It was how it licked its lips

Notes: In which we meet The Cat. My story prompt for the challenge was: "Someone is afraid of something no one else is."

They called it The Cat.

Day in and out, it sat in the alley with glinting yellow eyes and an almost human expression of 'Why? Why am I here?'. It was a staple of the alley. Even when the redcaps and the other shadow creatures came and went, The Cat stayed. You almost weren't afraid of the rustling in the garbage, because it was almost certainly The Cat.

Almost. There was always that chance that you really should keep your distance.

The Cat was one of those strays that didn't have a real fear of people and would headbutt itself against hands to get the petting it wanted, regardless of participation from the owner. And despite its hideous little squished face, the locals liked it. It wouldn't come inside, but it was more than happy to accept scraps of food and bowls of water.

Of course, there was one hold out.

Father Basil Montoya, who from the first moment he had seen The Cat, knew that it wanted to eat him. He could see it in the way its face seemed to follow him wherever he looked down the street, from the way it licked its lips slowly and deliberately as it gazed at him.

Father Basil did not like The Cat. He supposed it might be a persian, with its squished up face and crossed eyes. He'd said they should at least try to capture it and fix it so it didn't create more. And it was like The Cat had understood him and had marked him down as having to pay for it. Possibly as a morning snack.

He wasn't sure why one ugly little cat scared him so. He spent his time listening to the confessions of a guilt-stricken zombie who spent his evenings ripping his way through demons and monsters with the help of a werewolf. Derrick, Basil couldn't help sometimes thinking of him as his 'little dead boy' when he was at his worst, which worried him to no end when he wasn't worrying about everything else that had a stake in destroying his sanity, had died just four rooms away from his. Whatever had turned Dene into a werewolf had left her with enough scars to look like it had torn out her insides.

He knew that the world was full of things that should not be. On his first night in his apartment, a vampire had tried to violate him. Basil felt that had really set the tone for the rest of his stay. Cheap rent, but possibly someone's dinner.

And yet, the thing that scared him most was a grey puff of fur that had seen better days.

Basil was careful to keep his fears to himself. Well, except for one instance.

It hadn't been a dark and stormy night, but who was willing to go out and fight the good fight in that kind of weather?

"I hurt all over. Did you have to do that?" Basil complained to Derrick, resting heavily against Dene as he limped back to his apartment.

"It was your church. It seemed appropriate. I mean, I could have gone to the closer one but that didn't feel right. And besides, I didn't let it kill you, did I? I want thanks for that. I was so helpful," Derrick said, practically skipping as he walked by them. "That thing was so neat, Dene!"

"Well, except for the fact there's a dead baby around here somewhere. I've seen those before," pointed out Dene as she propped Basil up a bit better. "Mylings are a good argument for adoption. Who the hell just ditches their newborn like that? Your legs okay? I thought they were going to break when that thing grew and someone, I'm not naming names, Derrick, forgot to adjust for little things like human bones. You looked like some demented human pyramid of freaks while he was carrying you."

Basil muttered he was fine and just kept limping.

It had been another lesson in why Derrick, despite the small zombie's apparent fragileness, hadn't needed his protection at all. Basil had demanded to come along on one of their nightly investigations, citing a need for ' responsible adult supervision' which made him sure Dene (at the wise old age of twenty one, but not in the mood to listen to him) kept dragging his poor damaged legs like that on purpose in revenge. He wished he had the sense to stay out of things when it ended up like this, but couldn't really help himself. On some level he knew that Dene was the one who relied on Derrick for protection, not the other way around. Derrick took the damage while she leapt in to finish things. Whatever had kept him going after the death he refused to explain to anyone had gone a good job. But Basil kept looking at him and seeing the fractured personality that would confess to him instead of the reality and decide that Dene needed help keeping him safe from harm.

Which of course led to this.

It had started out almost familiar. Derrick and Dene had led him to where people were reporting attacks and at least one death, then forced him to sit on a bench as they coaxed and prodded around in the dark corners. That was when the creature, Dene had called it a Myling after, some type of horrible child ghost, had lunged out at Derrick. So he had done the logical thing, which was shove Derrick aside. Rather heroically, he'd thought at the time.

That was when he'd gotten a gibbering monster clinging to his back and shrieking about being taken to the churchyard.

Things had gone downhill from there.

The brave monster hunters had been no help, chatting idly and walking beside him as he stumbled under the monster, watching it to see what it did next. Basil had to keep reminding himself that forgiveness was a virtue and that they'd probably meant well. Or they were trying to teach him a lesson.

The further he'd gone, the heavier the... thing had gotten. Eventually he had been barely able to stand, sinking almost to his knees with each step. That was when Derrick had scooped him and his passenger up like they were children and walked them the rest of the way. His arms had felt like steel bars under Basil and the more the monster weighed, the more they pressed into Basil until he was trying not to sob from pain.

And then Derrick had taken his first step onto the church ground and the monster vanished with a happy sigh. He'd offered to carry Basil back, but Basil refused with a red face until he was allowed to limp back mostly under his own power.

Now he was starting to wish he'd taken Derrick up on the offer. He felt like he could see the bruises forming on his legs, like red glowing pain.

And of course, there was The Cat. Looking at him from the alley, ready to take him out while he was weak.

Eventually Dene and Derrick managed to drag him inside, telling him that it was shock that was making him scream threats at the cat, swearing 'it would never get him'.

And then one day The Cat was killed. Basil had felt terrible for the feeling of relief he'd experienced upon seeing the ruined little body in the middle of the alley, surrounded by tiny bloody footprints. He'd managed not to dance for joy in front of Derrick, his dead boy, who'd picked up The Cat's body with a sadly hopeful expression, as if it would come back like Derrick had.

Basil kept his silence during the little funeral in the boiler room held by the various residents of the apartment building as they flung the sad ball of fluff into the furnace.

Eve, the gothgirl, had given a eulogy. She had even streaked her eyeliner dramatically for the occasion.

"The Cat, or as I knew him, Crowley St. Augustine Sebastian, was a good cat. Whether it was boy or girl, none of us thought to check before we chucked it in. But I like to assume he was all man.

"He was a good cat! He never projectile-hairballed passersby and was always up for a good cuddle. I remember when he first appeared in the alley, a tiny kitten that looked like it was made from Salisbury steak goo and pudding, rolled in a year's worth of pocket lint. I remember him yacking on my shoe.

"We will not see his like again, as I think he was some kind of mutant.

"But the good kind. The kind that liked pettins'."

Basil tuned out yelling that started less about her eulogy and more bizarrely about The Cat's true gender, gagging a little from the smell of burnt fur. The Cat's last revenge, he thought.

And so The Cat died, a victim of an unknown attack. Life went on, or at least an approximation of it in a place where half the residents had passed on in one form or another.

Until one night Basil looked out his window on the thirteenth floor and there The Cat was. Floating and staring at him. Hungry.

Basil screamed like a little girl.

End