August, and I don't want to make it seem like I'm out to get publicity while he's gone.' Opening a desk drawer, he filed the forms inside. 'Besides,' he added, before turning back to his work, 'people aren't even aware of readings below three. The only things that feel them are animals.'
Back in the outbuilding tonight – my last night here on the farm. Can't help wishing I'd stayed in the farmhouse again, but felt so guilty about cutting short my stay that I wanted to get as far away from the Poroths as possible, amp; now it's too late to change my mind. I don't intend to set foot outside, amp; I'll keep the lights on in here till dawn.
Deborah seemed really disappointed to hear I was leaving. Wonder if I've read her wrong; maybe she's fonder of me than I realized. Sarr didn't seem at all surprised, amp; though he may have been hurt, he's much too proud to ever show it. In fact, he's been extremely nice about the whole thing. Refused to accept the extra week's rent I offered him by way of apology, though I'm sure he's strapped for funds right now. He even lent me his sickle for the night, knowing it would make me feel less nervous. It's certainly better than the axe I had here last time. Hope to hell I won't have to use it.
Immobile in the silence of his apartment, heedless of the streetlights outside, he lies watching through the animal's eyes as, behind the encircling screens, the man sits writing.
He is up late tonight. So far he has shown no signs of ever going to sleep. He is alert, edgy, obviously nervous, jerking his head at every sound. The sickle lies well within his reach.
It will have to be done quickly. There is going to be blood. And even now, with the new strength and speed the animal has gained, even with its infinitely sharper senses and the extra sting it carries in its poisoned claws, killing the man is going to be difficult.
Lying on his bed, the Old One tenses his limbs and ever so slightly trembles.
It will be difficult indeed. It is going to require all his concentration, all the animal's strength, all the ferocity of their combined wills.
But the twitching of the old man's limbs has also been a tremor of exultation. This is, after all, the moment he's prepared for…
Taking a' deep breath, feeling in his city lungs the cool moist country night, he begins.
I suppose that, in one way or another, I'm going to miss this place. It's certainly more peaceful than New York, at least it was in the beginning, amp; I imagine the city's going to seem pretty dirty, hot, amp; sticky when I get back. And for all my rural fears, of course, it'll probably be a lot more dangerous. It would be just my luck to flee in terror from what's really no more than a nasty little house cat, only to get brutally mugged a few minutes after I step off the bus.
Another irony: Just today got a really offensive letter from the folks, reminding me that I'm 'not cut out to be a woodsman' (maybe they think I'm cooking on campfires amp; sleeping in a tent!), with a typically derisive little comment at the end, chiding me for wanting to do 'the old Thoreau bit.'
I'd almost be tempted to stay here for the rest of the summer, just to spite those two. Hate to give them the satisfaction of learning they were right, that I couldn't make it out here…
Still, no sense jeopardizing my safety. And besides, it's impossible to have a good time anymore, with all this Bwada nonsense going on.
I suppose if I'm really going to stay awake I ought to try doing something a bit more useful amp; continue going through the source material. Probably I ought to choose a book that won't Think I hear something in the bushes. Am turning off the light.
Leaves stirring, insect noises, touch of breeze on fur. The animal leaps nimbly from the tree; feet claw the night air, then soft earth as it lands in the undergrowth beneath one of the windows and begins a slow, cautious circle of the building, searching for an opening.
Inside, the man rises and hurriedly snaps off the lamps. Apparently the fool believes that the darkness will make him less vulnerable.
That is his mistake. The darkness will, in fact, make it easier to catch him unawares.
Silent as a shadow now, on velvet paws, it continues to circle the building.
Freirs stood frozen in the center of the room, ears straining for a sound. For a moment he thought he heard the stealthy, irregular crackling of leaves from the direction of the woods… or was it coming from the side that faced the lawn? He turned, trying in vain to follow it. His hand reached out gingerly in the darkness, felt the smooth metallic curve of the sickle, and passed on, grasping the flashlight.
Blindly, eyes not yet adjusted to the moonlight outside, he groped toward the screens facing the woods and stood looking out, seeing, hearing nothing.
Hadn't that been a new sound from the lawn side? He tiptoed across the room, the linoleum cool beneath his bare feet, and paused beside the closest window, listening, feeling against his cheek the faintest hint of breeze.
Was that the sound again? Was it his imagination? He held his breath and listened, pressing his face close to the screen…
Silence. No, there it was again, a tiny rustling in the ivy, not far below him. Silence again. He stood there frozen, still hardly daring to breathe, straining to hear.
A minute passed. At last, patience exhausted, he brought the flashlight to the screen and switched it on.
With a cry he fell back, dropping the flashlight; there was a shattering of glass, then darkness. For an instant, in its beam, he had seen the animal's wide grey face just inches from his own, the yellow gleaming fangs, the two eyes blazing like coals in the light.
Blindly he groped for the sickle, hearing, behind him, a sound that made his blood freeze. It was the slow, methodical tearing of the screen.
It can see the man perfectly now. He is blundering through the darkened room, fingers scrabbling frantically for a weapon.
Beneath its claws the screen wires tear like thinnest silk, strand after strand…
The aged figure on the bed feels the pressure of the wire beneath his fingertips, the successive individual strands giving way, his claws widening the gash…
Suddenly there is another sound. The clank of metal echoes through the halls. At the other end of the apartment, up and down the front door, the locks are being turned.
Feverishly he throws himself back to the countryside. Hurriedly his claws push aside the flaps of screen.
A crash out by the doorway; the sound of the door swinging open; and voices. Voices here in his apartment.
He cannot remain in the country. He must return at once. In an instant they will discover him here naked on the bed…
Looking one last time through the eyes of the animal, he comes to a decision. The animal, alone, may still be no match for the man. The risk of failure is too great. Too much is at stake.
Voices in the hallway. A heavy voice calls out, 'Mistah Rose-bottom?'
He has time for just a single thought, one final command before contact is broken.
Leave the man for now! he screams silently. Go for the easier kill!
A softer voice. 'Hello? Hello? Is anybody – Oh, my God, Rosie!'
It knows itself to be alone now, on its own once more, but it feels neither loss nor regret. There will not be time to kill the man till later, but it is not impatient. All its strength and cunning will be turned, with cold precision, to its new task.
Withdrawing a paw from the rent in the screen, it drops silently to the ground beneath the window. Within seconds it is racing across the moonlit lawn in the direction of the farmhouse.
Quick as a spider it scurries up the gnarled trunk of the apple tree that grows at the rear of the house, pale claws sinking deep into the bark. Reaching the upper portion of the tree, it darts along one of the limbs and springs lightly to the nearby windowsill. The window is open; the room within stands empty, nursery figures grinning from the wall. All that blocks the window is a screen. With a touch delicate as a surgeon's it rends the wire, then slips inside and drops soundlessly to the braided rug beside the bed.
A new darkness now, new smells. Padding stealthily through the hall, it passes an open doorway and looks in. It is the bedroom. Moonlight falls upon two sleeping forms, the man and the woman entwined in one another's arms, and on the eight wide, watchful eyes of the cats that crowd beside them on the bed.
