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Lisa tugged the blinds. The yellowed slats rattled up with a screech. “Could be hunting mice under the porch. It's been two minutes. How far could she go?”
“Depends on who she’s stalking.” I pulled on a sweatshirt and headed outside. Igor trusted me, but when she didn’t want to be picked up, she morphed into a tiny tigress. “Check the front. I'll take the birdfeeder.”
“A dark cat hunting in the night,” Lisa said, stepping off the porch. “Fucking fantastic.”
The night was alive with the thrum of insects, nightbirds, and frogs.
About a quarter-mile into the woods, thousands of spring peepers crowded the narrow stretch of swampland farmers ten decades ago had used for drainage and slaughter. Even from my backyard the mating calls rose thunderous between budding trees. As I made for the distant, weedy border separating my yard from the woods, I could hardly hear myself think, let alone listen for the rare misstep of a predatory feline.
A litany of “Igor!”, tongue-clicks and clapped hands failed to summon the slinky Maine Coon. Changing tactics, I forced myself to stand still and quiet. The peepers were loud, but unable to mask the scrabble of claws on bark somewhere close.
My heart skipped.
The forest had reached a fine middle age; elms and oaks had reclaimed the farmland and grown to heights worth wandering beneath- as many did on the winding trails behind our house. Since early April, a gray fox family had begun hunting the area. Whenever someone stumbled too close to her uncoordinated cubs, the vixen was prone to banshee screams and a mad rush.
Hand braced on the smooth cold pole of the birdfeeder, I peered uncertainly into the dark.
“Igor?”
A sober Marcy would’ve grabbed a flashlight or my phone prior to dashing out of the house. Now faced with the dark or running back to find either, I was torn. If she was right in front of me and I lost her . . . I opened my mouth to yell for Lisa.
There came a voice through the darkness, words sighed in warm invite as if against a lover’s ear. All at once I became cognizant of the fact that the spring chorus had swallowed their tongues. All at once the sheriff’s warning crept forward in my mind. All at once beneath the dangling sliver of a hangnail moon, I was certain I’d heard my name.
A light flipped on behind me, casting my shadow thin and gaunt across tree trunks. Shielding my eyes, I turned into the glow of Lisa's flashlight. She was calling me, loud and exasperated.
Stupid imagination.
“There!" Lisa’s light zeroed in on movement through the shadows. Feline eyes reflected back at us four feet up a sapling.
“Got her!" I called, inching through tangled roots and wild blueberry bushes.
Igor flicked one ear toward the woods, then leaped onto my sweatshirt, hooking her claws in the gray fabric.
Lisa's cell rang. Her flashlight swung back at the house. “Wyatt’s calling. You need help?"
“Nah!" I winced at the prick of claws on my collarbone. “We’re good.”
Nodding, Lisa jogged to the front.
Supporting Igor in one hand and massaging her cheek with the other, I let my eyes readjust to the dim night. “How many ticks did you manage to collect?" I muttered. God, I hated ticks; the mere thought made my legs itch. On impulse I scratched my ankle.
Igor’s spine arched against my chest. She let out a low, raspy hiss of hellish depth and hatred.
I straightened, caught movement out of the corner of my eye and froze.
Stars twinkled over the broken timber of the swamp; the tops of drowned trees wept moonlit and everything lower was bathed in the pitch of night, but there was something moving, no, running, along the forest floor. A shape: quadrupedal, pale, wrong. My brain could not make it right because it was human but running on all fours with long, mud-spattered limbs and a smile that was splitting down the middle into something with more teeth.
Between me and this creature stood countless forest obstacles, but with a lowered head it plowed on in a violent rush of snapping branches.
Mesmerized, I followed its charge until Igor bit my thumb. Panic flooded my body. I ran a few feet and tripped, fell on my ass in a spray of sunflower seeds beside the birdfeeder.
Igor kicked my stomach, but I held her firm and kept quiet.
The swamp wind seeped around us, damp with the odors of stagnant water, mold and the corpses of all things winter had slain.
For several seconds my thudding heart seemed to roar over Igor’s frustrated grunts as she struggled. Then I heard the breathing, a wild, wretched, hoarseness. Distance at night was often deceptive, but this sounded mere yards away.
I didn't want to move, didn't dare move, but still raised my gaze.
