The Catch Cat

(Warning: The following story contains subject matter that involves Mental Health, Light Alcoholism, non-graphic but slightly physical violence/unintentional self-harm. DO NOT FRET This is NOT a gore piece, or violent for violence's sake.)

The Catch Cat

By Maxwell K. French

“So, what’s the catch?” Rocky questioned the strange gentlemen standing in front of him.

Just days after being relieved of his position at the Sactown Height’s Gallery for Fine Art, Rocky bumped into two mysterious figures. He was walking home from the liquor store late at night, and they approached him in a dingy back alley–both wearing stovepipe hats and smoking cigarettes. One of the men tossed a handsome stack of cash at Rocky’s feet, offering a simple task.

He was a stubby, plump fellow and called himself Mr. Bulldog. “All we require of you is the location, good sir!”

“Ten grand in cash to write down my old boss's home address?” Rocky thought this sounded far too good to be true. “You’re screwing with me.”

The second man—a much taller, lanky lad named Mr. Crane spoke up. “Your previous employer is a very reclusive individual. Our client has been unable to contact him, and you are one of the few who can provide his whereabouts.” His voice held a deathly tone. “Every dollar of that money is yours, provided you stay silent and speak of this to no one. I understand you’ve been in an unstable financial situation; the payment should be quite satisfactory.”

Although suspicious, Rocky decided to humor them. “Let’s say I did tell you where to find Alistar. What happens then?” 

The gentleman exchanged a glance, caught off guard by the interrogation. 

“The head of our organization would chat with him briefly, and our business will conclude.” Mr. Bulldog answered with indifference.

“Well, I hate to break it to you–I have no address to write down. Seriously. I’ve been there once for a private event where I had too much to drink. Now my life is ruined.

You’ve got the wrong guy.” Rocky replied with finality. 

He began to turn to walk away, but Mr. Crane placed a hand on Rocky’s shoulder.

“Would you remember how you got there? My associate and I will happily increase your reward if you are so kind as to show us.” 

The towering man tightened his grip, pressuring for a response, and Rocky felt a panic swell in his gut. He managed to give a quiet nod. 

Mr. Crane leaned in close, and an icy chill laced his words. “You certainly are the right guy. Let’s take a drive.”

###

It took forty-five minutes for Rocky to direct the Misters to the outskirts of a rural city in Sactown County– the Deer Orchard. The three of them winded down the dark, narrow road in a black Cadillac. Eerie shadows cast across the trees and bushes lining the side of the road. The only visible light came from the headlights, illuminating the area immediately before them.

The three sat in tense silence while Mr. Bulldog drove, strangling the steering wheel as they went. In the passenger seat, Mr. Crane’s eyes darted about, scouring the surroundings. Rocky sat in the back, only speaking to give directions. His words were clipped and precise, but his calmness was only a mask.

Just as they passed through a particularly dense thicket of trees, Rocky announced their arrival. “This is it.” 

Then suddenly, the headlights caught a glimpse of movement. Mr. Bulldog slammed on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt. Rocky jumped in his seat, and Mr. Crane glared, warning him to stay still.

For a moment, the Cadillac stood frozen in time. The only sounds were the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of the cold night’s breeze. Mr. Bulldog hovered his chubby fingers over the gearshift, ready to accelerate on a dime.

Without warning, a pair of glowing, sharp eyes appeared in the darkness. They stared directly at the car, unblinking. Rocky let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, that’s just Midnight. It’s Alistar’s Bombay; he loves that cat more than anything.”

Mr. Bulldog replied, unamused. “How titillating.”

“Stay here while we take a look around.” Mr. Crane chimed in.

Rocky felt a fist of unease sock him in the stomach. “What do you mean? You can’t knock on his door at this hour. It’s the dead of night, and Alistar is asleep–I guarantee!”

Mr. Bulldog turned back to him with a wide grin. “Oh, we’re counting on that.”

The two men now held a sinister energy about them and quickly exited the car. On his right, Rocky could see Mr. Crane’s slender shape approach the back of the Cadillac and heard the click from the trunk opening. Rocky pulled on the door handle, hoping to talk sense into them, but it wouldn’t budge.

He cried through the window and slapped its glass. "What are you going to do?!”

Neither of the men paid any mind to the poor beggar trapped in their car. They disappeared up the dusty driveway, and Rocky noticed Mr. Crane’s shoulder glistening in the moonlight—the head of an axe nestled up to his neck, polished and sleek. 

Not more than fifteen minutes passed, and the Misters returned. When they re-entered the Cadillac, a stench engulfed the interior. The horrid scent sprouted from the bony man who was taking deep, measured breaths in the passenger seat. It crept up Rocky’s nose, leaving his nostril hair singed and wilting.

“You are ten-thousand dollars richer. Well done, my boy, but it should go without saying– I still expect your discretion regarding this evening’s activities.”

Rocky stuttered, terrified. “O-Of Course! Absolutely!”

“I recommend taking a trip and getting out of the city. You can think of tonight as a chance to start anew.” Mr. Bulldog suggested as he started the engine.

Lurching forward with a jolt, the Cadillac bounced once in the front, then back. 

The stumpy driver paused a moment. “What in God’s name was that?”

“I think that was Midnight,” Rocky whispered back, disheartened. 

###

The Misters returned Rocky to his decrepit apartment downtown. The flat was worn-out and dismal, with paint peeling off the walls and wooden floors doing the splits. Its ceiling exhibited various cracks and stains, with flickering fluorescent lights hardly brightening the cramped space.

The dejected shell of a man tossed his small fortune onto the kitchenette counter, unable to even look at the massive organization of bills. It only tortured him and felt too hot to touch, as if the money would burn through his skin one layer at a time.

“I should have stayed home.” He whimpered.   

Rocky attempted to make dinner and distract himself, rummaging through his rusty mini-fridge. Appetite escaped him, so he settled on the toilet in his claustrophobic bathroom, promptly passing out when he found the bottom of his bottle.

In his drunken stupor, Rocky became targeted by an unrelenting nightmare. He was locked in place, unable to run or look away from the haunting eyes of Midnight–Alistar’s beloved feline. 

The eyes stared out from the darkness, a fiery amber that seemed to glow with spectral light. Midnight’s pupils were narrow slits, jagged dagger-like voids. They were keen, unblinking, and filled with intense hate that sent shivers down Rocky’s spine.

He begged for mercy. “Please! You have to believe me! I had no idea what would happen!”

As the terrified man stared into the demonic eyes, he felt boulders of guilt and betrayal roll over him. The evil eyes were inescapable, rooting into his retinas, no matter how often he attempted to avert his gaze. The longer poor Rocky stared, the more pronounced the seething anger emanating from Midnight became. It did not feel like a dream to Rocky– to him, it felt like confronting the Devil.

Finally, the demonic orbs released their grip, and he stumbled backward, gasping for air into a bottomless pit. Rocky picked up speed and fell through the pitch-black abyss of his imagination’s design until nausea seeped out of his every pore. Just as the guilty man could no longer suppress his vomit– he awoke with a start and spewed corner-store rum all over the restroom floor.

###

Two weeks passed, and the apparition of Midnight disturbed Rocky to such an extent that he remained awake for the last seventy-two hours. Although he no longer worried about being evicted and had more rum than he could drink, nothing could replace all the psyche devoured by Rocky’s guilt. With nowhere to turn, he decided to call his mother. The desperate boy hadn’t spoken with her in years, yet he still confided in her about the nightmares. 

Rocky did not mention that night and only described the infernal gaze at the center of his terrible dreams. His mother recommended therapy, scheduling an emergency session, and he rode his new mountain bike three miles to the office that day.

The psychologist’s room was the size of a large broom closet. Rocky sat on a couch that barely squeezed inside. On his right-hand side sat a nightstand with a box of tissues, and across from him, Dr. Samantha Greene rested cross-legged in a fuzzy purple armchair. Rocky judged the woman to be in her mid-thirties and noted her boxy glasses and sandy hair.

The doctor broke the ice first with a gentle, sweet voice. “So, Rockford, your mother told me you’re experiencing some pretty intense insomnia. What can you tell me about that?”

The man chose his words carefully, refusing eye contact. “Well. It’s not so simple. You see– there’s this cat. It’s haunting me.”

His response caught Dr. Greene by surprise, but she remained calm. “A cat? Why do you think that is? Perhaps an old pet?”

“I guess so—something like that.” Rocky closed his eyes tight, and a flash of Midnight stared back at him.

The doctor pressed softly. “What do you see exactly? Could you describe the cat?”

“I see their eyes and nothing else,” Rocky replied, but still, he could not look at the doctor.

Samantha jotted down a few notes in her journal and continued. “How do you feel when you’re in these nightmares?”

Now Rocky met the Doctor’s gaze, and his hair stood on end. Her eyes were not human–they were Midnight’s amber daggers.

The man went berserk and screamed at Dr. Greene. “You are not real! None of this is real!”

The familiar urge to fight or fly arose like in his dreams. Rocky jumped out of his seat and stumbled over the nightstand– sending him crashing through the nearby window. He went unconscious from the collision with the pavement outside, and Dr. Greene phoned nine-one-one frantically sobbing.

###

When Rocky finally came back around, he was suffocated by a small, enclosed space. The walls wore thick, white padding that had yellowed over many years. He tapped his naked feet on the bare and frigid floor. No natural light reached the interior–instead, a dim light bulb dangled from a thin wire in the ceiling. 

The stench of disinfectant clung to the air, and an air conditioning unit raged noisily through the vents. The room swallowed all other sounds, creating an eerie silence broken only by the occasional footsteps echoing from the hallway.

A tiny plastic window embedded itself in the wall directly before pitiful Rocky–now wrapped snugly in a straitjacket. The smiling face of Dr. Greene appeared, still wearing her boxy glasses. 

“Look who’s awake! I know this is a bit of an adjustment.” She tried to sound reassuring.

Rocky struggled against the restraints but could only manage to voice his frustration.

“I don’t belong here–This is a mistake! I’m not crazy!”

“Rockford, you’re not crazy. It’s just a temporary situation until we can better handle those hallucinations.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll be back to check on you soon. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

The man begged and pleaded until he felt like he dragged his throat through shards of glass. Eventually, his body gave out, and he accepted the reality around him. Rocky decided to focus on the little square of hope in the wall. He stared at his only glimpse of returning to his everyday life. The lights flickered momentarily, and Midnight revealed those evil eyes staring back through the glass.