Isaac continued to walk through the overgrown path.
The bugs and the animals under the control of the bad radio did not try to harm him.
But the other signal, the one that sounded more and more like a voice, told him to go on.
To continue.
To come.
He heard screams from somewhere nearby and stopped in the center of the path. Looking through the trees, he could see a house, its backyard filled with old automobiles, and he was reminded of his own home and how his mother used to like to collect things.
Isaac smiled at the memory of his mother and her odd ways.
Collect things . . . His sister had said it was a disease. What had she called it? Hoarding. Yes, yes, the word was “hoarding.”
The screams intensified, and then Isaac gasped as the glass doors leading to the deck of the house shattered. A man tumbled out and over the deck rail, landing in a heap on the ground. Isaac squinted for a better look as the man rolled and flailed on the grass, flinging furry little animals away.
Cats. Kittens really.
Isaac felt a combination of sadness and fear, remembering his own feline companions, but also remembering what they had done to his mother when the bad radio had gotten into their heads.
A woman stumbled through the broken doorway holding a tiny bundle in her arms. A baby. She was screaming, and as she ran from the deck, Isaac could see that her back was covered with small cats that ripped and dug and scratched.
He had to help them.
But as he stepped off the path toward the house through the trees, the voice echoing inside his head told him no.
Isaac tried to fight it, to push it down, but it grew so loud, and it made his head hurt so bad that he thought he would be sick.
He stumbled back onto the path, and the pain went away as the voice urged him on.
Come, it said to him.
Isaac looked back to the house, silent now.
Come, said the voice, louder and more firm.
He turned, his gaze on the path before him.
Come.