Black Cats and Postcards - a collection of short horror stories

The Black Cat

I trudged up my frozen driveway, the snow crunching beneath my shoes, leaving a trail of steps in the amber lighted blanket. I'd had to work overtime, again, and in all honesty I'd wanted nothing more than to drop into bed and hibernate the dismal winter away. That was, until I heard a faint mew. So quiet that I might not have noticed it has the wind been blowing a little louder, but a meow nonetheless. Keys still in my gloved hand, I sought out the noise, something that proved to be rather easy as I saw a pitch black form in the flowerbed. Huge, orange eyes shone like street lamps, gigantic pupils gazing hazily into my very soul. Scooping up the fluffy body, I swept off the snowflakes that dotted its fur like stars. The cat didn't object, burying its face into my puffy coat as I placed it over my shoulder, a revving purr shakily increasing in volume. It took a few tries to force the keys into the lock with my frozen fingers, but soon I was in, adjusting the thermostat and placing the shivering furball in a cluster of blankets next to the radiator. It was reluctant to leave me, claws digging into my shoulder while I pried it off me, watching with pleading eyes as I left to remove my coat. Now minus my winter-wear, I turned around to see the cat in the living room doorway. It strutted towards me, tail in the air like a feather-duster. The cat's head pushed up into my hand as I stroked it, showering the surrounding area with black fur as I finished the arc. It registered in my mind that this cat didn't have a collar as scratched its cheek. Could it be a stray? I lit up at this idea. I could have a cat, I mean, it seemed friendly enough and if it wasn't microchipped.

My mind flashed back to when I was a small child, pleading my parents to let me get a cat. My dad adamantly refusing, citing his allergy as the reason, saying we could get a hamster or a fish instead. But, as if a belated response from the lord, a cat showed up practically on my doorstep.

A call to the neighbours revealed that none of them had lost a black cat, and I made a mental note to make a call to the vets when they opened in the morning while I placed a ready meal in the microwave. The cat was at my heels as I searched the fridge for anything it could eat, little nose twitching and poking at the array of food in front of it. I eventually dug out the cod I'd intended to eat on the Sunday, a sacrifice for the greater good. As it turned out, this was the right choice. I watched in awe as the cat scarfed down the fish before I even opened my own meal.

That night was the first night in a while that I actually felt somewhat happy with how life was turning out. Sure, I might have had a load of debt to pay off, and I might have been working a dead end job, but now I might have someone to keep me company through it.

The trip to the vet's in the morning had me elated - my cat wasn't microchipped, and on top of that she was in perfect health. I practically skipped out after the appointment, cat in the newly purchased carrier. I named her Sky, a perfect name in my opinion for a perfect cat.

The next week was a blur of happiness, getting cat supplies, playing with Sky, who quickly began responding to her name. Several of my coworkers asked if I was in a relationship, leading to an animated explanation from me of how Sky came into my life. Some of the cat owners gave me advice, little tidbits like how to properly pick up a cat, how you should never touch their tummies under any circumstances, but Sky was never a problem, she never bit, wrecked furniture, she'd curl up on my lap every evening when I sat down to watch TV. She was perfect, or so I thought until the gifts began.

It started out mundane: leaves, mice, small birds. My cat-loving acquaintances told me that this was normal, just how cats show their affection. I made sure to praise her, give her attention and treats whenever she brought her latest catch, even if the live frog she dropped on my kitchen tiles did make me squeal like a little schoolgirl.

Then one day I came downstairs in a groggy daze, to Sky sitting in the middle of the room looking proud of herself, a mauled eagle next to her. The wing had been completely mangled, and feathers coated the area, along with viscous blood. Shock gave way to utter amazement that my small fluff ball had somehow managed to catch such big prey. I was halfway tempted to scold her for such an attack on a majestic bird, but praised her as per usual. My coworkers would never believe this. In hindsight, I really should have punished her for her 'gifts', even if they did come from good intentions, but as they say, hindsight is twenty/twenty.

Not even a few days later I was awoken in the middle of the night by a nearby dog barking. It was really nothing too bad, but in my sleep addled state I muttered to myself. "God I wish that dog would shut up." Before I gave Sky a gentle pat, prompting a chirp and rumbling purr, and fell back into a light sleep. What a mistake that was.

She brought me the dog, a big German shepherd, in her mouth by its crushed neck. The dim light creeping in past the curtains illuminated her blood soaked fur, the black holding a dark red tint, making her eyes seem almost yellow by comparison. She killed the goddamn dog! I nearly threw up. How the fuck would I explain this to my neighbours!?

I didn't. They were frantically going door to door, asking if anyone had seen their dog. My throat almost closed up, a lump forming like a rock. I lied, I told them I hadn't seen their dog, even when they showed me a picture of him with their daughter.

I called in sick that day and spent the rest of the day crying, wallowing in my self-pity. The dog was now down in my basement, wrapped in the very same blankets I'd once given to Sky. I shut her outside that day with a hot water bottle and makeshift shelter of old bricks and wood, reluctantly letting her in in the evening when the sun was swallowed by the horizon. She wasn't allowed in my room that night, despite her pitiful cries outside my room. My restless sleep was haunted by images of the poor dog. Sky wasn't a cat anymore in my eyes, I didn't know what she was, but for the love of God she wasn't a cat.

But now, I know. She tried so hard to make me happy, so much so that when I came home late again, on a night similar to the one I met her. She greeted me with her usual chirps and mews, but apparently I didn't seem happy enough for her. She brought me a new 'gift' today, purring like an engine in a Formula 1 race.

This time I actually vomited, my bile mixing with the blood of the corpse she brought me. My employer laid with glassy eyes on the bed, staining the recently changed white sheets a disgusting red, his throat ripped out and a look of pure terror preserved on his face.

Looking at Sky's orange, slit eyes now, I know what she is: she's a demon.