The Cat Man
By K. Jesel
It’s been two days since I first saw the Cat Man. I was on the Peloton for the first time in three weeks. Just haven’t been able to since it happened. I was in the middle of a climb ride when I heard knocking on the front door. Answered it and saw a man I didn’t recognize. His eyes were half obscured by a ratty baseball cap. He smiled.
“Hi, is this your cat? I found him walking in the road. You know, you should really keep him inside, or at least get him fixed so he won’t wander so much. Don’t want him to get run over now, do we?”
I’d been shaking my head since his first question, but I guess he didn’t notice. I had stopped listening anyway when I saw the cat in his arms. It looked just like Moony.
“No, it’s not.” My nose prickled with incoming tears. “I don’t have a cat.”
His smile stayed plastered on his face, unaffected by my response and far too cheery for the late hour.
“My mistake,” he said. “Goodnight.” He walked away, still holding the cat. It looked over his shoulder at me. I could only hold its gaze for a couple seconds before my face started twisting up. I closed the door and finally let my sobs out.
I cried myself to sleep that night, staring at the empty cat tower next to my bed.
It’s been four days since I first saw the Cat Man. He comes again, again when I’m on the bike, again with the cat. It’s weaving around his feet this time. He smiles like.
“Is this your cat? I found him-”
I have the courage to interrupt him this time. “No, I still don’t have a cat. You asked me the same thing the other night.”
The smile doesn’t budge. “My mistake. Goodnight.” But he doesn’t leave. I notice blood on his shirt. It looks fresh. I ask if he’s okay.
He doesn’t look at it or break his smile. “Don’t worry, it’s not mine.”
It’s been five days since I first saw the Cat Man. When he comes back, I don’t give him a chance to speak, just open the door a crack and say, “Sir, I don’t have a cat. Please leave me alone.” I want to tell him to fuck off but figure it best not to anger him.
I close the door immediately, but through it I hear, “My mistake. Goodnight.” I watch him through the peephole until he leaves, thankfully only a moment later. The blood stain on his shirt is bigger than before.
I pick a scenic ride on the Peloton to clear my head. Norway. It always worked before. But I keep seeing fleeting glimpses of dead cats on the virtual road, their bodies flattened, mangled, bloody. Tears soon mix with sweat. I frantically unclip my feet and stumble into the bathroom. Then I see the sticky note on the mirror.
Make neuter appointment for Moony!
I grab it. How long ago did I write that? I can’t remember. I’d put it somewhere I’d look every day so I wouldn’t forget. But there was always something more important, more pressing. The ink blurs as sweat and tears seep into the paper.
It’s been six days since I first saw the Cat Man. When he knocks this time, I have 911 dialed before I even get to the door. My thumb hovers over the call button as I open it, but he isn’t there. I don’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Someone had knocked. I dare to hope it’s just a kid playing a prank this time.
I’m about to close the door when I see something on the porch. It’s the cat. I look at it, it looks at me. Its eyes are neither threatening nor threatened, just aware.
He looks so much like him. Grey tabby with yellow eyes, small frame, fluffy tail. This one’s hair is a little more matted. A couple tufts are missing where it looks like he got in a fight. His tail is broken, not bleeding, just kinked wrong in one spot. Tears fill my eyes yet again. As much as I want it to be him, want my best friend back for even one minute, I know it’s not him. It can’t be. Because I saw him that day, three… almost four weeks ago. There’s no coming back from that kind of damage. He was dead before I even got to the road. His ashes should be ready to pick up any day now. Despite this, despite knowing this doppelganger before me is not my Moony, I can’t help but smile.
Before I can stop him, he bolts past me into the house. I start after him – cartoonishly backtracking to lock the door – and find him on top of Moony’s tower in my room. He stares down at me smugly.
Not that I mind a stray cat in my house, now that I don’t have to worry about him and Moony not getting along. But his eyes… They’re not dead, but they’re not lively either. Staring into them gives me the same creeping shivers that the Cat Man does. I feel invaded, like he’s in here, too. I’m granted little reassurance when I return to the door and look through the peephole. In the road stands the silhouette of a man in a baseball cap.
It’s been seven days since I first saw the Cat Man. The cat is still on the tower. I try to grab him, but he scratches me. He won’t even let me pet him. I put out some of Moony’s leftover food. He’s not interested. I have the door open (under my watchful eye) until dark in case he decides to go back out on his own, but no luck so far. He’s still just sitting there, watching.
The Cat Man does not show. I should be grateful, but his sudden absence disconcerts me more than his presence ever did.
It’s been eight days since I first saw the Cat Man. No change. The cat still won’t let me touch him, won’t play, won’t eat. If he’s come down from the tower, I haven’t seen it. Moony’s freshly filled litter box remains untouched. I think I’ll call the vet tomorrow. I put a sticky note on the mirror to remind me.
It’s been ten days since I first saw the Cat Man. I wake to the sound of droplets hitting the floor. The cat is still on the tower. I don’t think I’ve seen him blink this whole time. The sound is coming from his direction. As I draw closer, I see it dripping off each level of the tower like a malfunctioning fountain, the cat perched atop as its sculpture. I touch the liquid. It’s blood. The smell hits me then, and I gag. I reach for the cat to see if he’s hurt, but he scratches me again. I step back, cradling my hand. He’s just looking at me, into me in a way that makes my soul squirm.
Then, for the first time, he meows. It’s a cracked, dry, broken utterance unattainable by any earthly creature. Yellow-green maggots crawl out of the sides of his mouth and up his face. They gather on his eyes before moving on, leaving empty, gaping sockets behind. His mouth hangs crooked. Flies come out and flood the room. Fur peels off in patches like burning paper. Green and white fungus sprouts in its place.
His eyes aren’t there, but he’s still watching. I scream and run outside. I turn around expecting to see his decaying figure slinking after me, but I don’t. All I see is pavement under my feet and, out of the corner of my eye, a hulking metal shape fast approaching.
I’m cold, but the red puddle around me is warm. Road sediment rubs into my skin. My head feels loose. I’ve never seen my shoulder from the back before.
Moony’s here, on the road with me. He looks like I remember that day. All crushed and twisted. Everything that’s supposed to be separate suddenly thrown into one, denied rightful appearance and function. It doesn’t horrify me as much now. Because now I know how he feels. He’s looking right at me. There’s no affection there, no pain, only judgment. A cry rattles my body. I try to tell him what I’ve spoken to the dark chasm of our home every night since he died.
“I’m sorry.”
But it doesn’t sound like that coming out; my failing lungs only manage an incoherent wheeze.
The Cat Man approaches. He stands a few feet off, watching. Moony gets up somehow. He sits beside the man and looks at me. Looks at me like the cat in my house did. I wonder if it was him after all, that whole time. I reach for him, but he does nothing. They turn and leave, the Man tossing something over his shoulder. In my blood lands a crumpled sticky note.
END
Author Bio:
K. Jesel holds a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s in creative writing. Between earning those, she served as a military intelligence officer in the Army. Originally from Houston, Texas, she now lives in upstate New York with her husband, dog, and cat. Her favorite genres are fantasy and horror, which she constantly yaps about at her job as a Barnes & Noble Bookseller.
Navy Pen 