The Visitor by Ian Miles
The cat turned to face me. “Something terrible is going to happen” she said. Her voice was like that of a very young child.
I woke in confusion. It must have been a dream. In dreams, I am rarely surprised even by the most remarkable happenings. But what woke me was a soft knocking at the door.
The cat was still curled up in front of the dying fire, as she had been since dinner. One ear was cocked up to attend to the knocking. Now this seemed to have stopped.
I went to the front door. There was nobody there, nobody in the dark night, no figure in the misty streetlight.
But it was as if a sudden blast of freezing air swept past me, into the house, flinging the sitting room door open. Nothing to see, just the sense of a whirling presence.
I slammed the front door shut. Back in the sitting room, the fire was sputtering out, the cat gone. I realised that the scrabbling sound of her claws echoed in my ears. The door to the kitchen was open.
The kitchen was so cold, so suddenly cold, that my breath formed a small cloud. Was there something here? Moist droplets hung on the handle of the closed cupboard beneath the sink. Hadn’t I left this open when I taken the firelighters?
The handle was freezing.
The cat must have hidden in here, from whatever had terrified it. Her face seemed still contorted with fear, too much fear to even snarl. There was no doubt that she was dead, her cold body shrivelled and drained.
I backed away, into the sitting room. It seemed a matter of urgency to salvage the fire before it went out; I piled up some small pieces and a log onto it. After a few moments the flames began licking around the log. I collapsed into the red armchair where I’d been dozing a few minutes before.
My heart had stopped racing. The fire began to warm me again. I am now strangely calm. I will deal with the cat’s body later.
I feel no fear for myself. The fire is warm. I am in no danger, never have been.
But I do not want to think about what might happen to whoever next knocks on my door.
Otherwise 