Gift (as told to D.S. Christopher Hubert)

The air was crisp and cool, and it breezed through him with little whispers as he ran. He delighted in the feel of it flowing through his hair. He loved the scent of winter just out beyond him, like an awaiting touch of beauty. The sky was cloudless and dark, allowing for the stars to shine through. Yes, this was a wonderful evening. This was the perfect time for him to enjoy the exercise, and when the nights got colder and the days were shorter he enjoyed it even more. Fewer cars on the road meant fewer headlights to distract him. There was a grace in this privacy he cherished.

His legs burned with a ferocity that had become an addiction for him. The running was a release of tension that nothing else would relieve. The days would only linger for a while, and the cool of the evening air would sooth his mind. The thump of his shoes the only sound in the night, and pools of hazy streetlight were the only artificial guides to his path. But he knew the way just as well without them.

As he ran the joy of recognizing the small familiar monuments in the shadows seemed a welcome addition to his pleasure. The old crooked tree in Mrs. Hatchery's yard and the stone wall leading down to the new housing development that never really got developed after the initial clearing started about ten years ago. Red clay and torn musty sacks of concrete was the only evidence of reason for all the missing woodland. Even the dumpster that was riddled with graffiti at the edge of a dark alley he kept a fair distance from every night was a fair reminder of his accomplished distance.

Something caught his eye, however, this evening. It was strange feeling at first that caused him to look in the direction he looked in.

Movement? He didn't think so. It was probably just the brain's way of reacting to an unrecognized part of his overall picture; this sort of micro-world that he allowed himself to get lost in each evening. It was surely not something he was used to seeing in this part of town. His run slowed to a trot as he passed by the object.

It wasn't very big. In fact, it easily could have been a trash bag fallen out of the dumpster he had passed earlier. At first, this was his thought and he chuckled at the nervous feeling he had initially felt crawling in his gut. As he neared the item on the shady part of the street he realized it wasn't plastic at all. It was fur. Little spikes of matted dark hair lumped in the nook of a street-lamp's glow, and right near the bottom of this mass he saw what seemed to be a small marble of golden-green.

Curiosity struck in those hidden places of his mind we all share, and he moved ever closer to the shapeless form. Suddenly, his heart began to sink. The shape began to make more sense as he neared. He could clearly make out the soft pads on the bottom of its paws, the body lain sideways and crooked. And the on again off again shimmer golden-green eye. Its head was twisted completely upside down, the pointed ears folded against the pavement. It was a cat.

The smell struck him as he crouched next to the dead body. It was almost as intoxicating as it was repulsive. He flinched briefly and noticed the animal was not entirely intact. Sleek strands of innards lay tangled with fur and gravel. He thought briefly about finding a stick and knocking the critter farther over to the side of the road, but his stomach started to protest this idea and he stood up abruptly.

"Sorry, kitty", he said with a bit of humor and a dash of melancholy, "but doesn't appear to be much I can do for you."

As he slowly stood up something moved among the debris, causing him to jump. His throat constricted, and he spit out a shriek. Startled by the unexpected movement, he turned to run and fell face down, hands forward to the pavement.

What's wrong with you? He thought angrily. Then he heard something, an ever so subtle rustling of leaves or the toss of gravel. Something was moving behind him. It was probably just another curious critter. Conceivably just a scavenger from the woods was looking for an easy dinner. Whatever it was, it startled him, and he felt rather embarrassed. He stood up and dusted dirt and small stones off his scraped knees.

He saw what he perceived to be a snake or small lizard. It moved with slow cunning delicacy, from side to side. But something seemed odd; for one, it was too cold for a snake to be out in the evening. The shimmer of the streets lamp didn't reflect the hue he would have expected from that of serpents scales. Instead, parts of this thing looked like it was completely covered in the cat’s dark fur, while other parts of it looked pasty and scabrous. Plus, it didn't seem to be moving forward, but rather swinging back and forth.

"What the - ", he began. Then he froze once more.

A small eye peered out at him from the mess of fur and bone with a perceptive sparkle. Then it folded into darkness. Again, it appeared with an awareness, forcing a cry from his lips. As impossible as his mind was screaming, he couldn't pull away from what he saw. The cat's only surviving eye was blinking.

It slowly dawned on him the eye wasn't the only part of the cadaver moving. What he thought moments ago to be a snake, was obviously a tail. Its whole body seemed to be twisting and shuddering, as if it were in pain. Jagged little teeth appeared out of the black dirty fur, and he could almost make out the fleshy pink of a tongue in the top part of its upside down head. Its limbs bent, and its paws began to dig at the earth around it.

All of a sudden he realized thoroughly what he was witnessing, and sprinted without yet looking away from the hideous sight. It was slowly lifting itself up off the ground when he finally turned to watch where he was going. With the deft movement of someone who was used to running, he was able to keep from landing in the ditch across the street and stay on the pavement.

His legs burned, and muscles slowly began to feel like warm jelly. The air he breathed was getting warmer and less relaxing, but he just kept going. He ran without a thought in his mind other than what he thought he had seen. Somewhere, deep inside, he could feel a desire to scream expanding. In the hidden recesses of his psyche, the walls of his surrounding were peeling.

This is ridiculous! He thought. He wanted to laugh. But he couldn't bring himself to let out any sound. He slowed to a stop, placed his hands on his knees, and let out a gasp. The thought of such a thing seemed so dumb and unreal; running from his imagination seemed silly.

"Pha!" he spit out. He stood up as he caught his breath and reluctantly looked back. Trees arched over the street behind him like secret guards of an ancient highway. Just outside the dim light of the street lamps he couldn't make out much, but he was becoming less concerned. The thought of what had startled him made him feel sick with embarrassment. He stood there, just waiting for some sign of movement. Seconds, possibly moments passed. The road was silent. He let out a laugh, and began to turn back to the direction he was going in, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

A chill seized his heart for a moment. He couldn't - as much as reason and instinct shrieked - look away. His body wouldn't budge. His eyes would not close, and he stared even more horrified than the first time he saw it move.

Barely the shadow of a cat, the scrawny form moved in a jagged grace a marionette might have been proud of. It was momentarily a part of the shadows behind it and then melted away, independent of the darkness surrounding. As much as he really wanted to he could see no strings and nothing to push the creature along but its own will.

The head bounced and dangled from its broken neck like a ball in a sack. The one eye shimmered in the moonlight, with a secret it clearly wanted to share. Entrails dragged below its torn belly, holding on to whatever was left inside to hold on to. The mouth opened and closed as it came closer, and he thought he could hear something. It wasn't quite the sound a cat might make, but it was disturbingly close.

A scream forced its way out of his tortured thoughts, tore through his stomach and burst out of his throat in a harsh grunt. This time he looked where he was before running. This time he ran without looking back.

The thing was behind him, he was sure of it. He knew just beyond his point of hearing, the animal that wasn't really an animal anymore was padding its way down the same path he was on. Something just out of earshot called out to him. It might have been a sound like nails on a chalkboard; just piercing enough to give his arms a chill, but not quite loud enough to know what the sound was supposed to be.

The thing was calling out to him, he knew. It wanted to be held. It wanted to be fed. He knew it wanted to be fed.

As far as the street seemed to go in front of him, the sudden realization that he was almost home struck him in the gut. He wanted to smile. He wanted to laugh. All he could do was force himself to look forward and keep running. He had vaguely noticed the graffiti covered dumpster as he passed it, but hadn't even really seen the open field that was supposed to be the new neighborhood.

Only a few more street corners, he thought. Heat burned through his veins, and he pushed harder and harder. He was almost sure he could make it, but the lingering thought the thing pursuing him was closer than it should be. He strained to hear anything behind him, but heard nothing strange. Wind blew through the leaves above. Somewhere a dog gave off a startled bark. Otherwise, it all seemed normal.

He would not look back. There was no internal argument. He would not look back.

The door slammed behind him in a rattle and he felt like he could have broken the dead bolt as he locked it. His breathing hurt and his lungs were ready to explode, but this time he laughed out loud, and hard. His legs finally did dissolve out from under him, and he fell to the floor... his floor... his home

"Ha," he let out finally, "Ha!" and he raised a fist to the door. "Go back home, you freaky, nasty, thing!”

He felt a sense of pride swell up from deep within.

Suddenly, confidence hid itself once more in the recesses of his psyche. Faintly, ever so slightly, he heard something on the other side of the door. The scritch*scritch*scritch of what sounded like tiny claws on wood wafted to his ears, and jabbed down into his heart with icy pins.

With a shrill scream, he burst down the hall, up the stairs, and into his bedroom where the door abruptly crashed shut behind him.

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The peal was faint but persistent. It was a distant sound, not much more than a whisper, but sound grew to a throbbing crescendo and then faded again. Just as the sound faded, again, another chime pierce the silence. Unrelenting, the sound dug deeper into the warm darkness of his slumber.

"Go away," he yelled, but slowly began to wake. His head throbbed as he focused his vision on the gleaming red images of his alarm clock. The realization of how late the day had gotten came when it also suddenly dawned on him what the toll was that had roused him from his sleep.

The doorbell once again beckoned from the hallway. Sneakered feet hit the floor and he realized that he had slept all night in his running clothes. Fatigued, confused, and slightly embarrassed, he pressed down his jogging shorts and made his way down the stairs. The doorbell continued its insistent song.

How long was I out? He wondered.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he yelled over the din. "Just hold on!"

The warped image of a young boy stood before his peep covered eye. "Hey, Mr. Marsh! It’s Tommy."

When he heard his neighbor’s teenaged squeak through the door, he reached for the doorknob. “Hi, Tommy,” he said, rubbing his eyes against the daylight.

“Hey, I was wondering if you still wanted me to mow your lawn today?” the kid said.

Marsh stood there for a moment, the sun burning his face and distorting his thoughts. He felt anxious, couldn’t retain why, but something bothered him.

“My lawn,” he asked, “oh, yeah. That would be great. Let me get some cash.”

Turning back into the dark house, he flipped a lamp on and looked for his wallet. The room shifted, just for a second, and he put his hand against a wall to maintain his balance. What was going on? A nagging at the back of his mind fluttered, tiny spiders spinning webs.

Why had he slept in today? That was certainly not like him. He almost felt like he had a hangover. He didn't drink often, but with no memory of the night before, what else could it be?

The kid smiled up at him as he slowly pulled three bills from his billfold.

“Will this be enough?” he asked without looking up.

“Sure,” Tommy said, with a hint of disappointment. He took the three bills, stuffed them in his pocket, and turned back toward the lawn.

He closed the door behind him and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Literally as his foot passed the threshold of the kitchen entrance, the doorbell rang once more.  A nauseous sense of unease was making him feel hesitant about going back to the door.

"Yes," he said, “what’s up, Tommy?"

“Uh, you’ve got something next to your step here,” the boy said, gesturing toward the lower end of a bush, while with the other hand pinched his nose. “I think it’s a gift from a cat. Mom says cats are known for leaving dead animals for someone they like. Nasty!"

"What on Earth are you talking about?" he asked. Then, an awful smell began to permeate the area where he stood. And quietly, secretly, something landed hard in his gut, and he could feel its need to make its way up and out.

Lying in clumps of feathers and gravel was the messy form of what he guessed to be the small body of a bird. A trail of muddy and fractured paw-prints led from the carnage out around the front of his house. With horror he noticed that along and in between the prints were what looked like tattered pieces of sausage. Or, perhaps in some insane world, these were the innards of some ruined animal that had refused to die.

THE END