The Cat Unvanishes

When the phone rang, Michael nearly dropped his paintbrush in alarm. It had been installed earlier that day, the brand new cable strung out along the seven mile length of their drive like an umbilical cord. Only he and the engineer knew the number. Unwilling to leave the room he was decorating, he let it ring off, but when it rang again moments later, he was forced to answer it. 

“Yes? Who is this? I’m afraid you must have the wrong number.” 

“Is that Mr. Pate?” 

The voice on the other end of the line was strange, distorted, like it was coming from an impossibly long way away - deep underground perhaps or from another planet. Michael couldn’t tell whether the speaker was a man or a woman, old or young. 

“Erm, that’s right. How did you get this number?” 

He knew he sounded weak, befuddled. Though the conversation had barely started he already felt as if he had lost control of it.

“Mr. Michael Pate?”

“Yes, but - “

“I only ask because I need to be sure I’m speaking to the right person. It’s so hard to tell when it comes down to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Michael wanted to ask again who he was talking to, but he found himself agreeing with the stranger’s words. “What do you want?” he opted for instead.

The stranger laughed. “Why should I want anything?”

“You rang me! Why did you bother if all you were going to do was deliver cryptic messages?”

A momentary silence, then a disappointed sigh. Michael became even more irritated. “Well, if there’s nothing else...We’ve just moved in and there’s an awful lot to do, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Silence again. Just as Michael was going to hang up, however, the voice spoke again. “I know where your cat has gone.”

“What? How could you know…”

The plan had been simple. Tanya, Michaels’ wife, would stay with the kids at her parent’s summer house in the Hamptons while Michael would go ahead to get the new house ready for their arrival. Scout, the family cat, would go with Michael so he could get acclimated to his new surroundings and keep Michael company while he was cooped up decorating. That way, they wouldn’t have to share the first weeks at their new home with a cranky, confined cat. Of course, they had underestimated Scout, who had given Michael the slip as soon as they arrived and promptly disappeared. That was three days ago and given the thousands of acres of wilderness which surrounded the farmhouse, he had thought the cat lost forever. 

“Michael, are you still there? I said I know where your cat is.”

“OK, so where is it?”

“Check the well.”

“The well? Oh God, you don’t mean…? Is Scout dead?”

Michael imagined having to tell his children Scout had died. It was hard to imagine a more inauspicious start to their new life.

“Just go to the well and you’ll see what I mean.”

The phone went dead. Michael spent a few seconds shouting into the receiver, entreating the voice to come back and explain itself before he realised he was alone and no-one was listening.

The decorating forgotten, Michael went out into the summer sunshine to find the well. He remembered the old guy who owned the farm before them pointing it out when he showed them around, back when all this was just a pipe dream. It had seemed odd at the time; the man said it had been disused for as long as he could remember but went on about what a great feature it would make if they chose to restore it.

It sat in the far corner of the farmyard, between the end of a large barn and the fence which bordered the paddock. To all intents and purposes, it looked like a moss-mottled pile of rubble but as Michael pulled aside the fallen masonry he gradually revealed a round metal plate held in place by two badly rusted padlocks. A couple of sledgehammer blows later he was looking down the open wellshaft. 

What he saw both surprised and alarmed him. The well was around forty feet deep, the dusty soil at its bottom illuminated by a gentle yellowish light whose source was hidden from view by the angle of the walls as they widened towards the bottom. 

There was no sign of the cat.

Michael wondered where the light was coming from. There had to be some kind of lit room or passage down there. A thieves’ hideout perhaps? Or a meth lab? He had seen a show about that on TV and a remote farm would be a perfect spot to carry on such criminal activity undetected. On the other hand, the old man and his wife had only finished moving out a week before and it seemed unlikely that a criminal gang could have set themselves up in that time. And anyway, what did he plan to do? He wasn’t about to call the police and tell them he thought there was a bunch of criminals operating from the bottom of his disused well, on the basis of a cryptic phone call from an unknown caller about his lost cat. 

Instead, Michael lowered the ladder down the well. Extended fully it reached the bottom with only a foot or so poking out above the crumbling parapet. He tried not to think about what would happen if the ladder were removed while he was down there. The walls of the well were unscalable and the house so remote that he would almost certainly be trapped down the well until he died. Tanya wasn’t expected for another two weeks and he’d told her he would be out of contact - the phone installation had been completed earlier than expected and there was no mobile signal at the farm. He thought about lowering a rope as a backup or leaving a note in case someone happened by, but in the end he decided he was just being paranoid. It was most likely just a hoax call and he would find nothing at the bottom but dirt. He would only be down there a few minutes at most. Still, his heart beat faster and he cursed inwardly at every creaking rung as he descended. When he neared the bottom, the well widened into a large circular room, the shaft he had just descended more like a chimney in the centre of its roof. 

I guess it’s just a question of perspective he thought, looking up at the distant circle of blue sky above. Here at the bottom, he felt like he was far deeper underground than the forty foot he had descended and he found himself wishing he had worn warmer clothes.

The room was empty and featureless, the only exit a vaulted archway which led to a stone passageway bathed in the same surreal light as the room itself. The source of the light was no more apparent to him now than it had been when he had been looking down on it from above. A faint breeze emanated from the passageway, stirring the hairs on his forearms and carrying with it a faint, woody smell. 

Intrigued, Michael followed the passage. The further he went the warmer the air became  as if he were walking back into the sunshine outside, although as far as he could tell the floor of the passage had remained level the whole way. The smell of wood grew more distinct.

At the end of the passage, Michael found himself in another room, roughly square, surrounded on three sides by walls of semi-opaque paper in large wooden frames. The frames looked freshly made and Michael suspected this was the source of the wood smell. He knew this type of wall was common in traditional Japanese houses and that they had a specific name - Soju? Shinji? Something like that.

The walls were lit from behind by a faint yellowish light, although its magnitude could not account for the light at the bottom of the well or in the passageway.

He reached out to test the strength of the wall in front of him, but before his fingers had touched the paper, there was a loud clunk from behind the wall and, in an instant, the light changed from gentle yellow to a cold and brilliant white.

At the same time, Michael saw that the new light was projecting a silhouette on the paper wall in front of him. It had the rough shape of an inverted ‘T’, although its lines were lumpy and ill-defined. It took Michael a moment to realise what he was seeing was in fact two people, one sat one top of the other, both entirely motionless.

Michael stood rooted in confusion, unsure what he should do next. Then the uppermost figure began to move up and down rhythmically, soundlessly, until there was no longer any doubt what was happening behind the screen. To his horror, he felt  himself stiffening and turned to flee, but found he was unable to move. There was no physical barrier stopping him; turning his head, he could see clearly down the passage to where the bottom of his ladder stood in the circular room beyond. Instead it was some kind of emotional barrier, as if by seeing this act of voyeurism through to its inevitable climax he would learn something essential about himself that would change him forever. 

He stared transfixed as the silhouette’s movements became faster, more insistent. The upper figure fell forward, supporting itself on its arms, emphasising the sympathetic motion of hair, belly and breasts, the inverted ‘T’ now a sideways ‘A’. When the figures finally collapsed into one another, Michael shared the joyous release of their climax, a wave of pure emotion emanating from his erection and growing to suffuse his entire body.

He watched, heedless and enraptured as, moments later, the screen wall separated from its neighbours with a sharp snap and slowly retracted into the floor, revealing a small square room beyond, filled on every horizontal surface with piles and piles of miscellaneous clutter. 

In the midst of all the chaos, perched on a low, yellow-green chaise longue, sat a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a light grey three-piece business suit, her dark hair scraped together into a bun and secured with a gold and ruby hatpin. She smoked a thin cigarette, carefully tapping the ash into a cut glass ashtray which sat beside her on the chaise longue, careful not to let the ash sully her fine clothes. She examined Michael dispassionately, assaying, an arched eyebrow and an amused quirk of her unpainted lips the only sign she was coming to any conclusion. 

Was this the woman he had just been watching through the screen? It seemed impossible, but there was something knowing in her scrutiny that made Michael blush fiercely and turn away in an attempt to hide his suddenly inappropriate tumescence. 

“Don’t worry,” the lady said, “there’s no reason for embarrassment. Come. Sit and talk with me.”

She indicated an oversized leather armchair which stood in an island of clear carpet opposite the chaise longue, separated from it by a low coffee table stacked high with piles of books, magazines and papers. Michael sidled up to it and sat, crossing his legs modestly. He noticed that the stack of books in front of him was shorter than the others, creating a frame in which the chest, shoulders and head of the lady was framed.

Though he was sure he had never seen her before, there was something itchily familiar about her face. A chickenpox scar at the corner of her nose made him think of Tanya, the particular pale grey shade of her eyes brought to mind a past lover, the curve of her lips was reminiscent of a valued school friend, now lost to the business of adulthood. He realised with a jolt that he was looking at a composite of all the people he had ever loved, an experience at once both wonderfully nostalgic and thoroughly unnerving. He stared at her in dumbfounded silence.

She gave a reassuring smile. “So what brings you here, Michael?”

In other circumstances the question would have moved him to anger, but there was something calm and assured in her voice which mollified him.

“I received a phone call. Was that you on the other end? Do you know where my cat is?”

He blinked, suddenly conscious of how ridiculous the situation was. The lady narrowed her eyes like an accusation, though her friendly tone remained unchanged.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to ask me, Michael?” She gestured at the random collection of ephemera filling the room. “Look around. Think.” 

Michael’s eyes followed her gesture. On his first quick scan of the room, the objects had seemed so numerous and disorganised that they merged into each other - all he saw was piles, stacks and overflowing shelves. Now he was able to survey the room at leisure, he started to pick out distinct items, as if they were rising from the depths of a dark pool and taking form before his eyes. A dusty ragdoll sat on top of a French dresser, its striped legs dangling carelessly over the edge, a signed baseball wedged between two folders on a shelf, a cheap aluminium egg cup holding an egg painted in all the colours of the rainbow. As he looked around he realised that he knew these things; not as a generality, but as specific objects that held meaning for him alone. He knew the doll’s name, knew whose signature was on the baseball, knew that if he were to lift up the gaudy egg he would find a collection of plectrums hidden beneath. Scanning the stacks on the table in front of him, he not only saw books he had read, but specific editions he had owned at one time or another, even some that were in boxes in the barn, waiting to be unpacked.

“What the…”

The lady cut him off. “Do you understand now, Michael? I am here to help you, to provide answers. Take your time. Think carefully. Then ask your question.”

* * *

Michael awoke in his bed in the farmhouse, surrounded by a deep and unshakable sense of calm. He lay for a long moment, mind and body basking in the warmth of it, afraid to open his eyes lest he break whatever pleasant spell he was under.

Something soft and furry collided with his forehead, breaking his reverie. He opened his eyes to find himself staring into Scout’s unfathomable yellow-green eyes. The cat, presumably hungry, gave him another playful swipe then jumped off the bed and walked toward the bedroom door, looking back to be sure that Michael had understood.

“Ok, Scout,” Michael said, “I get the message.” He sat up, smiling in spite of himself, and was startled to see someone lying in the bed beside him.

“Tanya?”

He blinked in disbelief. How long had he been asleep? What about all the work he was supposed to have done on the house? If she had arrived to find the work barely started, she would be beyond mad with him and their perfect first weeks as a family in their new home would be ruined.  She sat up slowly, blond hair mussed from the pillow, a look of alarm suddenly clouding her features.

“What is it? What’s happening? Is something wrong?”

“Um, I - I don’t know. I wasn’t expecting you...what day is it?”

She yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know I told you on the phone I would be here by dinnertime, but the traffic was awful and it took longer than expected. You were dead to the world, I didn't want to wake you.” 

“What? I didn’t ring you. I haven’t rung anyone.”

“Of course you did. Yesterday morning. Don’t you remember?” When he didn’t answer, Tanya said, “All the work you’ve put into the place must have taken its toll.”

He opened his mouth to ask the first of his many questions, but Tanya cut him off before he could speak.

“Before you say something modest, let me speak. I don’t know how to thank you, Michael. I can’t tell you what it means to me, I’m lost for words. It's just how I imagined it, but better. Everything’s perfect. And the shoji wall...how did you know? I didn’t think I could love you more, but this...it’s like a dream come true.”

She moved into his arms, her kiss deep, unreserved. Michael once again felt that deep sense of calm he had when he woke.

Later that day, after they had all enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, he went out into the mystical summer sunlight and leaned on the paddock fence, trying to make sense of what had happened.

The well was exactly where it had been the day before but the broken down pile of rubble was now an immaculate stone structure 3 feet high, with an ornate wooden above which housed a windlass and bucket. Michael didn’t need to drop a stone down it to know there was water at the bottom.

Scout, who had been winding his way through Michael’s legs, jumped up onto the parapet and he scratched idly behind the cat’s ears, entirely lost in thought. After a moment, a smile spread slowly across Michael’s face and the pair of them went back inside the farmhouse to resume their not-so-normal lives.