of him, Peter ven­tured forth into the tun­nel and beyond.

#

The damp, cold air swirled around him as he went under­ground. He could see sta­lac­tites drip down from the arched roof as drops of mois­ture formed pud­dles beneath his feet.

A soli­tary bone lay half sub­merged in the black­ness of one such pool. Peter shud­dered as he saw a thin strip of tat­tered cloth meld­ed against its length. This must have belonged to one of the city dwellers, he thought. Some­one who came before him, flee­ing as the cats gave chase. Ignore it, he com­mand­ed to him­self. Keep going. The gen­tle breeze invit­ed him on with the promise of escape. He’d leave this tun­nel, find his way back to Lynette’s squalid apart­ment, and fig­ure out how to get home, still.

He limped on.

How sweet that breeze smelled now, he real­ized. Like a tang of sug­ar dis­solved in water. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for some­thing to drink.

His foot col­lid­ed with some­thing below him, kick­ing the object fur­ther down the cav­ern. He watched it roll into the gloom and saw eye-sock­ets, not quite human, as the skull came to rest against the wall. And now he could hear some­thing slump­ing deep with­in the tun­nel: a large, heavy drag pulling near. The warm breeze waft­ed towards him again, almost like-

Peter lift­ed his torch­light, illu­mi­nat­ing the barest dis­tance. A shape formed among the shad­ows, dis­tinct in the dim. 

Slump.

An enor­mous paw had appeared on the track, car­pet­ed in patch­es of fur. It dragged behind it a ter­ri­ble face that filled the dark­ness ahead.

Slump.

A sec­ond paw hov­ered into view, pulling toward Peter the giant that came into fuller focus now. A thou­sand dag­ger-like fangs pro­trud­ing from its grin.

Slump.

Razor-sharp eyes the size of tele­vi­sion screens glar­ing down at Peter. Ropes of whiskers brush­ing against the tun­nel walls. Wave after wave of ran­cid breath.

Slump, slunp, slump.

#

Lynette woke the fol­low­ing day grog­gy and amnesic. The studio’s light stung her eyes. She was still wear­ing her dress, she noticed. Yesterday’s evening would take some piec­ing togeth­er. As she rolled from her bed, she smelled a sour, acidic fla­vor, lanc­ing at her as she inhaled. The floor was sticky under­foot. Aside from the blood­stained hard­wood and ran­sacked belong­ings, her home was emp­ty of activ­i­ty. From the cor­ner of the room, Eurus purred.