I’m writing this account on the decrepit wooden desk that sits facing the window in my room. It’s currently half past eleven at night, and the northern woods outside are glowing with the milky, sibylline light of the moon. Through the aid of my nephew, who was the sole person to not completely revoke any relations with me, I have procured a telephone. The sole purpose of this telephone is to expose to the world the monster that has cost me a tranquil life.
Most of the security officers have left the asylum, left to their families and their warm homes. However, as always, young Pete is on night duty, and he’s probably sitting at his little desk at the end of the corridor, reading some horror novel by Stephen King.
Although it’s unusually quiet tonight- there’s no loud screeching nor banging coming from any of the cells- I’m still unable to enter the dream world; the physical reality has its shackles deep inside of me tonight. So, I thought I would write an account on how I was wrongfully deemed mad and imprisoned in this god-awful mental asylum.
I was put in here on the night of October 21st
It was nearing the end of August, and the beginning of spring, when I moved into my new house on the outskirts of Portland; the neighbourhood was quaint, and consisted primarily of older couples and a few newlyweds. I was immediately the odd one out- a thirty year old white man who bought a three bedroom house all for himself. My neighbours were an old couple living out their peaceful retirement years and a man in his late sixties by the name of Roger Pillsmith.
To get settled into the community, I made acquaintance with my new neighbours, endeavoured in small talk and began unpacking.
The old couple were nice enough, but there was something not quite right about Roger, something in the way he talked and smiled and laughed. When I would look into his eyes I felt as though I were looking into a tenebrous abyss. And when he smiled I would feel a cold blade running across my spine, threatening to at any moment pierce my skin and draw blood. I blamed this unprecedented fear on my fatigue.
Thus, as the days got shorter and the nights grew longer, I settled into my new life. I had also gotten a job at the local grocery store, but I won’t expand on that now, as it is of no immediate significance.
It was probably the middle of September when I saw the body of the lifeless cat in my backyard.
It was night, and the air outside had a nasty bite in it; a piercing cold that penetrated to the bones. I was standing outside, finishing up my cigarette when I glimpsed something reflecting the moonlight in the grass. Having absolutely no desire to examine it, I still somehow left the back porch and went to check out what it was; it was as if some intangible force pushed me to see what it was.
The blood smears extended to around 6 feet from the body. At the sight of the crimson blood, the hairs at the nape of my neck became erect, and my entire body became enclosed in a casket of fear, deep, mortal fear.
Despite the cold, beads of sweat stood out on my forehead, and the light breeze blew them into my eyes. The stinging elicited by the sweat in my eyes shook me out of the paralysis. I inched forward.
Each step forward felt increasingly excruciating. Subconsciously, I understood that this was the first component of my demise, but my consciousness fervently fought back against that notion.
The cat lay there, in a crimson puddle of its own blood, its soulless eyes gazing into the star studded night sky. It’s hitherto white fur was now ruined with an ugly red; wet dirt and dry sticks seemed to be stuffed in it’s ears. It was then that I puked. And on its neck, peering at me from the surgical cut, was the miraculously untainted silver collar that read: Collie, the next door old couple’s cat. To my right, I saw that the lights were on in Roger’s bedroom and a ruffle of the curtains. But before the curtains shut completely, in the crack, I saw that rotten smile reflecting the fluorescents lights. That rotten smile still haunts me when I shut my eyes; the grin of pure evil.
I wish I had moved out then.
After a night plagued with sleeplessness, I wrapped the dead body of the cat in a white blanket, and went over to Sam and Elsie’s place, the old couple next door. I stood at their front door for what seemed like an hour, gathering the courage to break the horrid news and hand them the body of their beloved pet.
My greasy hands shakily knocked at the pristine white door, and I awaited. But what greeted me at the door made all the strength leave my body and I dropped the body of the lifeless cat at the feet of its owners. Roger was there, smiling. The three of them gazed at me, Sam and Elsie’s expressions full of baleful reproach; kindness and happiness seemed to be completely foreign emotions to them. What made me gain back all my cognizance, was when Sam hit me across my jaw. Stumbling backwards, I collapsed down the front porch steps.
“You fucking bastard!” Sam yelled at me as he descended the steps, his face red and his spit frothing at the side of his lips. But his face wasn’t the one all my focus went to, it was Roger’s. Roger with his beastly grin. Roger with those rotten teeth. Roger with his inhumane, vulpine eyes.
“You killed him, you fucking cunt!” Sam screamed.
The second punch, however, flew past my head, missing it by an inch.
“What the fuck are you doing, Sam?” I screamed at him, the pain from the punch, as well as the confusion fueling my anger.
“You goddamn cat-killer!”
Before I could hurl a reply, the neighbours from across the street stopped the fight from escalating and took me away to my house.
Why would he accuse me of the murder of his cat? But then I remembered the ruffle of the curtains, the rotten smile and the light slipping from Roger’s bedroom. I was still not sure, but I had a strong notion that Roger murdered the cat and blamed it on me.
But for what reason?