Demonio

I never understood why some people hated ghost stories. Not tolerate or even a slight dislike. Pure, unrelenting hatred toward them. I’ve always thought ghost stories were thrilling, exhilarating, adrenaline-inducing, and presented a variety of outrageous situations that brought forth the real you. Would you try fighting the demonic spirit or run away with your tail between your legs? It’s like the Kobayashi Maru but replaces space combat with ghost and monster hunting.

My father was the one who opened the spooky red door of horror for me. His suspenseful tales of all things creepy and supernatural captivated me. Stories of troubled, restless spirits twisting the minds of young mothers to abduct children, horrifying hell beasts roaming the lands, and ghouls and goblins terrorizing homes and towns. Growing up in Mexico, he heard his fair share of ghost stories, believe it or not, and experienced a few firsthand. I, for one, believe him, but maybe that’s me trying to make the story even more scary. 

Mexico’s stories were diverse in the spine-chilling, otherworldly paranormal category. My father swears up and down that one story, in particular, is true. Again, I believe him. He doesn’t need to convince me, but the thing about this story is that he’s not the only person who says it’s true. Other family members, friends, and even his own mother have corroborated the story; each person who has shared the story themselves has never deviated from its previous tellings. If the story stays the same for several people, it must be true, right?

It all started many years ago, before I existed, hell, before the thought of me even existed. My father was seven- or eight-years-old, living with my grandparents. One day, a creepy cat appeared. Nobody knew where the cat came from; nobody owned a cat for miles. And what made it even more strange was that the cat didn’t look like a stray at all. Do you know how stray cats tend to be dirty, slender, and probably raggedy with missing patches of fur? Well, my father said this cat was the complete opposite. It was a giant, plump, fluffy beast with a deep voice that someone could easily have mistaken for a mountain lion. The cat moved slowly but deliberately through the small town, like a guard keeping tabs on the cellmates. For some reason or another, my father’s home became the cat’s resting place after making its rounds through the streets. It would curl up near the side of the house, creating a makeshift bed for itself in the soft dirt from the summer rain showers. 

My family was afraid of the cat—I mean, who wouldn’t be? Several neighbors expressed caution and begged them to get rid of it. “¡Ese gato es un demonio!” they would say. Fear took over because nobody knew where it came from or how it survived (no one fed it or gave it water). For days, my family wrestled with how to handle the cat. Do they try to capture it and abandon it in some other town? Ignore it and hope that it leaves on its own? Ultimately, my grandmother decided to keep the cat and to care for it from afar. She’d leave out little plates of food, merely scraps from their meals, and a bowl of fresh water to help endure the burning sun. My father was against the idea and tried to convince my grandmother that the cat was evil, but her mind was made up. 

A few weeks passed, and the cat continued to stroll through the streets with a strange aura around it. One day, my father was walking down the road, and he felt something watching him, which made the hairs on his neck stand up. He turned around, and there was the cat. Low, deep purrs, its cold eyes swallowing up my father before them. Chills ran down my father's skin, and his skin crawled as the cat sat motionless; not even its tail would flick around. Finally, my father broke free from the feline’s trace and hurried home.

Everyone could hear horrible howls through the night. Many people thought it was a pack of coyotes; it wasn’t uncommon to listen to them. My father never said one way or another, but several people secretly hoped the howls belonged to coyotes and that the coyotes would kill the cat. But it wasn’t long before we discovered the origin of the howls.

One hot summer evening, my father heard a blood-curdling cry. At first, nobody could figure out who or what was making that horrible sound. Someone suggested it was a coyote; maybe there was a fight among the pack, but another swore it sounded like their dying mother. The screams continued to pierce the night, and my family conducted a search party to investigate. The screams grew louder and louder; my father remembered how terrified he was that night. As their flashlights were beginning to fade, a shout finally broke through the screams that my father said made his stomach sink.

“¡Por aqui!”

A couple hundred yards from my father’s house, the giant cat was curled up with miniature carbon copies of itself. The unpleasant screams in the night weren’t a dying animal or person; it was the cat giving birth. Someone tried to pick up one of the kittens, but the cat's vicious snarl pushed everyone to take a step back collectively. The deathly stare in her mustard-colored eyes sent chills down my father’s spine. Even now, he always mentions how terrifying she looked with her babies. 

Finding the source behind the screams solved one mystery, but another sprung up in its place. How did the cat get pregnant in the first place? No one even knew the cat was female, to begin with, let alone who the tomcat was. This is where the story deviates, if only slightly. My father was sure there must have been another stray nobody knew about, or a visitor with a cat came to town. An older lady believed the impromptu birth was a blessing, but another shouted it was a curse. People continued to bicker as they walked home, unsure what to do about the cat. 

After a few days, my father realized he hadn’t seen the kittens since that night. He asked around, and more and more of my family learned the same thing. The nameless cat only roamed the grounds near the house now instead of the rest of the town but was always alone. My father returned to where they found the cat the other night and was horrified by what he saw. 

Each of the seven kittens was on the ground, with maggots digging into their rapidly decaying bodies. It wasn’t uncommon to find dead animals around; it was nature and the circle of life. But what was unusual, unheard of, was finding animals with their heads chopped clean off. It was something straight from a horror film. What could’ve done this? Who could’ve done this? And why only the heads?

My father took a step back and took a deep breath. They wouldn't have ripped only the heads off if an animal had done this, like a coyote or a wild dog. Someone must have deliberately executed these kittens. But who? Why?

He ran back home and told everyone the news. Amidst the flurry of gasps and other sounds of surprise, there was hushed chatter about who could be the culprit. Everyone started pointing fingers and throwing accusations. Finally, reason regained control of the situation, and everyone calmed down. Before any more discussions on who or what might’ve decapitated the kittens, the tiny bodies needed to be collected and properly disposed of. My father led them back, and they bagged the kittens.

For the next few weeks, tensions remained high. Nobody trusted anyone, even after people stopped openly accusing others of unholy acts against the kittens (there were a few rumors of spiritual sacrifices). There wasn’t any evidence that someone in town was behind the beheading, but rather, a lack of evidence that pointed toward an animal attack. If a coyote attacked the kittens, there should have been blood spots in the vicinity or clumps of fur that would signal some sort of fight between it and the cat. But there was nothing. Not even a patch of grass or a lump of dirt was out of place. 

Just as things started to feel back to normal, my father said, it happened again. A wretched scream cut through the air like scissors, severing our regrowing sense of serenity. Nothing filled the air besides the petrifying screech. My father looked around, and everyone he could see was frozen in place by the sound. Suddenly, an older man snapped free from the screech’s trace and ran into the distance. My father quickly followed, but he knew exactly where he was heading.

Standing side by side, out of breath, my father and many other townspeople looked down upon a frightening sight. More kittens. Seven of them, to be exact.

The cat gave birth to another litter of kittens. 

My father couldn’t believe it, nobody could! What was impregnating this cat? And wasn’t it so soon after the previous litter? How long do cat pregnancies even last? 

Still thinking someone among them was responsible for the previous beheading, they decided to move the cat and her litter into my father’s house for around-the-clock supervision. Whoever wished harm on the cat and her newborns would be caught if they dared to attack again. A schedule was organized, and my father was picked fourth in line. Each time block was only a few hours, but my father’s slot landed early in the morning.

Later that evening, my father awoke to a shattering sound from the kitchen. Moonlight poured through the open window and illuminated his room. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the Kit Kat clock on the wall. It was 2:45 in the morning, almost time for him to take over his sister's watch. He begrudgingly climbed out of bed; a second shattering sound fully snapped him into reality. 

Was the attacker making their move?

My father quickly sprung into action, grabbed a baseball bat hidden between his bed and dresser, and hurried through the house. He turned the corner where the cat and her kittens were lying, expecting to see the attacker towering over them. But that’s not what he saw.

Past his trembling sister, past the broken remains of their ceramic plates, a prominent shadowy figure was hunched over something. It wasn’t as big as a person, maybe a medium-sized dog. Oh, so it was a coyote? A coyote attacking the kittens made the most sense, and my father inched a bit closer with the bat raised overhead, ready to strike the intruder. But just as my father readied to deal the fatal blow, the coyote reared its face at my father.

Except it wasn’t a coyote. It wasn’t a wild dog.

It was the cat. 

Blood dripped from the razor-sharp knives in its mouth. The cat growled, and my father swore the ground shook beneath his feet. It turned to face them, and my father gasped at what he now clearly saw at its feet. One of the newborn kittens, its head barely attached to its body by a few joints. 

The cat leaped toward him before my father could decide what to do next. He swung the bat out of instinct, and a thud echoed as he connected it to its jaw. The beast was knocked across the table, dragging the tablecloth to the ground. My father jumped over the table and quickly used the tablecloth to capture the cat. He tied as many knots as he could with the cloth, carefully avoiding its knife-like claws stabbing through. My father yelled to his sister to wake everyone in the house, and in a few minutes, the entire family gathered around to help contain the fierce beast.

The neighbors were alerted by all the commotion from capturing the cat. When we took the tied-up cat outside, a few were already waiting out front to find out what had happened. Hearing that the cat was beheading the kittens, some started shouting that they should’ve never let the cat stay and that they were all cursed. Panic began to ensue as people worried that the demonic spirit that possessed the cat would eventually possess them all. As the shouting intensified, the makeshift sack holding the cat thrashed about on the ground. 

My grandmother stepped forward and released a piercing whistle that silenced everyone’s shouting. She declared the only way to avoid any curses from the spirit was to kill the corrupted body: the cat. Everyone nodded in agreement, and an older man came forward with a shotgun and said he would do it. 

Everyone backed away and gave him plenty of space. A few feet from the thrashing sack, he raised the gun and aimed down the barrel. Nobody said a word; the only sound that filled the night sky was the snarling and roars of the captured beast. My father noticed the knots begin to loosen on the tablecloth, and more of the disgusting beast could be seen emerging. He yelled at the man to hurry before it escaped, then the man pulled the trigger.

The loud boom of the shotgun exploded through the night. The tablecloth, not punctured with two slightly steaming holes, lay motionless. But my father knew what he saw in the kitchen; this wasn’t an average cat.

“¡Otra vez!” my father yelled. Puzzled, the man didn’t think he needed to shoot again, but suddenly, the bag started to move. It shook, trembled, and shuddered on the ground until, finally, the tablecloth was draped away. A deep roar bellowed from the grotesque beast, blood spewing from its mouth and bullet wounds. It darted its head back and forth, almost searching through the crowd. After making eye contact with my father, the fur on the cat rose like spikes, and it dug its claws in the dirt, readying itself for one last attack. People realized the cat was targetting my father and quickly ran away, but he remained paralyzed. 

Without warning, the cat launched itself from the ground. Time slowed down as the giant beast flew toward my father. Just as its claws were about to find their mark, another loud boom echoed, and the cat was blown backward. My father turned and saw the man still aiming the smoking shotgun toward the cat. He fired again and again into the cat.

After the fifth boom, silence settled. Nobody said a word or moved a muscle. We all waited, almost anticipating the cat returning like it did the first time. But it stayed unmoving, with clouds of dust circling its body. The beast was dead. 

To this day, nobody ever knew where that cat came from. Nobody ever knew how the cat became pregnant. Nobody ever knew why the cat beheaded its kittens. But what everyone did know, or at least accepted, was that this cat was no ordinary cat. Did an evil spirit possess it? Maybe. Possibly. For the story's sake and how my father captured the cat, it sounds way more badass to say he captured a demon. 

So, yeah, let’s go with that.