The House Cat

by Sara Tascarella ©2022

Inside the house, the cat sneaks back into the shadows as the engine sounds grow louder. It becomes invisible as its black fur melts into the shadows, two amber eyes are the only evidence that any life is left in the old house. It hasn't been lived in for years and hasn't been cared for, for even longer. The walls are a collection of layers. Random splashes of everything from plaster to wallpaper give a sense of continuity even though the colors and patterns change from room to room. The other thing these old walls have in common are holes, entrances to other homes built by birds and rodents, and other residents. One of these holes is where the cat was hiding now, the ruler of this hunting ground. The cat has lived here her whole life. She remembers when she was a kitten, someone else lived here too—with meals that came in cans, balls of yarn to pounce on, warmth, and safety. There were fewer holes in the walls then.

Outside the house, a forest of one-time shrubs clings to the siding as if doing its part to hold it up. The overgrown yard filled with wild roses and herbs replaced any hint of a lawn long ago, and thorny vines now creep along the gaps in the fence, keeping out those who would think about wandering in. But no one ever does. The house stood in stark contrast to the rest of the tidy neighborhood. Everyone complained when they caught a glimpse of it, but their eyes soon slid from the house, and as they say, out of sight, out of mind. There is something mysterious about the way people cross the street to avoid it without realizing that they are doing so. And it is easily forgotten, like the dates of insignificant events. The house could not completely escape notice, however, and over the years, people interested in developing it, or improving it, or tearing it down attempted to acquire the property. But the lot and everything on it is held in trust and can not be sold. Ownership was only an inconvenience though, and there were always attempts to circumvent that technicality. Like today, citing health and safety, the neighbors convinced the city to, at the very least, clean up the eyesore of a yard. So, the engine of a large brush mower roared to life because something has to be done about the old house with the overgrown yard.

Inside the house, the cat jumps onto the window sill, its coat tinged with silver as the sunlight reflects off it. She looks out at the street filled with maintenance workers and onlookers, then stretches and yawns completely unconcerned by the noise outside. This isn't the first time someone has attempted to tame her jungle. At that moment, two seemingly unrelated things happened. The cat looked out the window and winked. And the machinery outside choked to a stop. The sound of the mower is replaced by questioning and then frustrated voices. The cat settles into the sunbeam, and as the cursing outside begins, she takes a nap.

Outside the house, people are scratching their heads. The overly helpful neighbors came out to try to help get the mower started again. But there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it. They bring out their own mowers, ones they used successfully just the day before, but they wouldn't start either. With multiple sets of shrugged shoulders, they resort to handheld hedge trimmers and weed whackers. These tools too, fire up enthusiastically only to putter to a stop as soon as they get within trimming distance of the yard. Now a crowd is starting to gather. Words like "mystified" and "frustrating" are starting to be exchanged for words like "cursed" and "haunted." After an hour of service calls and failed attempts, the maintenance workers, hungry for their dinners, start to pack up to leave. The mower and other equipment suddenly start right up, and he has no trouble at all getting it back up on the trailer. With nervous looks over their shoulders, they leave the neighborhood and make a note to avoid this particular one in the future.

Inside the house, life goes on for its residents, managed judiciously by the black cat. Anything on surfaces that can be knocked over had been long ago, but the cat isn't at a loss for entertainment. She starts each morning surveying each room, stretching up each door frame to each claw-clad toe. Leaving her mark in case anything makes the mistake of questioning where her territory lies. Then hunts for breakfast before a nap in the east-facing bedroom window. She follows the sun and ends up in the west-facing bay window in the afternoons. At dusk, she leaves the house for the wilderness of the yard. Her playground has no shortage of amusements. But this isn’t just her home, it is her mission to stand guard and protect this place. So she watches and she waits.

Outside the house, in true suburban form, the neighbors do their best to ignore the house in hopes that it will just go away. But sometimes, when they pass by at twilight, they feel a chill and glance over their shoulders because they can't shake the feeling that they are being watched. At Halloween, the neighborhood kids tell stories of the house that is haunted by a pair of bright amber eyes. Older kids attempt their best impressions of vandals but when the hallowed moon sets, everything is where it should be. One cool spring morning, a car pulls up in front of the old house. A young woman gets out of it and stands looking at the old house. The ever-curious neighbors peering from their windows, come up with increasingly complex theories about what she is doing there. Some think she is just another naïve dreamer thinking to rescue the old property. Others think she is just lost. A few wonder if this is the granddaughter. The one that the house has been waiting for—the one who had to grow up and come of age to inherit.

Inside the house, the cat suddenly becomes alert. She feels a presence beyond that of someone arriving in a car. The house felt different, almost optimistic. Curious, the cat stretches and sniffs the air that suddenly smells like vanilla and honey. The cat creeps out of the shadows to see what has changed. From the window, she sees the young woman looking at the house with different eyes than the neighbors do. Eyes that look familiar to the cat. As she watches, the miss empties the contents of a yellow envelope into her hand. The young woman now held a large old-fashioned key in her hands. Seeing the key, the cat knew that everything was about to change.

Outside the house, the young woman takes in the house that had been her grandmother's. Perhaps she sees something different than the neighbors do because a smile starts to stretch across her face. She takes a step forward toward the gate. The gate that hadn't opened in years, that had been sealed shut by the thorny vines. The neighbors, still watching from their windows, speculate on how close she will be able to get to the fence before she was prevented from getting any closer. Five feet? Two? One foot? They all lost when the girl took another step forward and then another and then another. As she drew closer, with the old-fashioned key in her hand, the vines began to retreat. The thorns grow smaller and disappear, and the latch and hinges are visible once more. When she reaches her hand out to touch the gate, it swings open without a creak as if the hinges had been used every day.

Inside the house, the cat stares wide-eyed, swinging her tail in wonder and anticipation.

Outside the house, the neighbors look on in awe and scratch their heads.

In the garden, the young woman passes through the gate. As she steps forward, the ground shifts slightly as the wilderness makes room for her. The once wild garden presents her with a stepping stone, then another one and another, beckoning her forward towards the house. As she makes her way towards the steps of the house, it seems as if the wild roses and herbs and overgrown shrubs are watching her, awaiting instructions. When the granddaughter places a foot on the first step that begins the short climb to the sagging porch, the boards make an audible sigh, as if waking up from a long nap feeling content and rested. The young woman climbs the steps, crosses the porch, and inserts the key into the door.

Outside the house, the neighbors rub their eyes in disbelief as the house seems to take a deep breath, let it out, and with a slight tremor, shakes off its cobwebs. As they watch the young woman enter the old house, the neighbors convince themselves that they must have been dreaming and that the faint glow now coming from the old house means that the power has been on the whole time. Over the next few days and weeks, the overgrown yard and falling-down house, that caused them so much bother, begins to transform. Every day it appears to be slightly tidier, less defensive looking. The faded paint on the exterior of the house no longer peeled and turns a sunny yellow rather than the washed-out beige of time. The neighbors wonder how the young woman manages the changes because they never see her working in the yard, or painting the house, or trimming the vines. Out loud, they make assumptions that she must be out there working when no one is watching. But they have been watching and wondering, and not knowing makes them anxious and afraid. So, the neighbors continue to avoid the old house, crossing the street so as not to pass in front of it, but for different reasons now.

Inside the house, the transformation continues. The dust and dirt vanish first, and then every day, the house seems to grow younger. One day the hole in the wall where the cat once hid is gone as if it had never been there. As if the house had simply donned a disguise in all the years it had been empty and now is becoming itself again. The cat doesn't mind that her holes are gone, that her hunting ground has changed. She once again eats food from a can and has balls of yarn to play with. With a great yawn, the cat sighs in contentment as she curls up on the warm lap of the young woman and begins to purr.