The Hunter Downstairs

I have spent the last four days in the basement, hiding from the woman upstairs.

The nights have been cold, tonight especially. But there is an exposed copper pipe that I use to keep warm. The heat is comforting, essential even, but most of all, I’m drawn to the pipe because the rats are drawn to the pipe. They scurry around, chirping. A single beam of light comes from under the door and down the stairs, spearing through the otherwise black basement and reflecting off the rats’ black eyes. I see and hear the rats in flashes, but most of all, I smell them.

The rats are drawn to the copper pipe and its heat. And that is where I wait for them.

I clean myself in the meantime. I lick my shoulders and arms. I wet my hands and rub my chest and legs with the moisture. The fur on my back is just out of reach and the collar is too tight to get my hand under, but I do what I can. Finally I roll my damp hands behind my ears and down my head.

I pause, hearing a squeak. The rat comes closer, its paws tapping the cold basement concrete. I lean back into a crouch and sit deep until my leg muscles strain. My heart builds to a rattle. My body begins to twitch, preparing for the explosion.

A shadow crosses the light under the door at the top of the stairs. I see the silhouette of two feet lingering by the door. The door opens. Light pours down the basement steps, not quite reaching my pipe or my rat or me.

“Tiger, are you down here?” the woman calls, now a full silhouette against the upstairs light.

My heart shakes with fear now instead of excitement. I say nothing.

“Tiger?”

The woman lingers at the door. But perhaps she understands that darkened basements are better left to creatures like me, and she closes the door leaving me to remain hidden for another night.

With the light gone, my eyes adjust back to black. The rat I had been hunting is staring back at me. His eyes are the wide black beads of prey. He spends his whole life being hunted; he is designed to be hunted. And in a moment like this, where he has left his companions seeking the heat of a copper pipe, where in his innocence or ignorance he has stumbled upon a creature in the dark, a creature like me—there is nothing left for him to do but surrender.

When he squeaks, I pounce.

My hand traps the rat’s tail in one instant, and my teeth close on him in the next. The rat screams, whipping its tail against my cheek. I bite down harder and several things pop inside my mouth. The rat’s flailing becomes tired as hot blood drips down my chin. I shake the rat a few times, jingling my collar. When I am certain it is dead, I drop it on the cold cement.

I look up the stairs at the single beam of light. It should be turning off soon, then I will bring the woman my prize. I will leave it by her bed while she sleeps then crawl back to my domain.

I use the time to wash myself. Down here in the basement, cleanliness is a constant battle. When I rub my hand against my face and lick it, my hand tastes like blood. I stare at the rat while I work. Its bulging eyes are still open.

I am well cleaned by the time the light turns off.

Careful not to squirt out more blood, I take the rat by its back fur, holding it in the tips of my teeth. I crawl from my spot against the pipe and up the stairs. I have learned which stairs creek, and I avoid them. I am silent in the dark except for the occasional chime from the collar latched around my neck, tight to the point of straining. My presence is completely unknown. I could exist in any house at any time. The door is no problem for me.

At first I think I have made a mistake. I still hear voices. The basement opens upon the kitchen, but the voices come from the rooms beyond.

As I move past the bathroom and into the living room, the voices grow louder. But by now I have identified the voices as the desensitized exclamations of news anchors. Their voices reach every depth and height of the human tone as they recount a string of recent break-ins.

“And not one thing of value is ever stolen,” the news anchor says, starting high and ending low. On the T.V., the anchor turns to his co-host. “I don’t know about you, Jill, but stealing or not, a home invader who skins family pets is just evil.” His frown becomes a smile in a blink. “Next up, Jill, we’ll be taking a look at one hundred and one places you can spend the most money gift shopping this holiday season.”

I drop the rat from my mouth, unsettled by what I’ve heard.

The woman was here recently. I can still smell her. It was not good for the woman to be watching these horrible stories. She is a good woman. She leaves food out for me. And when I vomited the food up earlier, she was kind enough to clean it. She deserves the gift I have for her.

However, I prefer not to wander far from my basement and my copper pipe. I decide to leave the rat here. The woman will appreciate it just as much in the morning.

I swat the rat a final time and turn back, my collar jingling.

My heart goes cold when I hear the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. A figure steps into the living room, illuminated only by the T.V.’s glow. My thoughts are on the news, and I stand there crouched, waiting for the figure to move first.

“Tiger?” the woman says.

I relax a little but stay in the shadows.

“Tiger, come here, boy.” She makes kissy noises, calling to me.

I give in and make my way to her in the dark. She reaches fingers down for me to sniff. I do and then lick them.

The woman laughs. “Where’ve you been hiding? Let’s go to bed.” She pulls her hand back. “Where did I put the remote?”

I hear her hand find the light switch on the wall. She clicks it on, and I know it is all over.

She is silent at first. Her pupils expand, making her eyes black and beady like the rat’s. For a moment I see myself in the reflection of those eyes.

An old man, completely hairless and naked, except for the black and orange cat skin held to his back by a collar squeezing the pelt’s neck and his neck together, the threads of the collar near bursting. And blood dripping from his lips.

I stand up, moving from all fours to two. My joints pop after spending days hunched in the basement.

When she screams, I pounce.