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Our third place winner in the Adult category is Gail Lowe of Lynn, MA. She has had some prior publications in some literary magazines; this is the first time she has had a story published on the Internet. |
Black Cat crouches low atop the cemetery fence. Her sleek fur, a judge's robe; her yellow eyes, fire.
She watches as I approach, ready for the kill. A growl rises from deep within her throat. A growl meant for me.
She, alone, knows my crime. She, alone, was sole witness. It is said that the night has a thousand eyes. But not that night. That night had only four: Black Cat's and mine.
I didn't know Black Cat was there. I, the executioner, thought I was alone, unobserved, safe from prying eyes, as I performed my deed. But I was wrong. Black Cat was there, watching my every move.
The memory of that night, All Hallow's Eve, looms like a bad dream. But Black Cat knows it is no dream. Every month, when the moon is full, she laments for her mistress, while I hide behind the gate and listen. When she catches me watching, she rises on all fours, arches her back and yowls.
Black Cat's mistress should have known better. She shouldn't have been out at night all alone, especially on a night when the moon was full. I heard the rustle of her cape as she hurried along, smelled her fragrant perfume and suddenly my thirst overwhelmed me so, I could not help myself.
Tonight is the first anniversary of her death. The moon, once again, is high and full. Like an evil yellow eye, it hangs against the black drapery of sky, and every now and then a cobweb cloud skitters across its path.
I move closer to Black Cat, teasing, taunting, testing her. I am ready for the duel. Her sinister growl rises in pitch; an ominous hiss, an indictment of my guilt. We are inches apart, eyeball to eyeball.
She swipes a paw toward my face, and I reach out to grab it. Too late, her claws rake my cheek and blood trickles to the corner of my mouth. My tongue tastes the delicious red liquid, whetting my appetite for more.
Someone is coming! Like Black Cat's mistress, her step is light, her skin fragrant as gardenias. In the moonlight, her golden curls caress her virgin neck. Spittle forms at the corner of my mouth. I can hardly wait for the feast to begin.
Black Cat crouches back down atop the fence. Her eyes, those fiery, knowing eyes, watch and wait.
They say the night has a thousand eyes. But not tonight. Tonight there are only four. Black Cat's and mine.
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