No one can hear me coming, it thinks, the shadowy form, purring across the unfinished porch. It cannot remember where it was before. There was dust, a man's hand, the smell of tuna--then it was here, with that ITCH. It had to have it. And now it was here--and hungry.
White socked feet padding softly--sawtooth tongue tired of the corners of dusk, ready to move on the couple. It had been watching them for weeks. It knew their motions, their schedule, what they ate--how they smelled. A flash. Something from its past. A bear? A flood of red? A sparrow in repose. Out-World. What did that mean?
It could smell its own breath, acrid and old.
The man looked into its face. The ghostly image of a digital camera floated across his eyes. What was that? he thought. It is looking at me, suddenly sure that they needed to get out of there. He should have known better than to move into an apartment called Ancient Indian Burial Grounds That Were Desecrated Suites. Those jowels. His father!
The woman went to him at the window. He'd been standing there still for so long. She put her arm on his shoulder. He turned. She began to scream.
Why are you screaming? he asked, startled.
Oh, sorry, I stepped on a tack. This apartment is so shitty.
The bowl of milk appeared.