Chapter Four

No wild beasts roared or pounced. No fireballs bloomed against the sky. A choir of daemons did strike up a hellish, lurching shanty, but that was to be expected. It was a rough neighbourhood. No, much to his embarrassment, the direst peril to darken his doorstep that night was a small black cat.

Surprisingly undaunted by the sight of a frightened man in a flannel gown wielding a potato masher, the cat padded languorously into the house, snaked around his ankles and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to throw a furtive glance over his shoulder at the empty doorstep before shivering and following suit.

Inside the house, he was marginally more comfortable; at least physically. The cat had helped itself to a seat at the table, and was eyeing him expectantly.

"Lewis." he read aloud, fingering the engraved pendant attached to its collar. "Who are you, Lewis?" Lewis made no attempt to respond. Turning the pendant over simply revealed the number sixty-three. Sighing, he pulled up a chair and sat beside the creature, which promptly leapt onto his lap and curled up.

The implications of this were diabolical and profound, of that there was no question. Thoughts churned about his head like a sour, anxious butter, while the tiny beast in his lap stretched and began to purr. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, Lewis belonged to someone, and to that someone he must be returned. However, it had to be said that considering the legion unearthly horrors he had been prepared to confront some five minutes ago, he had been immensely relieved to find a small cat waiting on the other side of his front door. Also, the social media response to the last couple of chapters had been frankly a little lacklustre, and writing a cat into the story could only help matters. Particularly if the cat in question could be persuaded to pose for a photograph.

After a quick photo shoot of which Lewis was at least partially aware, and a perfunctory workout in which Lewis was not involved other than perhaps in an evaluative capacity, it was time to take the lost beast home. Scooping the cat up in his arms, he left the house and turned left, heading up the street in search of number sixty-three. He was stopped dead in his shambling tracks, however, by a sight he knew would alter and entangle the twin trajectories of their lives irreversibly: a body, concealed within a body bag, being wheeled out through a neighbour's front door by ashen-faced paramedics. The front door in question swung and clattered in the chill wind, and bore two cast iron plaques in the shape of a six and a three.