The Black Cat

#2 in the Dream series. (Or possibly Nightmares.) #1 is the Factory.

Under the dim moonlight, the manor looks haunted. The windows are shuttered, and the once neatly trimmed lawn grows wild and ragged. The paint is weathered and peeling. It looks like no living being has set foot here since the previous owner left.

This is almost true. One person has.

An ancient man hobbles along the edge of the house, peering at the ground and occasionally stooping to pick something up. His bony face and ragged clothing give the impression that he has nothing in the world beyond the clothes on his back, and a small, worn velvet bag he carries. This is perfectly true.

The old one stoops again, to pick up something he has spotted by the wan light of the moon. He lifts it to his eye to examine it: a pinkish crystal, like rock candy. Satisfied, he drops it into his pouch, which is already half-full of similar crystals.

As he continues his search for the crystals, his mind drifts back over the years, to the mansion's previous owner. A good old boy, the man thought. Until he'd been killed.

The hobo's mind flinches from the memory. Even so, he isn't quick enough to escape the images flashing before his mind's eye: The argument, just the two of them. Heated words, angry gestures. A sudden, blinding flash of magic. The owner freezing into a pink statue. The blow that the hobo had been unable to recall in time landing on the motionless body, shattering it into countless crystal shards.

The old man glances down at the new crystal in his hand, a mute reproach for that long-ago flash of anger. He stifles a shudder and tucks it away.

More images. The first time he saw a curious pigeon fly down and peck a crystal. There was a sudden, soundless explosion, the crystal disappeared, and suddenly there was a new, pigeon-shaped statue on the ground.

The next bird wasn't so lucky. It left a red mist coating the ground for ten feet around.

He had decided that the effects of the magic were random, and confined to animals. Plants and insects were unaffected. Animals were usually transformed, one way or another, often to a lethal form. Though he'd seen one squirrel that seemed unaffected, until it started to write out quantum equations with an abandoned chalk stub. Pity it had chosen to write in the middle of the road. Two lines in, a truck had come along and ended its promising career.

That was when the man had begun his self-appointed quest: to collect all the remaining shards, before anyone else got hurt. He seems to be immune to their effects, probably due to his role in creating them.

He hasn't been finding nearly as many lately. He hopes he is coming to the end.

He glances up at the house, wondering idly when the house will be purchased and someone will move in. He hopes it will not be for a long time.

As it happens, a family has just moved in that very day.

He picks up another crystal and weighs it in his palm for a moment. He stands lost in thought for just a moment, but that is enough.

A young voice asks, "What have you got, mister?" He looks to see a five- or six-year-old boy, fair-haired and dressed in a set of pajamas with a colorful animal print, reaching for the shard.

Reflexively, the old man's hand starts to close over it. But it is too late.

The child touches the crystal. There is a sensation of motion, a sudden disorientation.

Frantically he pulls out another crystal and shoves it in the other's hand, but what has been done cannot be undone.

The hobo staggers back in horror, looking at the child, then at his own hands. He clasps his hands over his mouth, then stumbles blindly into the house, through the door the child left open. He turns at the top of the stairs leading to the basement, looking once again at the young boy standing in the moonlight. He flinches away again in horror, losing his balance.

For an instant, he balances precariously at the top of the stairs. Then he topples.

He falls down the stairs for endless moments, hitting the bottom with a sickening crunch. He does not move again.

The child seems equally frozen in horror. He stands rock-still for a time. Gradually, he comes back to himself. He examines himself as well as he can by touch, then bows his head. A tear falls, glimmering in the moonlight.

Then he picks up the velvet pouch from where it had fallen on the ground, and goes back to collecting crystals. He mourns for the child who used to wear this body, but the task must go on.

Twenty years later, a young man is celebrating with his friends. He is rich, carefree, and has just graduated with honors from an Ivy League university.

After his friends are gone, he stays up, absentmindedly petting his cat and thinking about the future. For the first time in years, his mind turns to a small, worn velvet bag, hidden in a drainpipe in the basement, long since filled and the quest completed.

The cat grows bored and trots off. The young man begins writing a cover letter for an application to a prestigious firm, but cannot concentrate. He gets up and leaves the room, leaning on the railing at the top of the stairs.

For a time, he stands there, watching his family below in the sitting room. He feels the brush of fur against his leg and absentmindedly reaches down, but his cat isn't there.

His skin starts to prickle. Suddenly he longs for the comfort of a human voice. He calls down to his family, eager to tell them the good news and hear their congratulations, but they do not respond.

They do not move at all. He sees his father frozen in mid-gesture, his sister's pen motionless above her notebook.

He feels eyes upon him. He turns to see an unfamiliar cat staring at him. The cat has pure black fur and glowing yellow eyes.

Irresistibly, his mind is drawn back to that fateful night two decades ago. He recalls a different set of eyes, an old man's misty ones, with a child's uncomprehending terror behind them.

And he knows what the cat is. Vengeance.

He backs away, almost stumbling over the first step. He moves slowly down the stairs, not daring to look away from the cat. The cat follows him unconcernedly, without haste. Each graceful, measured pace indicates wordlessly: You may run, but you will never escape. If you flee to the ends of the earth, you will find me there, waiting. I am your destiny.

The man reaches the bottom of the stairs. An unexpected flash of relief goes through him as his own cat stalks past him to stand in front of the black cat, fur bristled. He begins to move faster, towards the basement stairs. If he can reach the bag, he may be able to – do what? Stop the cat? Reverse the long-ago body transformation? Even he isn't sure.

As he moves, so does the black cat, striking at him in a blur of speed. With a furious yowl, his own cat springs to defend him.

His cat is a brave fighter. But the black cat is better.

At the sound of a feline cry of pain, he turns. He cannot leave his ally to die alone.

At the expense of some skin, he grabs the black cat. In a sudden fury, he kneels on the furry chest with all his weight.

It goes flat. Then suddenly, impossibly, it rises. The black cat inhales with unnatural strength, lifting a full-sized human off the ground.

In terror, the man rises and backs away, then turns and flees for the basement. Fear seems to have robbed him of his own breath. He sees the stairs approaching, behind a dark haze starting to cover his vision.

He is at the top of the stairs. The haze fills his vision.

There is darkness. Then nothing.