The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

You glance up the alley but don’t see the feline kamikaze. The back lanes of this city are full of strays and it breaks your heart that they live outdoors in such frigid weather. It is the one thing about Quebec that you truly detest, how animals are treated. Back home, there are shelters that take in homeless animals for the cold months, neuter them so they won’t procreate and produce more starving strays. Then they try to find homes for the cats and dogs, or at least foster care. Here, there are few shelters and they are all at capacity all the time. This shocking disregard for abandoned pets leaves you horrified. You have always loved animals. You had intended to become a vet, but last year’s events resulted in a change of plan. You cannot bear to think of any creature suffering.

By the time you gingerly climb the iced-up metal staircase that leads to your third-floor apartment, you are relieved to be headed indoors. You have the key in the lock when a ferocious shriek fills the night and causes the hair at the back of your neck to stand on end. It sounds like a cat being murdered. Maybe it is the cat that just raced across your path.

You cannot stop yourself. You hurry down the slippery spiral steps and return to the laneway, picking your way along it, making kissy sounds, calling, “Here, kitty. It’s OK, I just want to help you,” trying to hunt down the poor creature, hoping it’s not injured. If you can catch him or her, you’ll take the cat in for the night, despite the landlord’s “no pets” rule. In the morning, you can get the animal to the vet clinic in the building next to your office for a proper exam and whatever else is needed, then try to find it a home.

But, after four or five passes up and back along the lane, you discover nothing. Maybe, you think, the cat’s in heat. But it is the wrong time of year for that. And that cry was not a cat fight either. The sound was bone-chilling, worse than anything you’ve heard, even from the terrified feral tom that scratched you last month when you tried to pet him. It sounded like a creature being tortured. The thought of it makes your heart beat wildly and your stomach lurch.

It is only later, when you are snuggled in bed, the book you have been attempting to read in your drunken state lying cover-up on the quilt, the vague thought of turning out the light drifting through your mind as you build energy for this gargantuan task before your eyes close for the night, that you hear that screech again. You jolt upright. The cry is almost human. Is a murder taking place? You race to the window and throw it open. Arctic air blasts in, shocking you to wakefulness. Heart thudding, you listen intently but . . . nothing. The street is silent. About to close the window, you see what appears to be a huge dark shadow at the only part of the laneway visible from this angle. The shadow of a cat moves along the wall, but you cannot see the actual animal.

You debate with yourself about getting dressed and going down to hunt for the cat again, but, even inebriated, that strikes you as insane. It is 4 a.m. Tomorrow is your only day off and you have a million chores to do, errands to run. At least it’s alive, you rationalize. You will search for it tomorrow.

As you contemplate climbing back into bed, you think that it is curious not having actually seen the cat, just the shadow, because from here, you should have seen the cat making the shadow. A chill runs through you. You close the window too hard, shivering in the warmth of your bedroom, thinking, yes, you definitely should have seen the cat.

Sunday you are in and out of your apartment half a dozen times, and both coming and going you meticulously search the alleyway. There is no sign of a cat, no paw prints in the snow, no urination marks, no blood or tufts of fur from what might have been a battle. Nothing. The evening is quiet outdoors. Inside, you are trapped in a predictable phone conversation with your mother.

“Gena, I’m worried about you.”

“Mom, don’t be. I’m fine.”

“But you’re there all alone. You haven’t even made friends.”

“I’ve gotten to know Glenn, the part-time accountant I hired last month. And Rod.” You are stretching the truth with both of these men, especially the bartender.

“Are you dating Rod?” your mother wants to know, and you repress a sigh.

“Not exactly. I just see him occasionally.”

Your mother knows not to push you and segues to one of her other favourite subjects. “Well, that’s nice. I’m glad you’re making friends. When are you coming home for a visit? It’s been almost a year.”

“Maybe in the summer.”

“That’s a long ways away, Gena. What about Easter?”

“I’m really busy at the office and January to May is tax time, the busiest months. I’ve got to work six days a week to keep the bills paid.”

“Do you need money?”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m doing well, the business is growing, but a year isn’t long in accounting and I’m just getting known. I’m trying to build my clientele, get on solid ground. I need to feel secure.”

The pause at the other end alerts you to the fact that your mother is about to launch into her third favourite topic and you brace yourself for the onslaught.

“Your dad and I visited the grave last week.”

You don’t know what to say. What is there to say? But, of course, your mother is waiting for a response. “That was nice of you.”

“We had to re-cover the rose bush – the wind tore the burlap to bits.”

“Thanks.”

“Gena, Brian would want you to have a life.”

“I know, Mom.” You speak too quickly and too sharply and try to think of something to say to ease away from this topic and let you off the phone quickly. You attempt to soften what comes next. “I have a life. I’m doing OK.”

“There’s some sad news. About Ruddie. He died in his sleep last night, on the blanket you bought him. I thought you should know.”

Guilt eats through you like acid. The cat you and Brian loved is dead. You are stunned and something thoughtless erupts from your mouth: “He was an old cat.”

Your mother pauses a second. “Ruddie never stopped missing Brian. Or you.”

The acid guilt you struggle to keep at bay spreads up your chest to your heart. So much guilt! You must get off the phone. Now! “Mom, I’m sorry, I think that’s the doorbell, I have to go. I’ll call soon.”

Before she can respond, you hang up, feeling new guilt pile on top of the old. The moment your caring mother’s voice ceases, unwanted thoughts plague you.

You told yourself that Ruddie would be better off with your parents. He was an old cat, and it would have been heartless to put him through the journey across the country and subject him to a new environment. In Montreal, he would not have been able to roam outside the way he could at home. You knew you would be working a lot, building your business; Ruddie would have been alone all the time . . . But no. That is not the whole story . . .

Ruddie appeared the day Brian and I married. As Brian carried me across the threshold of our new house, both of us laughing happily, a sleek, black Hallowe’en cat slipped through the door and wove between Brian’s legs. The cat pranced around as if he lived there, tail straight up in the air, purring loudly; he clearly felt at home. Laughing, both of us bent down to pet him at the same time. It was three-way love at first sight. As I took the satiny-furred cat into my arms, his purring ratcheted up a couple of notches. Brian stood looking at the two of us, grinning, then said of the malnourished creature, “I guess we have a furbaby!”

We checked with the previous owners, and our new neighbours, but the cat’s home couldn’t be traced. It didn’t take long to fatten up the hungry stray. Brian named him Ruddie. “For absolutely no reason, but it feels right,” he said. I always called him Baby.

Once, while Brian was working in the back of the garden out of earshot planting a line of cedars to cut the wind, I took a tumble down the basement steps, strewing laundry everywhere and twisting my ankle badly. Ruddie arrived at my side, meowing in distress at my pain.

“Ruddie,” I groaned, tears leaking from my eyes, “if only you were a dog, I could send you to get Brian.”

As if he understood, Ruddie blinked his amber eyes once, turned and bounded up the cellar steps. I heard the cat flap swinging. Within minutes, Brian came at the back door calling my name.

“Down here!”

He found me at the bottom of the steps and sat hugging me while I sobbed.