[Author's note: This is second of two winning entries to Spinetingle.com.]
The creature had been taunting him for days. Malcolm had decided that enough was enough and determined to finally find and kill the beast.
Malcolm’s first indication that the house had gained an uninvited guest had been the smell. Though the two others in the house did not seem to notice, Malcolm’s keen nose caught the scent as soon as he had sauntered upstairs. On the top step he paused, scouring the passageway for signs of the intruder. There was no sight of the beast, no visible clue to its passing, only the lingering stench of it.
His curiosity was piqued. Malcolm had no idea what the invader was, but he was determined to find it and eradicate it from the house. Letting his nostrils lead him, Malcolm followed the trail. The creature had kept close to the wall. Malcolm moved forward stealthily, silently stalking his prey. At the third doorway, the scent vanished.
Malcolm sniffed around. The creature had not gone beyond this room, nor had it crossed the corridor to the other wall. Looking closely at the door, Malcolm saw that it did not sit smoothly against the floor. Instead, there was a half-inch gap through which his quarry must have squeezed itself.
In the middle of the night, as Malcolm was heading to the kitchen for a midnight snack, he was passing the same doorway when a quiet sound stopped him in his tracks. Emanating from somewhere up the corridor came the soft tink-tink of claws on the hardwood floors.
Malcolm cocked his head as he tried to pinpoint the source. The sound stopped. Malcolm took two silent steps forward then waited.
A flicker of movement caught his attention. Three metres ahead, something furry bolted. Malcolm shot forward. The creature reached the top step and didn’t stop, descending with a speed born of fear. Malcolm followed, taking the stairs three at a time with feline grace.
At the bottom he saw a blurry shape disappear into the kitchen. Quick though he was to pursue the thing, he wasn’t quick enough. The small creature was gone, vanished into one of a score of hiding places.
Malcolm spent many minutes searching the area, checking work surfaces and the gaps between appliances, but had to conclude that the intruder had bested him on this occasion.
This cat-and-mouse game continued over the next two days. Coming in from the garden Malcolm would detect its scent, so strong that he was certain he had just missed it. As he moved from one room to another, he could hear it scuttling unseen within the walls. He would awake and sense that the thing was in the very room.
No matter how sleek and quiet he was the creature always escaped, fleeing into a previously unseen crack or hole in the skirting. Despite always being one step behind the beast, he never doubted his place at the top of the household and never considered that he would fail to catch his elusive prey.
He just needed to exercise patience until the opportunity for victory presented itself.
That time came on Thursday afternoon.
Malcolm was resting on the sofa, ignoring the TV that spewed its banal rubbish into the room. The faintest tink from the corner immediately caught his attention. Staying where his lay, Malcolm turned his head a fraction. Another sound reached him and he knew that the beast was in the room. Even had he doubted it, the unmistakeable stench of grime and faeces that wafted from the thing confirmed its presence.
Tink.
Malcolm waited.
Tink. Tink. The creature was moving slowly, carefully exploring its corner of the world. Malcolm knew that a sudden movement would cause it to scurry back into its dark hiding places. If he was to capture the thing once and for all, he would have to balance patience with speed.
Tink-tink.
It was picking up its pace, growing confident that there was no threat in the room.
Tink-tink. Tink-tink.
The noise was coming from behind the settee. Stifling a growl, Malcolm slowly and silently repositioned himself on the sofa.
Tink-tink, tink-tink.
From the darkness behind the furniture the thing’s nose appeared first, brown and twitching, sprouting dirty whiskers. It crept forward, its black beady eyes reflecting the light of the TV, big ears pressed back against its squat body. It emerged fully from the recesses behind the sofa, draping a thin and scratty-looking tail behind it.
From his vantage point on the sofa arm, Malcolm had not been spotted. Suppressing an urge to screech his victory, he pounced…
Shelly’s scream brought Byron running into the lounge. ‘Getitout, getitout, getitout!’
Looking down, Byron chuckled. ‘Calm down, Shell,’ he admonished. ‘He needs praise for bringing us a present.’
He bent over to lift the dead mouse by its tail. Pausing on his way out of the room, he said, ‘Good boy, Malcolm,’ and stroked the cat’s head.
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