A cat named Hellspawn

That door had not been there yesterday.  

Well, she was fairly certain it hadn’t been there yesterday. She’d only moved to the apartment three days ago, and between the move and long hours at work she was sleep-deprived and had barely spent any time at home, but still- she was sure she would have noticed such an oddly placed door in the kitchen. Crammed into a corner next to the refrigerator, it was a reasonable place to put a pantry, except that it was on a wall shared with the adjoining apartment; there wouldn’t be enough room for even the smallest of closets inside. 

She opened the door and peered in. A small pantry, bare shelves covered with dead flies and dust, sat in front of her. A naked bulb with a tattered pull chain hung from the ceiling. On the opposite wall, threadbare grey curtains covered a small window, and sunlight cast a slanting pattern on the faded floor boards. The curtains shifted in a gentle wind, and she smelled apple blossoms and, distantly, heard the sound of clinking cow bells. 

As she stared in disbelief at the impossible room, a white cat jumped through the small opening between the window sill and the sash. It paused on the sill, staring at her intently, then jumped to the floor and began winding through her legs, mewing pitifully.  

“Poor thing.” She reached down and picked the cat up, absently scratching its head as she looked around the room. What was this place? How could it exist?  

The cat was purring loudly. She put it down on the shelf just under the window and stepped back to get a better look at it. She’d felt a collar around its neck earlier, and now she saw that there was a a little round tag hanging from it. “Hellspawn, Lord of the Fires, Bringer of Doom,” was etched in neat letters across the front. 

Weird name for a cat.  

Still absently petting the cat, she pulled back the curtain and looked through the window. An apple tree, branches heavy with flowers and fruit, stood just outside. Below, perfectly green grass covered the ground, and across the field she saw the dim outline of a forest. To the right, a small group of cows stool lazily chewing their cud. To the left, a perfectly smooth lake, dotted with lily pads, stretched into the distance.

The sounds of the cat gagging brought her back to the room. As she turned, the cat successfully regurgitated a hairball, then belched out a jet of flame that scorched the opposite wall and started a small fire on the shelf beside her. She snatched her hand back from the animal as it stood, shook itself, then jumped to the floor and ran through the door and into her apartment.

What the what?! 

She whipped off her bathrobe and used it to frantically smother out the fire. What was happening? This had to be a dream! Or a hallucination? But it if it was real, that thing was loose in her apartment! Should she call the police? The fire department? They would think she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy!

Something crashed in the kitchen and she smelled burning plastic. Cautiously, she peeked around the refrigerator. The cat had knocked over the garbage can and melted a large hole in the bag. It was pawing through the trash, creating a widening circle of coffee grounds, empty packaging and decaying food. As she watched, it pushed aside a banana peel and began nosing at the fish skin from last night’s dinner.    

Maybe she could use food to lure it back into the mysterious pantry? She had a can of sardines somewhere. But which box was it in? She’d barely opened any boxes since moving, and hadn’t bothered to label any while packing. There were several in the kitchen, and many more in every other room of the apartment. The sardines could be anywhere.  

Curse long hours at work, and procrastination, and landlords who unexpectedly raised rent leading to hastily coordinated moves into weird apartments with magical doors and fire breathing cats, she thought.

Quietly, hugging the kitchen walls, she inched to the counter where she’d set the kitchen shears earlier that morning, then she retreated to the pile of boxes in the corner farthest from the cat to begin hastily opening them, one eye on the cat at all times. Summer clothes, books, pots and pans, more clothes. She moved to the set of boxes slightly closer to the cat. Books, more books, plates, finally a box with foodstuffs! But no luck- it contained flour, sugar, a selection of dried beans, and some unopened jams.  

The cat had lost interest in the fish skin and was now stalking toward the living room, leaving a trail of coffee grounds and crumbs in its wake. It jumped on the coffee table and stretched, drawing its claws along the top and leaving deep gouges.

Her grandmother’s coffee table! Forgetting the sardines, she grabbed a bag of dried kidney beans from her armory of open boxes.

“Bad cat! Shoo,” she shouted, and threw the bag of beans at it.  

The cat jumped out of the path of the kidney beans and onto the couch, hissing. Tiny embers flew from its mouth, leaving little scorch marks on the upholstery. It stared malevolently at her and sent a larger tongue of fire out, leaving the back of her couch singed and smoking. Then it bolted into her bedroom and hid under the bed.  

Now was her chance! Quietly, she eased the bedroom door shut, then went to town on the boxes in the living room. Cutlery, shoes, a box filled entirely with reusable water bottles and travel mugs, desk supplies, more pots and pans, so many books, but no sardines. They must be in a box in the bedroom. 

She stared unhappily at the bedroom door. The cat was moving around inside the room, and something that sounded like a large plant fell to the floor. That would be the ficus. Ex-ficus now.  

There was no way around it; she would have to go into the room. Her eye fell on the open box of kitchenware at her feet. Perhaps she could devise some protection at least. Ten minutes later she was ready. Three water bottles, filled to the brim, tops turned to open, were belted to her waist. One hand wore an oven mitt and carried the largest pot lid she could find. Each pocket was stuffed with a bag of split peas. She was armed and ready.

The cat was standing by the overturned ficus and chewing on one of the leaves. The plant, not robust in the best of times, had taken on a brownish color, and its leaves now had the consistency of wilted lettuce. The charred remains of a box of books smoked in the far corner. The cat’s claws had reduced one of the legs of her bed frame to splinters, and the mattress sagged close to the floor. 

Crouching behind her makeshift shield, she opened the nearest box. Nestled between some tahini and a jar of artichoke hearts was the can of sardines! 

At the sound of the tin lid peeling back, the cat looked up. She gently lay a little fish carcass on the floor and backed away, watching the cat. It stalked toward the sardine, smoke rising from its nostrils, the tip of its tail dancing with interest. Tentatively, it sniffed the fish, then it devoured it in one gulp.  

Backing out of the bedroom, she lay a trail of sardines leading to the kitchen. The cat followed slowly behind her, eating as it went. Five feet from the pantry door, she ran out of fish. Dismayed, she watched as the cat pawed at the last sardine. There was no plan B. If she was going to act, she had to do it now. 

She scooped up the cat just as it gulped down the last fish, running the last 5 feet to the pantry door. She threw the cat inside and slammed the door shut. Hissing and frantic scratching ensued, and little flames peeked out from under the doorframe. Undeterred, she ran to the other side of the refrigerator and pushed with all her strength. The fridge moved one inch, three inches, eight inches, finally a foot and more! Struggling, sweating, almost crying with fear and exhaustion, she managed to push it all the way across the mysterious door.  Then she stood, gulping deep breaths of air, her heart hammering in the sudden silence, waiting for an explosion of flames or sound of splintering wood that never came.  

***

The next morning she awoke and lay staring at her ceiling. What happened yesterday?  Had she been hallucinating? Had she had a psychotic break?

Slowly she sat up and looked around the room. The pieces of her ruined bed frame were stacked in the corner, next to the brown and withered ficus. Scorch marks criss-crossed the floor, and half-burned books peeked out from the mushy remains of a cardboard box in the corner.  

She tip-toed into the kitchen, but it was devoid of life. The refrigerator hummed quietly in its new space in the corner. She let out the breath she’d been holding.  

She getting water to fill the coffee maker when she saw it. There, above the kitchen sink, on a wall that was shared with her bathroom, was a window.   

That window had not been there yesterday.