Helen Grant - The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

“At last, when the whole floor was packed with furry bodies, the cats began to cry. They howled and screeched together in an unearthly chorus. At first Hans put his fingers in his ears, but it was no use: the sound that the cats made was not heard only by the ears , you understand; it could also be heard by the soul . It was a song of damnation, evoking the milling pit of lava into which the tainted soul must fall and shrivel to a crisp, but stay eternally and exquisitely conscious, ever burning, an immortal ember in the sluggish lake of fire. I think if you or I had heard it, we would have lain right down and died.”

I shivered. “That’s horrible.”

Herr Schiller continued, unperturbed. “But Unshockable Hans was made of sterner stuff. Since the diabolical song could not be ignored, up he sat and looked boldly about him, as though the sounds were nothing more than the normal yowling of a queen cat come into heat. ‘Himmel!’ he exclaimed. ‘How is a man supposed to sleep with a racket like that going on? Be quiet, the lot of you, or you’ll go out, even if I have to take each and every one of you by the scruff to do it.’ And so saying, he lay down again.

“For one second there was silence. Then there began a screaming that was like tortured metal, as though all the fiends of Tartarus were bursting through its iron gates and streaming forth, devouring everything in their fiery path. Then with a screech that overtopped them all, the largest and wildest cat, an enormous tom muscled like a bull, with fur the color of jet and blazing yellow eyes, made a mighty spring onto Hans’s chest, and sat there like the demon Nightmare, snarling into his face with its wicked fangs.

“Up sprang Hans at once, grasping the creature with both hands so that he felt the terrible strength of its sinews and bunched muscles under his fingers, and flung it from him, as far as he could. Then he reached under his pillow and drew out the little package that he had brought back with him from the town. Tearing off the wrappings, he revealed a rosary-a plain wooden rosary with polished brown beads, which Hans had received from the hands of the holy Fathers.

“With a great cry, he threw the rosary straight at the snarling creature that had attacked him. ‘By the name of all that is holy,’ he cried at the top of his voice, ‘I order you to leave -now!’ And as the last word fell from his lips, every one of those diabolical cats vanished and he found himself standing alone, breathing hard, in the dark and silent mill. He had won. The pests had been routed, and the mill belonged to him. Then at last Hans lay down and slept the sleep of the righteous until morning came.”

Herr Schiller fell silent. The hand that had mimed the casting of the rosary at the demonic cats dropped to the arm of his chair, patted it lightly, then moved to his pocket, fumbling for his pipe. There was a long silence while he lit it, puffing gently, little wisps of white floating up like smoke signals.

“Well, I don’t think that was very scary,” said Stefan eventually. I shot him a furious glance; if his chair had been closer to mine I would have aimed a furtive kick at his legs.

“You don’t think it was scary?” repeated Herr Schiller. I was thankful to notice that he did not sound annoyed-more amused. If Stefan had offended him, it might have been the last visit to Herr Schiller, in which case I would never have forgiven Stefan. Our newfound alliance would be dissolved, even if I spent the remainder of my schooldays playing and working all on my own.

“No,” said Stefan, quite casually. When Herr Schiller said nothing, but his bushy white eyebrows went up, Stefan was encouraged to continue: “I don’t think there’s anything frightening about a bunch of cats.”

“But these were not really cats, were they?” probed Herr Schiller in a conversational tone. “They were witches.” He smiled faintly. “You should never judge by appearances, young man.” There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

“Well, I thought it was a brilliant story,” I cut in defensively, trying to signal my annoyance at Stefan. Who did he think he was, criticizing like that?

But Herr Schiller appeared not to have heard my comment. He raised a hand in the air in an admonitory fashion, his piercingly blue eyes still fixed on Stefan. “Of course,” he conceded, “there is nothing very alarming about an ordinary pussycat, lounging in the sunshine or washing itself on a windowsill. But imagine what it would have been like several hundred years ago, when the night was unbroken by electric light, and outside the little circle of your candle flame everything was endless black. And then if suddenly you were to see a pair of eyes glinting at you, where a moment before there had been nothing… and if you knew that this was not really a cat, but something much, much worse, which had assumed this innocent domestic form so it might slip unnoticed into your house while you slept…” Herr Schiller’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper, so that both Stefan and I involuntarily leaned toward him. “A thing so horrible, so horrible-”

“Aaaahhhhh!” screamed Stefan suddenly, so loudly and unexpectedly that I almost jumped out of my skin. Stefan had gone the sickly color of feta cheese, his face almost blue in its whiteness. He seemed to be attempting simultaneously to climb over the back of the leather armchair he had been sitting in and to point over Herr Schiller’s shoulder at something that was just coming into view.

“Scheisse!” I squealed, forgetting for once that I was in the presence of one of my elders.

Herr Schiller’s house was a traditional Eifel house, dark and gloomy even in broad daylight. It was now early evening, and the corners of the room were sunk in darkness. Out of one of these pockets of blackness there appeared first the silken head and then the sinuous body of an enormous tomcat, blacker than the shadows, and with great yellow eyes like headlights.

I realized later that the creature must have been sitting on the sideboard behind Herr Schiller’s armchair, but at the time it was like some uncanny materialization. My heart thumped wildly, and it was several moments before my eyes connected with my brain and I realized what I was seeing.

“You dope, it’s Pluto,” I almost shouted at Stefan. “Sit down, you idiot-it’s Pluto!”

Herr Schiller, who had been arrested midsentence by Stefan’s scream, pipe frozen between hand and lips, now jumped as though someone had touched him with a cattle prod. He was on his feet faster than I remember seeing anyone of his age ever move before. His face was a mask of horror.

“Out, out!” he was shouting, gesticulating at the cat, which spat derisively, its back a jagged arch. But the street door was closed; there was nowhere for the cat to bolt even if it wanted to. With considerably greater daring than I could have shown, Herr Schiller reached over and grasped the creature by the scruff, hauled it swinging and scratching to the front door, and cast it out into the street. The slam he gave the door afterward must have rattled that old house down to its foundations.

As the sound died away, we all stood there, panting like racehorses. Stefan looked as though he was going to be sick. Poor Herr Schiller looked almost as bad; the sudden rush of adrenaline that had fueled his assault upon the cat had passed like a flash flood, leaving wreckage in its wake. I was afraid he might collapse and so I offered him my arm. He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, then took my arm and allowed me to lead him back to his armchair.