The Evening Hunt

There was blood everywhere but it wasn’t hers.

In the middle of the street was a black cat. I knew the saying; everyone did. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who still thought superstitions as cautionary warnings. Now they’re cute little jokes that you’d riff off when the inexplicable happened, maybe half-believing, maybe not.

That night, I believed it. It was midnight when I walked home from work. Everything was bathed in the harsh glow of incandescent lamplight. She, as I later found out that it was in fact a she, bolted out of an alleyway, stopping on the sidewalk to lick her fur.

She must’ve been fighting. Besides the blood, the street was a mess. Trash cans were upturned, and garbage was strewn across the road. Thousands of tiny fur fluffs floated in the air, tumbling down the street whenever a breeze passed by.

I had to pass too, but the superstition remained in the back of my mind. I wanted to turn back, but it was a shortcut. Maybe I could risk it. Maybe I was being stupid.

When my shoes scraped against the asphalt, her head snapped towards me. If there really were black cats that could give you bad luck, she was definitely one of them. Her eyes were like moonlight, and her fur stuck out in all directions in street cat fashion. She looked wild, in every sense of the word. It almost seemed like she didn’t belong, her rightful place in a jungle somewhere. And yet, she was here, in the concrete jungle of a city instead.

I put some distance between us, keeping her in my peripheral vision. Prolonged eye contact would probably be a death sentence. Luckily, she just watched, both caution and curiosity in her eyes. As I left unharmed, I muttered a silent thank you under my breath. It was the least I could do.

Yet even as I went, I felt eyes at the back of my head.

That night, I dreamed. There was a dizzying heat and the sultry air was suffocating. I was alone, and everywhere I went, swathes of plant life obscured my vision. Even the sky was covered with a thick canopy of leaves, refusing to let even a single ray of light through. Though even in the darkness, the place was alive. Distant bird calls echoed in some private conversation. Insects sounded off an orchestra of chirps and whistles. And yet, I felt hopelessly alone.

Or so I thought. Something was following me. It stalked through the trees with silence, but I knew. Some primal instinct locked away was resurfacing. I tumbled through the wet thicket, feeling its hot breath on my neck. I didn’t turn back; I couldn’t. I wasn’t just a meal to be had. I was being hunted.

I stopped to catch my breath. A sound like laughter echoed in the night, and I turned, frantically looking for a way out. When I moved to run again, I heard a soft thump, a sudden flash of pain in my chest. My lungs forgot how to breathe, and looking down, an arrowhead jutted out from between my ribs. I fell to the ground gurgling, blood filling my throat.

That laugh again…

I woke up, sweat clinging to my shirt. My hands flew to my chest, to cover the hole, but there was none. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a dream. I knew that. But it was so real, so visceral, that the pain in my chest never really went away.

I went the same route from work. The cat was gone, but the street was the same. I almost thought that it was all just a fever dream, but the blood stains on the road said otherwise.

I walked back home. The streets were quieter than usual. Car horns blared in the faint distance. The sound of a stereo blasting EDM was muffled by brick walls. Not a soul was in sight. I was alone.

Hopelessly alone.

Then there was that feeling again. I was being followed.

Knowing I wasn't dreaming this time, I ran hard. The night sky was there, as well as buildings that I recognized. Eventually, I reached my apartment, my heart hammering away between my ears.

I laughed. Paranoia had gotten the best of me, and I almost pissed myself for it. But I was home now, safe and sound.

The silence was unnerving. I needed to relax, so I put on some music and sipped a cup of tea.

I shuffled to the balcony, the faint skyline rising before me. Soaking in the night breeze, I stared at the moon which stared back. A vacation would be good. I needed time off away from the city, maybe a day or two. When I closed my eyes, images of sprawling beaches faded into view.

Loaded with those happy thoughts, I went to bed. Sleep took me, and I was on an island. White-sand shores fell on either side of me and a beautiful ocean touched the horizon. I curled my feet, sand squishing between my toes, all the while feeling the sun on my face.

Something didn’t feel right. I looked around and saw umbrellas stabbed into the sand, but with no one underneath. Picnic blankets flew in the wind. I was alone again, until a woman's voice echoed in my skull. It was low and fierce, and she snarled every word. It was in a language I never heard before, but understood all the same.

You are most welcome.

A gunshot shook me awake. I blinked in the darkness of my own bedroom and tore the covers away. I stood up, my ears straining. Another sound, a crash. It came from outside the room, from where the door opened slightly. Someone was in my house.

Another crash, louder than the last, and a loud groan followed. Someone was there, but he sounded hurt. Steeling myself for what could come next, I swung open the door.

It was a man, bleeding on my kitchen floor and a pistol on his side. My apartment was trashed, everything just everywhere. I stared at the man who had broken into my apartment, a black puddle seeping out from his neck.

And the black cat was staring too.

It was the same cat, the same eyes, the same nonchalance as she relished in another successful hunt. She sat on my countertop, licking at her wounds, a sense of satisfaction about her. When she noticed me, there was nothing but ambivalence in her eyes, and before she left through an open window, she glanced back and meowed.

The man died from his wounds before sunrise. Apparently, he’d been at it for some time now. Cops asked so many questions that my head spun. When I told them that it was a cat that did it, I didn't blame them for thinking I was crazy.

I thought I was crazy.

I never saw her again. I'd love to think that maybe she was a guardian angel, but angels didn't stalk through the city looking for prey. They didn't enjoy hunting the wicked. Maybe there was truth to the superstition after all.