I jolt upright in the circle of light from my lamp. That sound: It was like someone—or something—is being tortured. And it came from the other side of the wall that separates our house from Mrs. Simpson’s. Panic floods through me. She must have come home from the hospital and hurt herself again. Maybe this time she won’t be able to get to the phone. Maybe this time she’ll die and it will be my fault. And the headline of OLD WOMAN LEFT TO DIE AS GIRL IGNORES CRY FOR HELP will be in all the newspapers, not just on Mom’s blog.
I swing out of bed and tiptoe into the hallway. My sister’s room is dark, and I can hear her breathing. There’s a crack of light below Mom’s door and the sound of typing. For a second I think of knocking. But she’ll just tell me it’s nothing and send me back to bed.
Sneaking downstairs to the kitchen, I grab a flashlight from the drawer by the sink. The door to the backyard squeaks when I open it and, holding my breath, step outside. The moon is a perfect crescent, and there are one or two stars twinkling among wispy clouds. I stand on a bucket and look over the fence. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The back of Mrs. Simpson’s house is dark.
I return to our house and tiptoe out the front door. Everything is silent in the street. A thin coat of dew has formed on the windshields of the cars, the tiny droplets glittering in the moonlight. I go around the hedge that separates our house from Mrs. Simpson’s. Her door is black and glossy with a brass mailbox and knocker. As I lift my hand to knock, I hear it again—the bone-chilling wail from inside.
I forget all about knocking and turn the door handle. But it’s locked. My heart thunders as I switch on the flashlight. There’s an old flowerpot next to the door, and I check underneath it. Nothing. I look under the recycling container and, finally, under the doormat. A gold key shines in the circle of light. I mean, who actually leaves their key under the mat? I fumble with the key in the lock and push open the door.
The house is pitch-black and silent and smells of dusty curtains and Ivory soap. I flick the flashlight around the room, scared I might see a body lying in a pool of blood. Instead, there’s some dark, clunky furniture, a sagging sofa and chairs, and lots of knickknacks. The room says old lady. I shine the flashlight toward the door at the back of the room that must lead to the kitchen, and then I’m the one who yelps.
Eyes. Yellow and unfriendly. I’m so jumpy it takes me a second to realize it’s not a monster or a ghost, but a cat—pure black with a white collar around its neck.
“Oh, you scared me!” I say. And a second later, I realize how stupid I’ve been. “It was you, wasn’t it, doing all that screeching?”
The cat swishes its long, fluffy tail, still looking as though some kind of demon in animal form. It takes a few steps toward me, holding its head proudly in the air. My skin tickles as it rubs against my bare legs and starts to purr.
“You’re lonely, is that it?” I reach down and pick up the cat. It nestles into my arms, staring at me with big eyes that now seem more sad than frightening. “And hungry, maybe?”
The cat rubs its cheek against mine.
I’ve never had a cat—or any kind of pet—but I instinctively snuggle it closer in my arms like some kind of lost, kindred spirit.
“Those paramedics must have locked you out of the kitchen. Let’s see if we can find you some food.”
The cat squirms in my arms, and I put it down. It hurries over to a door that in our house leads to the dining room, and starts to meow. I open the door and switch on the light.
What I see makes me gasp.