English fiction; Horror tales, English; Short stories, English
I have said that the cage had a top as well as a front, and this top was
left standing when the front was wound through the slot in the wall. It
consisted of bars at a few inches’ interval, with stout wire netting
between, and it rested upon a strong stanchion at each end. It stood now
as a great barred canopy over the crouching figure in the corner. The
space between this iron shelf and the roof may have been from two to
three feet. If I could only get up there, squeezed in between bars and
ceiling, I should have only one vulnerable side. I should be safe from
below, from behind, and from each side. Only on the open face of it
could I be attacked. There, it is true, I had no protection whatever;
but, at least, I should be out of the brute’s path when he began to pace
about his den. He would have to come out of his way to reach me. It was
now or never, for if once the light were out it would be impossible.
With a gulp in my throat I sprang up, seized the iron edge of the top,
and swung myself panting on to it. I writhed in face downwards, and
found myself looking straight into the terrible eyes and yawning jaws of
the cat. Its fetid breath came up into my face like the steam from some
foul pot.
It appeared, however, to be rather curious than angry. With a sleek
ripple of its long, black back it rose, stretched itself, and then
rearing itself on its hind legs, with one fore paw against the wall, it
raised the other, and drew its claws across the wire meshes beneath me.
One sharp, white hook tore through my trousers—for I may mention that I
was still in evening dress—and dug a furrow in my knee. It was not meant
as an attack, but rather as an experiment, for upon my giving a sharp
cry of pain he dropped down again, and springing lightly into the room,
he began walking swiftly round it, looking up every now and again in my
direction. For my part I shuffled backwards until I lay with my back
against the wall, screwing myself into the smallest space possible. The
farther I got the more difficult it was for him to attack me.
He seemed more excited now that he had begun to move about, and he ran
swiftly and noiselessly round and round the den, passing continually
underneath the iron couch upon which I lay. It was wonderful to see so
great a bulk passing like a shadow, with hardly the softest thudding of
velvety pads. The candle was burning low—so low that I could hardly see
the creature. And then, with a last flare and splutter it went out
altogether. I was alone with the cat in the dark!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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