Short Stories

The Cave Where Many And One Meet

The creatures heard it. The creatures awoke. Footsteps echoed through the cave. One of the steps sounded like two, making it sound as if an accursed tripod native only to the edges of the earth was descending. It was, in fact, the torn sole of a shoe slapping against the wearer’s callus foot. The other step was more subdued, possibly by the merit of being wrapped in rags or bandages. All steps approached calmly, hinting that they were somehow familiar with the rock-covered path that led to the depths of the caverns. Still, the creatures deemed it questionable that the boy the steps belonged to had any idea why he was even here.

Well, boy? He was, in truth, a man — a very old man — yet to them, he’d always be a boy. And the boy was late this time. The creatures somehow knew that despite not having felt the sun’s light for over a thousand years. Still, they waited for the boy to come their way. They knew no fondness for being summoned by another. In the old days, they had already carried a fervent hatred for obeying what they deemed lesser creatures, no matter what offerings they brought them.

Mortals. Men. God’s favourites. Only one of those two applied to the boy, and the creatures knew they were no longer the many who were dreaded. In their defeat, they’d become no more than the many who waited. The boy had doomed himself to become the one who wandered from the moment he’d taken his first life.

A wisp of a flame appeared at the other end of the only entrance. The little bit of fire almost blinded the creatures, and they shut their eyes. The feel of the flame’s light had become foreign to them, and the crystal-covered cavern walls of their shelter tripled in brightness. It stunned the boy, too, when he entered the space. He didn’t see the creatures. They couldn’t see him either, yet they wondered how he looked now.

How many diseases had he collected? How many teeth were still set in his skull? How much death was in his eyes? How much sin is in his soul? The creatures wondered if they’d even notice such stigmas at this point. There’d already been so many.

The creatures listened for a while. They knew the boy was inspecting the crystals around them, as he did every time he came to the cave. The first time, he’d tried to pry some of the stones loose, which had stirred them from their sleep. The creatures and the boy had argued about the crystals. The boy hadn’t cared for the arguments or threats they’d made. He deemed himself, rightfully, invincible.

That same confidence had not helped the boy when he’d tried to pry some of the stones loose. He had little patience. It amused them. Watching the boy stab the stone wall with a bronze blade and throw rocks at it that couldn’t leave as much as a scratch on the crystal had been a pleasant change of pace after centuries of drowning in the endless dark.

Despite the boy’s failure, he’d furiously promised to return for the crystals. He’d done so after seventy or a hundred-and-twenty years. The boy didn’t seem to recall making that promise, though. He’d just found the cave because of an old rawhide map he’d stumbled upon when mending his coat. Or so he explained when the creatures caught him trying to get the crystals again. The boy had a deceitful face, but they knew he was genuine then. He was honest whenever the creatures asked how he got to the cave. Sometimes, the boy found a note he couldn’t recall ever writing, in a language he could no longer recognise. In other moments, he’d just been drawn to the cave, as it was one of the few things in his long-lived life that remained constant.

The creatures wondered what it’d been this time. One thing was clear already; the boy had at least learned something in those last thousand years. When he reached out to the crystals, he didn’t touch them. His hand — which was more filth, bones, dead skin and scar than flesh — kept still in the damp air, only a finger’s length away from the shiny stones. Then he placed it back in his pockets.

The creatures had had a long time to consider what to say when the boy would return. The gesture left them silent, however. It should’ve given them glee that he had finally given up on stealing their gems. Or, it should’ve enraged them to see that he’d given into his thoughtful side. But instead, the creatures felt neither. It was only the appearance of change that made them think. They lifted their head — or at least, made an attempt — and stared straight at the boy’s back. All their voices sounded as one. ‘Why did you come here?’

The boy turned around. His clothes were as regal as that of a long-buried corpse of a crook. His face was impossibly gaunt and covered with pockmarks and more unpleasantries. The boy had never been handsome, even before his face was tarnished with grime and the oddly shaped scar on his forehead. He hid it behind his tangled, lice-ridden hair, concealing most of his face. Between all the knots, the creatures could still see him staring at them with his shrewd, sleepless eyes. The boy didn’t appear to see them as the monster. No, he stared with uncertain glee one would grant the unexpected appearance of a forgotten friend.

The boy eyed the beast, finding himself neither repelled nor shocked by its being. He’d seen so much already, so many beings more monstrous, and none had been able to kill him. However, the boy took a step back when it looked up and spoke, for it was humongous. Its massive head was similar to a boar’s skull but barely bore the colour of bone. It reminded the boy more of the embalmed bodies he’d once seen in the far South. Or was it the East? He couldn’t tell anymore. Instead, he tried to recall where he’d come across the thing he was currently looking at before. He lifted his touch to cast a light on the being.

It wasn’t enough. The beast was so gargantuan that its hindquarters remained out of the flame’s reach. What the fire did reveal, however… It was a horrific devil made of charcoal-black bone and cold stone. Crystals the size of the boy’s arm protruded from its boar-ask head in the form of tusks. More grew out of the beast’s back to form a twisted mockery of a mane, fusing the monster with the crystal wall behind it. The boy couldn’t tell if the cave had pinned the beast in place or if the beast’s presence had been responsible for the rampant crystal growth. He didn’t care. He just hoped it kept the thing where it was. Even after thousands of years of being untouchable, the boy still cowered when the beast suddenly opened its maw.

‘Do you remember our name?’ the monster asked, the echo of the cave making its voice sound like that of a thousand. The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t even know my own name — not anymore.’ The words came too carefully to turn into echoes. The thing signed, though it was hard to tell if it was due to amusement or disappointment. Smoke, the colour of souls, emerged from all the orifices in its skull, clouding its expressionless face. ‘Human memory was not made to live forever, it seems once more. Why did you come here?’ The boy reached into his ragged pockets to retrieve a piece of paper. He showed it to the beast. ‘I found this in my coat and others akin to it, though I couldn’t read those anymore. They were too old, you see.’ The being’s eyeless sockets peered at the note. It remarked that the boy’s handwriting had improved, to which the boy replied that the note had been made with the help of a printing press. The thing didn’t reply. ‘They take some loose letters, put some ink on them and press them onto the paper with this strange contraption,’ the boy explained. ‘It’s like stamps, seals, but bigger.’ The demon slowly nodded its massive head. The chiming of its crystal-covered skull filled the caverns.

The creatures didn’t fully get it. Once upon a time, their kind had known everything — too much even, perhaps. They had been masters of mathematics, dukes of deceit, scholars of the stars, princes of pleasure and reapers of riches. Now all the knowledge of the world below was unreachable, that from high above inaccessible, and that from just above their head came to them through the tongue of one petty human. A remarkable human — a human to their liking — yet a human, nonetheless. The irony was humiliating.

‘So,’ the creatures said, ‘it’s like a winepress, but instead of feet, they use wood, and instead of grapes, they use paper.’ ‘Never thought about it that way.’ The boy fumbled the note back in his gross coat. Then he said, ‘I’ve been here before, haven’t I? And you know me.’ ‘Yes, and you know us.’ ‘No, I don’t know you.’ The boy doubted his own words. The particular use of ‘us’ seemed to have struck a bell. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Us,’ the creatures repeated. ‘We came before you and after you.’

The boy rolled his sullen eyes impatiently. The creatures asked him again if he could recall their name. He couldn’t. They knew he wasn’t trying, though. Though sloth was the least of the boy’s sins, he had mastered the craft. The sight brought the creatures the perverted form of pride only their kind could feel, but even that quickly turned into irritation. Chilly smoke blew from their nostrils. They raised their head as high as they could. Their body of earthly materials protested, as did a part of the creatures themselves. Their more strong-willed side did carry on.

‘We,’ the creatures groaned, ‘have received the same injustice of our Father as you have of yours. We — us and the rest of kind — were cast down to earth, the same way your blood dammed from Paradise. But we — we in particular — crawled up from Hell, only to be expelled again by our Father’s Son. Yet this time, He wasn’t as merciful as His little lambs would have themselves believe. He didn’t even allow us to sink as low as Hell. He bound us to this mortal body of a boar. Left us no choice but to find refugees in this catacomb of the Earth.’

The creatures nudged their stony flank with their fleshless nose. Hungry hands reached from between their ribs like convicts behind bars. Wails of lament and fury emerged from their chest as well. ‘We will never see our kindred below again.’

The creatures looked at the boy, neither wanting nor expecting pity. The boy’s posture was apathetic. His eyes betrayed no compassion either, but it did appear that something in his mind had clicked back together. ‘Why whine about being alone?’ he said. ‘I mean, I got no one. They all die too quickly.’ ‘Often, that is your fault.’ The boy shrugged, continuing, ‘But you… you’re all trapped together. A thousand of you in one body. Or was it two thousand? I — I can’t recall.’ ‘After so many years, neither can we,’ the creatures replied. ‘All we know is that we were many, yet now we are one, for we are Legion.’

The boy remembered, albeit just a little. He scratched his head as if to tickle the memories awake. Instead, he pulled a bug out of his unkempt hair and ate it. Splitting the insect’s shell between his few broken and rotten teeth did nothing to sate his hunger. But then, there were a few times when he wasn’t craving food. People avoided him when he begged for it and shunned him even more so whenever he applied for an honest or a less-than-honest job to buy some himself. It wasn’t because of his features. Nowadays, even lepers can find work. But not the boy. Other people always eyed him as if he were as much a demon as Legion. He couldn’t even recall why. However, reawakened memories told him that the fiend knew.

‘So, Legion… Now I know you, again, I guess, but — ’ The boy pried another insect from between knotty curls. His hair hunt was fruitful this time as he got his grimy fingers on a centipede. It was a mouthful, but the boy didn’t bother to swallow it before talking to the demon again, ‘— do you know me? My name? Who I am, or who I was? How many times have we even met?’ ‘We met fourteen times in person,’ Legion’s many voices said. ‘And yet, every time, you are still the same boy. Still strolling around cities, pridefully thinking you could’ve built it all better? Do you still envy those with only the smallest grain of rye more than you? Do you still steal? Or, should I just say, which offence against God have you not committed lately? You can tell us, boy. We are demons, after all.’

The boy spat on the clear crystal ground. The gesture wasn’t as nonchalant as him eating the centipede. It was agitated. ‘You know very little for someone, or I suppose something, that claims to know me from head to hind. God did me over with whatever long-life curse he cast on me, but you demons are pompous, literal lowlife muttonheads, too.’ At that, the boy kicked a stone. He was lucky that the stone lay loose. Despite the boy’s starved appearance, he was immensely strong, and the stone shot out of the cave quicker than a mortal eye could see. Had the boy taken his frustration out on one of the fixed crystals, he could’ve cut his foot in half — it had already happened once before in the cave, but then with his hand.

‘Just tell me my bloody name!’ the boy cried out. He picked up another stone and threateningly held it up to Legion. Legion began to laugh. It was a deep, harrowing sound. It didn’t scare the boy; it only made him more furious. ‘I’ve been everywhere and nowhere for I don’t know how long, and I can’t even remember a single name of any of those places! People don’t want to meet me in the eye. They look away the second they see me, even the blind. And I’m grateful for that because when I do see their faces, they remind me of someone, but I can never recall who. Maybe they’re my father, maybe my mother. Maybe a sister, or a past lover, or a daughter, a son, or a great-grandchild. I couldn’t know. I can’t even tell if I’ve been alive long enough to have one.’

The fiends’ chuckle ceased. Their hollow eyes stared emptily at the boy, yet the boy was sure they were smiling. ‘Peculiar that you mention almost all in a family,’ Legion said, ‘but not a brother.’

‘A brother…’ The corners of the boy’s mouth drew up for the first time since he could recall. The smile it cast on his vile face was not a kind one. The boy tightened his grip around the stone in his hand. ‘You remember,’ Legion said. ‘Then you must also remember why you’ve wandered the earth so long and shunned by all but us. You will remember if you would only look at yourself in my hide of smooth stone and behold the mark you hide under your hair.’

The boy stepped close to the demon, stone still in his palm. At first, his reflection was no more than a blurry shade in Legion’s skin. Only when his often broken nose nearly touched it could he see his face. Like everyone who angered him, he couldn’t look himself in the eyes either.

He wiped his hair away from his forehead and inspected its sullied skin. Centred between all the bumps, craters, rashes and scars was one extraordinary revolting flaw. It resembled a stumpy goat’s horn. It was the one thing in the boy’s life he’d tried to forget.

‘See the mark?’ Legion asked. Some of his voices sounded content, others straight-up vile.

‘And do you remember now, Cain?’

Puppies

The snow reaches up to your knees. It is also turning the shoulders of your fur coat into icy mountains, and you cannot see much over an arm’s length away. Then, suddenly, you see the lights of a village up ahead. You nearly utter a prayer of gratitude, but then you do not. The region you are travelling through is still rampant with heathenism, and you do not take the risk. You approach the village with caution. Though worn from your journey, you ignore the common houses and only stop at the tavern sign. You cannot make out its name due to the heavy snowfall, yet the sight of the sign is enough for you, as it emits the promise of warmth for both body and soul in every language known to men.

You enter. The scent of fire and freshly cooked food you have craved for too long greets you like an old beloved. But, to your dismay, the tavern is already overcrowded. You ask the tavern keeper if any seats are left and, more importantly if spots are free for the night. He does not hear you through the tumult the first time you ask. You try again. The keeper picks it up and informs you that there is enough space left in the sheep shed. It is good enough for you. You take it without complaint. As you pay the price for your stay, the tavern keeper tells you to wait whilst one of the servants prepares your modest bed. He offers you fare whilst you wait as well, yet you decline. You still have three days’ rations and more trust in the staling bread and old ale than the folk of this foreign place.

You look around the tavern. Where first you thought all seats were taken, you spot an unoccupied one. It is set at a small table where only one man sits. A quarter of his face is hidden under his hood like a snail retracted into his shell. What is left to see of his features is peculiar, but his eyes appear amiable. The man smiles and gestures for you to join him when his gaze crosses yours.

You take the seat opposite of him. The man’s benign smile never leaves his strange face as he introduces himself and then asks for your name. You give him a false name, and when the man remarks that you bear the marks of a traveller, you make up a city that might or might not exist. All that matters is that your new companion has no knowledge of the place. He does not because he claims to be a local who has never left town.

The both of you fall silent for a moment. You neither intend to strike up a conversation nor avoid one. Instead, you take out the bread you brought with you. You quietly start eating. Your companion remains respectfully silent, yet his lip twitches as if in pain while he scoops through the stew that predates your company. He does not take a bite of the unidentifiable sludge. His curious eyes shift from the food to you. He reminds you of a child sitting a secret that cannot be put into proper words yet. You feel sorry for him. After ten small bites of your bread, you store it away. You take a long sip from the flask you carry on your person and then ask the man if there has been any news around town. He immediately sits up straight. News, no, not really, he admits, but there is this one story you must hear…

So, the man begins, I heard this from my cousin, but I’m confident that all folks here are sure to agree with him, though they wouldn’t tell that to you or me because it is a bit of a queer story. Or, mayhaps, it is not fantastical enough to mention around these parts. I don’t know. Mayhaps you do. Either way, the story starts, what, twenty years ago?

Your strange companion counts on his stubby fingers. He concludes that, no, it was more around the thirty or forty. A long time ago, the man says, there were these two young folks. Boy and girl. He was a shepherd’s son, and she the daughter of a smith, and they were madly in love. But, really, really in love. The boy would pick all the flowers he could find while out with his flock. He actually lost some ewes by doing so. His father beat him bloody for it, though that didn’t matter much to the boy, for it was said the girl could mend wounds the same way her family could restore metal. A smith, her dad was, you know, so there was no doubt that she was the one who made them their secret rings. However, as blessed as they felt, as cursed as they were. Both the boy and the girl were promised to others. Not that that stopped them from meeting before that fate was to befall them.

At that sentence, you gesture your companion to stop his story. You have no interest in lewd local hearsay. The odd man pauses momentarily as if he can’t fully grasp your statement. Then he shakes his head. No, he tells you, forgive me, my friend, but that is not the kind of story I wish to relay to you. It’s just the start. It’s when the girl got with a child unwanted that the occult occurs.

The boy was the first to whom the girl confessed about her disgraceful state. From what I’ve been told, the news of their unplanned child brought him into such a state of bewilderment, ecstasy and despair that he could not speak for an entire week. But he did love his girl. Thus, once he found his voice, he approached her again. They discussed their options under a downy birch. That tree still stands today, by the way. You might see it somewhere in the western meadows of the village once the snow clears. It’s rather pretty.

A hint of sadness taints your companion’s unerasable smile. He admits that he’s wanding off and continues. The boy and the girl considered pretending nothing had ever happened between them in the hope that her future other half would assume the child would be his. This was not possible. The girl was not yet old enough to marry and wouldn’t be for at least two summers. The girl proposed they give their offspring away instead. The boy wouldn’t allow it, however, for this meant the girl would’ve to give birth in secret — a dangerous labour he didn’t wish to impose upon her. He told her to buy a brew from the local hag instead. He dreaded the thought of the death of the unborn infant, but losing his love hurt him more. The girl had already drunk such a concoction before telling him the news. It was to no avail, sadly. Then marry, mayhaps? No, they would be shunned. And believe me, my friend, getting cast out of a village this far north would’ve been a death sentence for the potential three of them. They could, of course, try to settle in another town, yet with nothing to start with? I understand how they saw that as no option either.

In this moment of grimness, the boy devised a most bizarre plan. As a shepherd, he’d been warned often by herdsmen passing through town not to get bitten by the sheepdog. There is this… Well, notion, I guess, that if one gets bitten by a dog, they… They can have puppies. Real, human-born puppies. Oh, do not laugh, my friend, for surely you must’ve heard similar tales from whence you came! No, not? Are you sure? Well then. I do admit that it sounded queer to me at first, yet I bid you not to mock the idea. Or, at least, save the ridicule until the tale is done. If you still doubt my words after that, of course.

At that, you shed your companion a fringed smile. You are sure he is a loon at the least, moonstruck at best, and decide to play along rather than burst his bubble. You also do not look forward to retreating to your bed in the barn. You have only just managed to rub the worst of the frost out of your fingers and shiver at the thought of getting cold all over again. You gesture your companion to continue. Then, you take another quick sip from your flask to better grasp the strange story he promised to tell.

Thank you, my friend, the man says. Now, the thing about getting puppies is this: as a man, you really don’t want this to happen to you because where do the puppies… go? A man can’t birth them, so he better see a hag to ask her to get rid of them, or else he might die. But a woman, she can give birth to pups just fine. As fine as any other birth, that is. Do you see where this is going? Yes? So did the girl of our tale thought as the boy told her this. What he proposed was that they pretend the girl had gotten pregnant from a hound’s bite. Then, when she gave birth to a human baby, they could just chalk it up to a blessing by the gods.

Yes, my friend, I know it sounds like a lie two children would come up with, but remember, I’ve reasons to call them a boy and a girl. Either way, I think the boy must’ve immediately regretted the suggestion, for he wasn’t particularly fond of getting his beloved assaulted by a dog. He must’ve told the girl to forget about it — that it was a harebrained plan, a scheme fit for failure. The girl mightn’t have thought so. Though I’m not sure what was precisely discussed under the downy birch that day, there is one thing that has never been a point of dispute in this village: the girl knocked on the heeler’s door the same eve. She had been bitten in the arm by a dog.

Now, the girl was in luck for a change, for her kin were a superstitious lot. They consulted every wiseman and wisewoman in the area to rid their daughter of the puppies they thought she’d fallen pregnant with. They got her brews, charms, and prayers, yet nothing appeared to be of aid. The girl’s belly kept swelling. Meanwhile, the rumours in town started growing as well. Most folks found the whole tale a dubious one. Many had seen the girl and boy flee to the forest together plenty of times. Few were familiar with the hound bite myth.

Seasons of suspicion and superstition followed until the day of the birth. During the labour, the girl’s mother, sister and a midwife were beside her bed, assisting her during the whole ordeal. The rest of her kin anxiously awaited the outcome in the dining room of their house. My cousin was among them. Though he was very young back then, he could still give me a rather detailed account of what happened next. Once the wails of childbirth ceased, he and the midwife hesitantly beckoned the rest of kin to visit the girl. No one spoke as they entered her room. The girl’s mother was crying softly. The girl’s sister sat in a corner, dazed. The girl herself lay on the bed. She was red in the face, exhausted and, despite the sedatives, clearly still in pain. She took no note of the visitors. She focused solely on the little bundle wrapped in cloth in her arms. My cousin told me the girl looked at it, not understanding, then scared, and then tenderly, and then confused all over again. Her kin either showed grief or dismay upon viewing the bundle. My cousin was not tall enough to see it and had to wait. In the end, the girl’s father placed his hand on her shoulder. He asked her what she thought. The girl looked up at him, and, with truthful tears in her eyes, she uttered that they were beautiful. Solemnly her father told her that that was good.

A short silence fell. My cousin broke it, demanding to be shown the mystifying bundle. The girl smiled at him and lowered it for him to see. There, wrapped in the blanket, lay the two impossibly tiny newborns. Each was a little over a man’s hand long. That was, not counting their curled-up tail, of course. Though covered in a thin coat of peachy fur, they were as chubby as babes are supposed to be. They had the same stubby fingers, too, perhaps even stubbier, and their eyelids were still shut, shielding them from the great wild world. However, as you might’ve guessed, my friend, they weren’t really babies. They were puppies. They had floppy ears, long snouts and nails as dark as soot!

You cannot stop yourself from staring at your companion in disbelief. Clearly, there had been a deception at play. The girl’s mother must have realised what had truly happened when she saw her daughter give birth to a human child. She must have switched it for a pair of puppies. Or the true father of the infant had assisted his lover, unknownst to everyone else. That is, if the origin of the myth was true, to begin with!

Your odd companion remarks on your look of scepticism, upon which you relay to him the apparent errors in the narrative. Your companion does not appear to be touched by it. But where did the human baby go then, he asks. You say that they might have gotten rid of it in silence. Your companion finds this unlikely. A healthy baby is rare in these lands, he says. Maybe it was a stillborn, you propose. Then, a thought strikes you. Perhaps the children were deformed; that was why the cousin thought they were dogs, and no one else in the village supported the local myth.

The man smiles still. He admits that, yes, you have a point. He tells you that he himself considered the possibility, yet he begs you to hear him out to the end. You agree. There is no way the loon can convince you otherwise anyway. So, your companion continues, the girl accepted the two puppies as her own. More than accept, I’d say; she treasured them in a way that only a loving mother can cherish her children. She named them as was fit: a strong boy’s name for the boy pup and a fair girl’s name for the little lady pup. The girl wouldn’t let anyone else hold them for the first few days of her recovery. Soon, villagers came by with gifts and congratulations for the healthy newborns. Rarely had they seen such a devoted mother. Of the odd nature of her children, they said none. For this reason, the boy of our story had no idea what was waiting for him in his beloved’s arms.

To avoid raising suspicion, the boy tagged along with his family to disguise his visit as a mandatory one. He’d woven a blanket of the softest wool of his father’s flock as a gift. The craftsmanship was so stellar his father told the boy to sell it to a merchant, but the boy would’ve none of it. He wanted to drape the blanket over the newborns personally. However, when he leaned over to do so, he abruptly froze in fright. Two pointy faces stared up at him from their mother’s arms in wonder. They both had whiskers, and one had even grown a fuzzy beard already. And it was the same colour as the first tufts on the boy’s chin.

After that, the boy left without a word. He didn’t speak to the girl ever again, and when the time came for him to be wed to his betrothed, he left town to join her in her hometown.

I don’t know. Your companion sighs. Maybe the boy never loved the girl as much as he liked to think. Or he couldn’t cope with the fact that, in a way, the children were no longer his. I like to think he regretted telling his once beloved about the dog bite myth. But let I not deceive myself; the girl was about the last to mind her odd offsprings. She dressed them and washed them. Fed them, told them how to talk, how to walk, took them around the village to meet other children and —

If that is true, you interrupt the man, then show me these two talking dogs, and I shall question you no more. The man smiles nervously, exposing all his crooked and yellowed teeth in full glory. What is it, my man? You can’t ask the dogs? It comes out somewhat harsher, and you realise that you might’ve drunk more from your flask than you previously assumed. But maybe your companion must hear bluntness to convince him, not logical reasoning, so you proceed. These talking dogs, did they die? Probably many years ago. Or, by speaking, do you mean barking? If that is the case, then maybe you can bring me a dressed dog to convince me of your tale. I am sorry, my friend, but I must travel early tomorrow. Unless you bring me any proof that did not come from you or your cousin’s mouth, I must sadly inform you that I am to retrieve to my, eh, chambers.

You get up and walk past the man, wishing him a good night. However, he grabs you by the sleeve before you can leave. His hood falls back as he does so, revealing two large pointy ears — one floppy, one erect.

My friend, your companion says with big, begging brown eyes, I’d happily bring you another talking dog, but… the thing is, you grow out of it. And besides, my sister is out of town now. That’s just my luck, I suppose He grins again, and you cannot help but notice that he is wagging his tail.

The Ratcatcher

My dearest friend,

I hope God has blessed you as of late when I have had less fortune. It grieves me greatly that I have taken it upon myself to write to you now, in what I consider to be my gravest hour. This I swear to the Lord.
I have written you two letters since I moved to this city for my study, each being no longer than a child’s rhyme. I ask your forgiveness and that of God, for I hope to meet Him soon. Until then, I shall pray that I shall retain my faith in Him. Will you, my devout friend, pray for me and my soul too? As you do, please remind the Lord of our sinless youth together. Tell of our fervent devotion to Him that led us to seek out the path to learn His ways, the path that led you, my dear friend, to life in the monastery and me to study in this city, far away from our home.

I know that He decided that it was to be that way. However, in my heart, this place had never been right. The folk who live here are God-fearing ones, modest and kind. The houses are taller, newer, and more lavish than our rural eyes are used to. My university provides me with an education far more excellent than my father could’ve ever offered me at his castle. It has taught me to write with words with rules rather than merely putting down the words we hear when we speak to one another. I apologise if that new mastery of mine shall not be present in this letter as much as I would like it to be; I have too little time for such corrections, my friend. I have already wasted too much time writing about our old shared memories. Alas, they bring back your company, be it only in ink. It is a comfort I wish to hold in my heart as Hades’ invisible hand rests upon my shoulder.

As I said, my friend, this city was a place of Christian piety. Such was as it appeared upon the surface, at least. The rats ruled from below. They skittered through the numerous burrows under the rounds, so many that the street stones caved in under feet, hoofs and carts. The lavish houses were infested, too. Food could be kept no longer than a few minutes before vanishing down the vermin’s throats. I have lost my bread to the rats too often to count during my stay. My boots and belt were also eaten, and how many times have I woken up with bleeding toes, ears and nose? The dorm’s tom cat has gone missing. Dogs are rare in this part of the land. None of my precious books are readable as I am writing this.
I was convinced this was a test of the Lord, my friend.

You may denounce me for what I am about to write to you now, but I could not cling to that conviction for long. God has His ways, and I, as a mere mortal, am not the one to understand them. However, I do not believe He would allow what passed to this city. He would not let the vermin eat infants from their cribs and nibble on their mother’s tits as she slept during the silent assassination of her child. He would not see that they send grown men into madness with their constant scratching against the walls and skin. He would not let all crops wither in this pest’s wake. No, my dear friend, this is the Devil’s play.
But then, I hear you ask, were there none to catch these rats?

There were many, my friend. The farmers around the city had no crops to harvest. They turned to reaping rats instead. Bakers, butchers and leather workers also directed their skills towards the vermin. Dead rats soon littered the streets. Some were even nailed upon the doors of family homes, their shrewd faces facing the street, their hand-like paws stretched out like a blasphemous mockery of the Crucifixion of Christ. Call it a vile sight, my friend, yet, I felt no woe when beholding these creatures. Not when more surfaced from the depths below every day.

I am not even ashamed to tell you that I joined the city’s crusade against the rats. My university had shut down because my teachers had become too occupied protecting what tomes and texts remained readable after the many attacks. The last time I spoke to one, he informed me that half the professors guarded the books during the day whilst the others slept. The roles were reversed when the church tower struck twelve times at dusk. The man told me this in whispers, for he had difficulty speaking with all the rat bites and scratches on his face. That is the last I heard from the faculty. With my deferred study and the unending raids upon my bread, I had little choice but to take my misery out on the creatures who’d caused it. I cannot recall how many rats I’ve crushed with the soles of my half-eaten shoes. All I can tell you is that there were always more, hiding under the streets, in houses, under my bed. I, — we were driven towards insanity when it seemed salvation knocked on the locked city gates.

It was a ratcatcher, my friend, yet he did not appear as one. He had a long cloak that seemed stitched together from autumn leaves. The heels of his bark-brown leather boots were high, and the tips of it pointy. He wore a wicker hat, too, though none of the type I’d ever seen. The man carried no snares nor nets with him for the rats. All he had was a foreign-looking flute and a smile on his queer, narrow face. I tell you, there was something off about this man. I knew it, everyone knew, yet none said anything. We were so wretched and starved, and the ratcatcher radiated energy unknown or perhaps forgotten to us. The guard who’d opened the gate for him even claimed his lame leg clicked back into its place when he shut the doors behind the ratcatcher. He would soon regret his claim, but not merely because it was a hopeful lie.
The ratcatcher declared that he could rid the city of the rats and requested an audition with the governor. There had been no need to bring him there, though, for word of the stranger spread faster than vermin in the town none dared to visit anymore. The governor soon greeted the stranger on the now-crowded street. He asked the ratcatcher what he planned to do about the pests. The ratcatcher declared:
‘My best man, my best people, I’ve come from far. However, I had no choice but to cross so many lands and borders, for I am the only one who can free you all of the tide of vermin that floods your city.’
People shed suspicious sideways looks upon hearing the bold statement. I can recall, my friend, how I met the eyes of the governor. As you might remember, the good man was a friend of my lordly father, and the two had fought fearlessly side by side in their younger days. The governor was that man no longer. He’d grown haggard and sickly. Upon hearing the stranger claimed to be the only one capable of saving his city, he nearly fainted. I sprung to his side to hold him up and found that he weighed less than the remnants of clothes I still wore on my body. With what might have been the governor’s last breath, he asked the ratcatcher how he planned to do that.

The ratcatcher grinned at that, showing off his strangely straight teeth. He said that the governor needed not to fret over that. All he and the people had to do was to gather up coins, one each for every head in town, which would be three thousand, six hundred seventy-four. He wanted them all given to him the next day before sunset. ‘Though I can promise,’ the ratcatcher said, ‘all the rats will already be gone before sunrise tomorrow.’

Oh, my friend, you can unquestionably imagine the awe that swept over us all! It seemed too unreal even to think that the rats would ever leave the city, let alone in one day! Few even burst into violent fits of laughter when hearing this. It was not a howl of ridicule that came forth from this. Instead, they were the cackles of the mad.
And yet, the governor agreed. I must confess that I had urged him to, along with his advisors, even though the city’s treasure chest was as hungry as we were. All of its gold had gone into the paws of amature ratcatchers like myself and food for the town’s folk. But do remember, my dearest friend, I never believed the man could live up to his prideful promise.

May God forgive me for that. The ratcatcher stuck to his promise.
When the town’s clock silently struck three that night, I was awoken by an ominous tune down the streets. It was like the song of a bird out of this world or a world much older. When I peered out of my window, I saw it was the ratcatcher. He played his foreign flute and gracefully hopped from one cobblestone to another as if it were a dance. It sounded like the clacking of goat hooves. His mantle radiated all shades of reds, oranges and yellows, and oddly enough, even greens and blues, despite the drap moonlight.
I do not know how long this display kept me in its grasp. However, I always shall remember what happened when the ratcatcher disappeared at the end of the street. His flute play did not decrease. It became louder. Where up until now it had had its grasp upon my ears, it now seemed to take control of my skin, my blood, and my bones as well. It took me a moment to realise that it was due to the shuddering of the building. Suddenly, rats tore through the walls around me like uncountable blunt knives cutting through meat. They engulfed me utterly. Their needle-like claws tore my skin, yet none took the time to bite me. They all vanished as soon as they appeared.

I crawled up, trembling, too scared to pray to the Lord. Looking outside, I beheld a scene similar to the one I had just witnessed. Vermin swarmed down from the houses, going up from below the streets. They all went in the direction the ratcatcher had gone. No one ever saw them again.

The following morning, the governor made one attempt to appeal to the townsfolk to pay back the coins they’d earned from catching rats. I was there with him, my friend, and I could see that the people wanted nothing more than to take the ratcatcher with their gold and silver. They could not, though. All the money they’d earned had gone to the surrounding cities for food.

Thus, it was decided that we had to search the city for any remaining rats instead of coins so the ratcatcher couldn’t claim his payment. Never had the people been more eager to see a rat. All street stones were dismantled, walls were smashed until they were more air than loam, and floors were taken out in their entirety. Alas, not a single rat was unrooted. A few deceitful souls proposed that we might present some old rat remains as a straggler. Even if the noble governor had agreed to the outrageous proposal, it would have been in vain. All snared rats proceeding the ratcatcher had vanished as well.
Later that day, only an hour before sunset, the governor approached the ratcatcher to inform him of the town’s situation. The old man even went on his knees. He implored that the ratcatcher may forgive him and his people, begging him for a few months more to gather the promised money.

The ratcatcher was apathetic to the pleas. As I’m writing this and recounting the event, I can recall the ratcatcher smiling at our wretchedness. He allowed the governor to beg for nearly an hour, after which he told the old man to stop. He pointed at the sun as it disappeared behind the buildings and spoke at last:
‘When the sun appears again, I will have had my pay. However, you must not trouble yourselves with gathering it for me. I will see to it myself.’

With that, the ratcatcher left. None dared to stop him — nor even come close to him. His sinister statement had turned the saintly status he had had when treading the city into something wicked.
That night, the city gates were all bolted shut like they’d been during the reign of the rats. However, the streets were silent for the first time in an unaccountable while. I deemed that that alien absence of sound kept me awake. In my heart, I sensed something else was at play, something that no sound mind would be able to explain, not grasp. I started to pray to God. I was halfway through His Holy name when I heard it; the clicking of hoofs upon the cobblestones. The ratcatcher was dancing below my window again. There was little grace or reason in his steps this time around. His legs appeared broken and twitched in all kinds of ungodly manners. His mantle swirled in every direction as if floating on a wind made by the man himself. It looked as if he was on fire.

And yet, this was not the eeriest thing about the ratcatcher. All the while, as he leapt from stone to stone, he played his accursed flute. I would swear before God that I witnessed him manipulate the fingering holes and blow life into the instrument. Still, I heard no tunes come forth. None my ears ever perceived that is.

Then, just like the night prior, the ratcatcher soon passed from my sight. In the absence of the tapping of his feet, the street became silent once more. I continued to stare at the cobbles below. Something was about to happen. I suspected the rats would rise again, engulfing the city in greater numbers than ever. If not that, the ratcatcher had most certainly called upon all entities in hell. Due to these terrors, I cowered like a mouse facing a cat when a foreboding groan came from across the street. A door slowly opened.

My first thought, Lord forgive me, was that the being that appeared from it was an imp. It was about knee-high, and its skin seemed grey as ashes in the cold moonlight. It moved on all fours. I hastily reached for the silver cross on my rosary, only to recall that I had traded it for a loaf of rye bread no less than a month ago. Instead, I made a sign of a cross, never taking my eyes off my fiend.
It was not long after I had finished that another door opened. It was one of the houses below my room. I leaned out of my window, apprehensive and curious about what kind of creature might emerge next. To my surprise, it was no devil. It was an innocent human child. I knew him by looks, for he’d been one of the choirboys who had sung in the church, never skipping a service until even the priest dared not to venture into the building because of the rats. The boy looked far from what he’d been to all those services. Like everyone in the town, his cheeks were hollow, his lips thin. I had sadly grown used to that sight. However, the boy’s eyes were an anomaly I had only then encountered. They were as dark as Satan’s pit.
More doors began to open. Children stepped out of each, some alone, some with their siblings, holding hands as if they were about to leave for a sunny meadow to pick berries. Their ages were all between two to twelve.

It was then that I realised my supposed imp was, in truth, an infant. It seemed less real to me, for I couldn’t picture how the small child could’ve gotten out of its crib and gotten to a door which would surely be locked. Thus, I stood there, stunned, just staring, as all the children’s inky eyes turned towards the end of the street where the ratcatcher had gone. Their bare feet were to follow shortly.
Once I overcame my bewilderment, I made my way down the streets. The children were already gone. Hastily, I headed towards where they’d gone, after the ratcatcher. I caught up with them just outside the city gates, where I seized the nearest youth by the arm and tried to call him to reason. He did not shed me as much a glance with those Stygian eyes of his. Though being no more than eight, he jerked free his arm without effort. Then he disappeared between the trees of the forest ahead.

I looked around to see that I was not the only one to have gone after the children. Two scores and a dozen or so other adults and teens ran out of the city gates; some already faced the forest like me. Of the other townsfolk, I suspect many celebrated their first silent night in years with sleep. Most, however, must have shut themselves in their homes, not wanting anything to do with the devilry.

The few brave souls that did come must’ve been as distraught as I was then. The forest was like a wall of claws and hands in the dark of the night. Even on a typical day, none would have dared to dwell through it in fear of wolves and men who acted like wolves. Yet these treats we all knew. Whatever creature — be it man or beast or worse — had lured all the town’s children into the woods, we dared not even imagine.
For a moment, it looked as if we might turn our back on the forest, on the children. It was then that God finally was with us again. He inspired great courage in one of the few women out, who suddenly shouted her child’s name. Then she ran into the woods, still calling, wailing, and praying. Her voice dimmed the further she went, yet, it remained steady. It was like a scent hound heralding the hunt. Other parents hurried for the trees as well. Not long after, we were all on our way, calling out to the children. Sadly, I was unfamiliar with any of their names and thus prayed to the Lord instead. Without His aid, I was sure we would not pass this tribulation.

Even after asking around later, we still couldn’t determine how long we had run. The only indication that we made any progress was that the soggy forest floor turned into steep stone. We had reached the high hills near the town. When I peered up at the paths that lead to its top, I saw the children. They were at the top of the hill, startlingly close to an edge that ended in unseeable depths. We went up the hill. We did not heed the thorny bushes or sharp rocks that hindered our way there. They had not stopped the barefoot children either. We could find our way uphill with the bloody path they had left behind.
I guess half of the pursuers had already gathered on the top of the hill when I reached it. They did not catch my attention, though, nor the children. It was the ratcatcher. He danced centre in the crude circle the children formed around him. He no longer wore his clothes, only his mantle, which shone in so many colours it could’ve only been made of feathers plucked from an angel’s wings. Under it, I saw hairy legs that ended in cloven hooves. The ratchatcter’s wicker hat had sprouted thorny flowers. Underneath them, he had grown a pair of horns tainted with the same savage paint he had all over the rest of his face. Small canines protrude from his mouth in which he held his flute.

The children’s entranced eyes gazed at the devil unblinking. One of the men who had gone up the hill with me — a father, an uncle, an older brother, or simply a man who cared enough to take the risk — embraced a boy. He tried to lift the child and shouted into his ears, yet he was met with the same resistance I faced earlier. Other townsfolk followed his example. I used all my remaining strength to pull an infant from a little girl’s arms. The results remained the same.

It was then that one man came rushing forward. He went straight for the devil, leaping at him like a lion, his arms outstretched into claws and his teeth set into a savage snarl. The demon must have sensed him coming. At the last moment, he leapt aside smoothly like a hind and played on without interruption. The brave man fell. He rolled on over the rocks towards the edge of the hill. The last I saw of him was his fingers trying to get a grip on the edge. The last I heard of him was a distant splash on the rocks.
I was too petrified to utter a prayer for him, but beside me, I heard some whisper, ‘Oh God.’ The devil ceased to move the second those words were said. He stared at us as if only noticing us now. His eyes twinkled, and he bore his teeth into a wicked smile. Then he began to dance like never before. This time, I could hear him play again. It was ghastly, yet only a hint of the horror to come.

As the tunes of the flute filled the cold night sky, the children looked away from the demon. Their still dark eyes turned towards the ravine. A woman beside me cried out as if she were being burned at the stake. It helped nothing. The boy nearest the edge set his bare, bleeding foot onto the thin air. Then he let himself fall forward.

Frantically, the townsfolk struggled to keep their children from following the same fate. They knew the futility of the act. Still, that didn’t stop them from clinging on so firmly that they ripped their son’s clothes off or got dragged through the gravel by holding onto their daughter’s dress. Soon the rocks under my feet were covered with blood of all ages. People screamed until their voices no longer could, and even then, went all. In the distance, I could hear the cracking of children’s bones on stone. Throughout, the devil danced.

Hell was on earth now. And by God, it would have stayed that way had it not been for one brave soul.
I am not acquainted with this man’s name, my friend, and these days I have more urgent matters than to find it out. I wish I’d known it then so I could have sent him all my prayers. He emerged between the indescribable chaos on the hill. He faced the demon like a knight would his sworn enemy. I only uttered a small prayer for him, for I was sure the same would befall him as the first who attacked the devil, and there was no known prayer to stop it. It soon appeared that this man had more faith than me, though.
The man approached the devil the same as his predecessor. However, just when it appeared he too would miss, he whipped out a rosary chain he had hidden in his hand. The chain caught the demon by the horns. The man did not let go. He still lost his balance and plunged towards the edge, but he took the satan with him. They disappeared over the edge, the man first. The devil managed to hold onto the edge for a moment but then vanished into the darkness below too. We all listened, no longer in terror for the children, for their spell had been broken. There was only one thud. It was too dark down the edge to see whose it had been.

It was not only that which made the road downhill feel more like a defeat than a triumph over the devil. The city had counted at least seven hundred youths. Only a few dozen descended the hill with us over the same path they’d come. Their eyes were still bleak, yet no longer dark. They were silent, quite unlike the adults. Parents, siblings, aunts, and uncles wailed, cried, groped, and prodded the remaining children to inspect and tend their wounds. A frenzy broke out at one such examination party, nursing a toddler. I witnessed not what caused it, my friend, but I shall never forget how it ended. Different folk had gotten a hold of the child’s thorn-scratched torso as others would not let go of its tiny bleeding feet. Each tugged the child to take care of their chosen limp. I dare not to write to you what happened next; all I can say is that it reminded me of an execution you long ago told me about, in which four cart horses quartered a man.

The people responsible for the child’s death had scampered off their faces disguised by the gloom and their newfound crowds long before its mother arrived. I ought to have helped her, my friend, but as you know, I am weak of stomach. The sight of the remains alone made me all too aware that my last meagre meal was crawling up my throat. I left the woman behind on the hill. God forgive me. I never saw her again, so I suspect the wolves must’ve come for her rather than her husband. Only as I write this, I dare say she has been the one to receive mercy from God, not me.

After a mindless walk through the woods, the city came back into sight. The sun rose from behind its walls, yet no one greeted us at the gate. Like a river branching off, the group broke up, each fork making its way through the empty streets, pulled homeward by some invisible force. I caught sight of a young girl there, whom I recognised to have come from my street. I took her under my wing without much thought and ushered her to her home. We exchanged neither words nor glances on our way there, for which I was grateful. Before long, I knocked on the door of her house. Her mother opened it. She flew at her daughter immediately, embracing her tightly, burying her face in the girl’s undone hair.

I assumed my duty was done. I was about to head homeward when abruptly, the mother drew away from the child as if she had been holding a plague victim all along. She eyed me, aghast, and demanded to know what had happened to the child. I related the tale of the night to her and added that if she doubted my words, I would swear to God that they were truthful. I told her she could ask the others who’d gone up the hill or her own daughter if she still did not trust me. Then, the mother made the most curious remark.
‘But then tell me, good man,’ the mother said, pointing at the child, ‘where is my daughter? For that, it is not… her.’

I looked at the girl and regarded her for the first time. She was the same child I had seen with the mother so many times, as well as the father, who had joined us by now. And yet, she, indeed, was not. She still said no word, and signs of otherness blemished her face. I knew the child not well enough to call any out, safe from the odd look in her eyes, yet I could see they were there. Mayhaps it was that one of her teeth was a tenth of a fingerbreadth off or that she bore five freckles more than she had before she headed up the hill. I could not say with certainty. The girl’s parents could not make any conclusions either. Ultimately, I mooted that the child was just drained from the mystifying incident on the hill.
‘All she requires is a fine night of sleep, a mother’s care, and a prayer to God,’ I told the parents. ‘I shall pray for her as well.’

The father accepted my words readily. He thanked me, placed his hand on his daughter’s slumped shoulders and led her inside the house. The mother followed. Before she closed the door behind her, I caught her eye leering at me through the crack. I promised myself to pray for her sceptical soul as well. However, deep down, I knew that my soul shared her doubt. Luckily this did not affect the rest I needed so direly. Once I entered my bedchamber, fatigue overtook me, and I fell asleep on the floor. I had no energy to take two steps to my bed anymore.

I awoke at noon the following day or possibly the day after that. There was no telling seeing all roosters had been devoured both by rats and desperate folk. The city’s church bells ought to have stirred me, though. They’d rug even during the most wretched hours, but now, they were silent. The same was the case for the streets. In the prosperous days, they had been filled with folk going to work or markets, and in the dreadful ones, swarming with vermin and ratcatchers. Now streets were forsaken. The houses were no better. It was as if the ratcatcher — that horned fiend — had robbed the town of its youths’ souls and the soul of the town itself.

The sight filled me with an alien unease I can hardly describe to you, my friend. The vacancy — the utter incomprehensible emptiness and loneliness that faced me and haunts me with still as of now… It pressed on me. It forced me to remain in my room, praying, looking outside for signs of fellow people. At night I knew no rest either. I kept listening for the fiend to return, reverse or end this misery. I believe I heard his flute a few times. I am not in a state to swear to it, however. I had run out of drink and shoe leather to feed on. Even then, I was hesitant. The fear of finding people weighed more on me than the fact that I was too likely to face none.

I had lost track of how many days I had spent starving in isolation when I finally headed out, and the signs had manifested themselves. I had become afraid of combing my hair, for it had started to fall out in clumps large enough to spin into rope. It is a hideous sight, my friend. Thus far, my locks had been my only disguise for my ever-thinning cheeks. I did my utmost to rub off the grime that accentuates my cadaverousness with my bedsheets, yet I dare say it helps not. It all clings onto the hair that sprouts from my skin, which tightens around my bones like a canvas on a frame. I felt small — still feel so small. And yet, this pain was nothing compared to the thought of my fellow folk laying eyes on me.
I covered up my devastated being with a cloth when I went outside. Only my darkening eyes were spared from exposure by a slit between the fabric. I stumbled from street to street. I had brought a bucket with me for water. Whatever water I might find in this dying town would only worsen my health, but I was convinced there was no more drinkable beer or ale, and I was so thirsty. The bucket banged against my knees.
I peered at the houses I passed as a discretion. It only made the weight of the bucket heavier. Between ajar doors and window cracks, I saw beady eyes following my every step. At first, I reckoned they were rats, having returned to spite the city even more, but then I saw that they were people. Their shadow-shrouded faces were as gaunt and hungry as mine. I hurried on.

My search finally stopped when I stumbled upon a horse trough. It was almost empty, safe from a thin layer of rainwater at the bottom. It tasted foul, but I drank it. It was only a short time before I was joined. A small shadow slipped from a nearby alleyway. It moved on all fours as it approached the opposite end of the trough. I recognised it. It was one of the children I’d seen come down the hill with me; a boy, no more than ten years old, though he appeared more beast than boy now. With a face that had become so slender it looked like a snout, he studied me with narrowed, dark eyes. I beckoned him to the water trough. The boy came. He leapt onto the edge of the trough like a cat would and eagerly brought the water to his mouth with cubbed hands. I didn’t dare to speak to him, afraid I might scare him away. Out of habit, I made the sign of a cross for both of us. It was then a third drinker approached.
At first glance, I feared it was another human who had succumbed to a feral state. As the newcomer neared, however, I soon saw that it was not so. It was a dog. I’d almost forgotten what they looked like; I couldn’t recall that they could get so large.

The dog appeared utterly untouched by whatever had gotten its rotten grasp on the town. I envied and admired it, and that filled me with bliss. I still cherish that moment as I write to you now, my friend, for it was the last flake of joy I have felt, and it was crushed swiftly, like a lamb’s neck between a wolf’s jaws.

Once the boy spotted the dog, he began to scream. It was like no sound I had heard before, and I wished none in the world ever to hear it. It was a screech of fright and pain, one even the most tortured criminals could produce. Then the boy scurried back to the ill-lid alley from whence he came. An appalling realisation struck me then. The child, the way he looked, the way he moved, the way he reacted to the dog and fled… He looked just like a rat. I pulled the cloth over my face away and stared into the little water left in the trough. My dearest, good friend, believe me, or choose to stick to your sanity, but when I saw my reflection, I saw a face which was no longer mine. It was one akin to the myriads of vermin that have brought ruin to the town. I was — and am evermore so, becoming — an undescribable chimaera, tainted by pied patches of hair, sloping posture and warped features.

I, too, rushed away then. The boy’s cry had sent the dog running, but I felt none the safer. My urge to hide had grown more than ever. I returned to my chamber unharmed, from which I write you now. Minutes, hours, and days pass, and I have no way to tell where one begins or stops. My room, which has become my world, seems to expand whenever I open my eyes. I try to utter my prayers, but they are unintelligible. My quill becomes heavier with every word I write you.

Lately, I’ve been hearing sharp nails scratching at the walls again. The sound is caused by no other beast than my fellow folk. One is distinctly different, though. I hear it at my door every night. It is the dorm cat. She’s trying to get to me. She’s desperate with hunger, and I believe it won’t take her long to find another entry. My time is running out…