It took nearly two hours, but Sarah finally erased the design. When she stood to appraise her work, she became aware of the ache at the back of her neck, the soreness in her arms, the stiffness of her legs. She switched on the overhead light, realizing for the first time that the room had grown dark with the onset of evening. It was time for dinner, time to go out . . .
Sarah felt a rush of loneliness that almost overwhelmed her. She was not going out; she had no one to spend her evening with. The thought of cooking for herself and eating a meal alone took away her appetite. She missed Brian acutely. She didn’t want to go out, she didn’t want conversation, or sex, or comfort, or encouragement—all she wanted was his physical presence. She wanted the comfort of habit and routine, another presence in the house from whom she could draw wordless, emotional support. It was that very aspect of living with Brian that she had never appreciated, that she had struggled to pull away from.
Sarah felt heavy and slow, hardly capable of moving at all. She went to the new, still unmade bed, and stretched out on it. Her thoughts marched leadenly down a familiar trail. Brian, she had lost Brian, and it had been her own fault. She had driven him away. She had been afraid of needing him, afraid of admitting her need for him, afraid of letting him get too close. She had been utterly preoccupied by her own needs and had not considered Brian’s. If she could have forgotten herself, and given instead of always taken, maybe she wouldn’t have lost Brian. She should have lost herself, instead. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She could still give up, let go . . . It was so nice to drift and forget, so nice to stop thinking and simply give in . . .
Then she felt the touch of the claw beneath the velvety fur, and the shock brought her sharply out of the trance she had nearly fallen into. She sat up on the edge of the bed, trembling convulsively. She knew that mental touch, she knew she wasn’t alone. Most horrible: those thoughts had not been her own.
Feeling hunted, Sarah looked nervously around the room. The bare floorboards gleamed slightly under the harsh glare of the overhead light. The windows were black mirrors, throwing her dim reflection back at her so that her own movements made her flinch in terror. The night had crept up and trapped her unaware.
Sarah leaped to her feet and looked around wildly for her purse and keys. Her blood pounded with the imperative to get out, to escape. She hurried into the kitchen and saw two blazing yellow eyes in the black window-glass above the sink.
She screamed, jumping back. Through her terror she made out the shape of a cat around the yellow eyes, and realized that the animal was clinging to a tree outside the kitchen window.
Then she was angry. It was playing with her, she realized. Patting a sheathed paw against her mind, teasing, testing for weak spots. Trying to lull her, then trying to scare her, ready to pounce when she made the wrong move.
“I’m not leaving,” Sarah said loudly, staring back at the cat. “Damn you, do you think you can scare me out of my own house? I’m staying.”
She looked directly into the animal’s eyes as she spoke, and as she did so she became aware of the presence she had earlier sensed in her mind. The recognition was like a faint electric shock. She tried to turn her eyes away and could not. She realized that she was caught by the creature’s gaze, that some force as real as an electric current linked them together along the line of sight. A greedy, powerful presence pushed at her, entering through her eyes. Give in, it commanded, give in and let me in. Just try to get away from me now. She felt it crowding her like some horrible, aggressive stranger. Frightened, she tried to pull away, and her fear grew when she realized that she could not, she could not detach her gaze or move to escape.
So she pushed back. It was the only thing to do, aside from giving in. She forced her own will, her own strong sense of herself as an individual, back at the usurping spirit. Get out, she thought furiously. Get away from me; get back; get away. And she pushed.
She felt it squirm. The cat blinked, then ducked below the window. Sarah could hear it scrabbling down the tree. She laughed out loud, momentarily giddy with the sense of victory, and relief. No, she wouldn’t leave. She would stay here, and fight, and win.
As she made a cup of coffee and a sandwich for her revived appetite, Sarah remained wary, listening to the small sounds of the night outside. She didn’t dare relax.
A few minutes later, seated on the couch in the living room, the electric heater plugged in and pulled close, Sarah recognized a pattern in the sounds she was hearing: the crackling in the leaves, the tread on the rooftop, the light bump against the window. There was never anything there when she looked, but she knew it was the cat, stalking the house, looking for weaknesses, seeking a point of entry. Its persistence kept her on edge.
But despite her nerves, Sarah realized she was tired. Her eyes were hot and weary, and whenever she tried to read, the words blurred in front of her. She was yawning. She had to sleep. If she didn’t lie down, she would pass out sitting up, she thought dazedly, setting aside her cup and book and pulling off her boots. She couldn’t think why she was so tired . . . she couldn’t think anything at all . . . she could hardly keep her eyes open. Sarah stretched out on the couch, telling herself it was only for a minute, and it was like falling backwards into a pool of black water. Sarah was asleep before she had time to think about it.
There was a loud, rumbling sound somewhere nearby—so close and so loud that her whole body vibrated with it. Not an alarming sound, but distracting. She couldn’t sleep with it going on. Sarah opened her eyes and saw the cat. It was sitting heavily on her chest, purring loudly.
She tried to sit up, but the cat was much too big. It had not been nearly so large when it was outside, she thought confusedly. She hadn’t realized what an enormous animal it was. And heavy. She could hardly breathe with the weight of it.
She tried to move her arms, to knock the cat aside, but her arms seemed paralyzed, as did her legs. She tried to arch her back and dislodge the cat that way, but she simply was not strong enough. She could only move up and down slightly, ineffectually, until she was drenched with sweat and heaving with effort, and the cat purred on, undisturbed. It seemed to grow heavier by the minute, or perhaps her exertions made it harder for her to breathe. The pressure in her chest was becoming painful.
The cat looked down at her complacently. A demonic intelligence stared out of those disturbingly brilliant eyes. The eyes—of course, the eyes! She remembered now that it was the eyes she had to beware of—the pressure on her chest was unimportant, perhaps even an illusion. But it might kill her with its eyes if she wasn’t careful.
Making a tremendous effort, Sarah turned her head to one side.
Instantly, there was only darkness.
The weight had vanished from her chest, and the sound of purring lingered only in echo. She felt weak and sore when she breathed in, but she could move again.
Slowly, Sarah sat up. She heard a noise on the roof and knew the cat was out there, still prowling.
She sighed, enjoying the relief of breathing freely. Only a dream. She put her hand out for the lamp on the end table. But instead of cool metal, her groping fingers met warm fur.
Sarah cried out, snatching her hand back, and jumped to her feet. Her heart pounded furiously and she could not think, but she forced herself to move through the blackness to the front door, where her fingers found the light switch. When the ceiling light came on she saw, sitting on the couch in the precise spot where she had just been, the calico cat with huge yellow eyes. It stared at her, unblinking.
Sarah stared back. This was no dream. She was awake this time, and the cat was in the house.
Well, she would make it go out again. She looked around for something useful, wishing for heavy gloves, a net, a weapon. But all she saw was the television set, pillows, her shoes, books. She took up a heavy volume—The Poetry of the Victorian Period—and hefted it warningly, watching the cat for some sign that it might attack.