As I stand, staring, something touches my leg. The dainty cat walks a figure eight on the floor. Turning to make a second pass, she bumps my leg again as if claiming me for her own.
“Sorry, no more food tonight.”
She stops in her tracks as if she understood me.
But her tail lowers, her body tenses. She stands fixated, only the tip of her tail twitching as she stares at the doors.
I follow her line of sight, bumps prickling on my arms. “What do you hear, kitty?”
She ignores me, focused on the end of the hallway.
But as quickly as she clenched up, she relaxes again. Calm and unbothered, she lets out a femininemew.
Still, I hurry to the doors to test the handle. Locked tight. No one getting in through here.
The cat races ahead of me to the main hall and zooms around the corner. Maybe her sensitive ears picked up on the Marteaus moving around next door.
Or maybe she’s only chasing shadows.
Like me.
Either way, her presence makes me feel less lonely, and the giant stone mansion a little less daunting.
When we reach the stairs, she bounds up to the second floor, her black tail raised like a flag. Smiling, I follow.
Until I reach the portraits.
Pausing at the halfway point, I think of the strange sound. That barely audiblehush.
Probably nothing. Just an old house, full of settling beams and cool drafts.
But as I grip the railing and continue the climb, I send one last glance over my shoulder.
12
The next morning, the rain is gone, and sun greets me when I step out of the market. After a sleepless night reacting to every strange sound, I find myself craving a change of scenery, some fresh air, and the presence of people.
The spring air lightens my mood, and my fear from last night feels like a strange and distant dream. It’s easier to console myself in the light of day, easier to think clearly about Maison Marteau.
The murder happened a long time ago.
Children go missing in every city.
No one was in the apartment last night.
No one but a silly cat who ended up sleeping next to me, her steady purr a comfort throughout the night.
And the reason I stopped at the market, to load up on food, treats, and toys for my new little friend. The sweet girl cat I’ve named Clairee.
Being surrounded by French words and names led my mind down a linguistic path, one that ended atSteel Magnolias.The female-led dramawas my mother’s favorite movie, and a running soundtrack to most of my childhood.
I grew to love the movie too, but for different reasons. It was one of the few films we could simply watch—no running commentary, no teaching points. Just my mom and me on a lazy afternoon, laughing, crying, snacking.
And making memories.
There’s a sassiness in the cat that reminds me of my mother, a can’t-keep-me-down spirit of survival. And I think she’d approve of the name.
I believe she’d also approve of the horror script.
