Hunger will always prevail—indifferent to the rise and fall of civilization. The sounds of revelry will fill the night air as the Black Death consumes the poor, the forgotten, the unwanted.
Lord Thornewood cares not. Behind his hedgerow labyrinth and manicured trees, his life remains untouched. Safe. A drudgery. Tonight’s masquerade promises a much-needed distraction from the pestilence creeping through the countryside. A night of indulgence and a chance for a new conquest to sate his boiling blood.
He will make his entrance only after the last of his guests arrives. The lords and ladies simper to be seen at his grand fête. His mask is a lion—the king of all beasts. Ambrose, his trusted valet, announces his master to the waiting crowd. The music swells. He descends the marble staircase to their obsequious applause. Wine flows. The first waltz echoes through the hall as his guests bow and take their places.
He surveys the assembled flesh. So many to choose from, and all eager to be taken. The masked ladies—hares, deer, and exotic birds—press close, desperate to be seen. Thornewood stands proud at the center of it all, as is his right. The lords know their place and await his decision.
Then he sees her.
She glides towards him, and for the first time in years, a woman’s walk and gaze quicken his heart. She is near him now. He breathes her in as the dance begins. She smells of earth and wild flowers, her musk intoxicates him. She does not speak. Her mask, the face of a domesticated cat. How fitting. He smiles. Natural that she would seek him out. He will have his prize.
The dance ends, and he offers his arm. Ambrose brings wine for his new pet. While his guests debauch below, he will show her his manor. They climb the grand stair, past the portraits of his ancestors, each face fixed with unflinching approval. He regales her with tales of lineage and triumph. She must know how fortunate she is to have been chosen. He asks her name to inscribe in his book.
She purrs in his ear. The beast inside him growls in reply.
He takes her—sweat and flesh and teeth. His vision blurs, and he sinks into the sleep only bliss can bring.
A new dawn and his new pet is gone. All the better for him to recover.
“Ambrose, you fool, bring my chamber pot at once.” He stretches and taunts. Her scent lingers on his goose-feather bed. He may deign to have her again. Where is that man? He knows I have awoken. The doors to his sanctum burst open.
“Ah, there you are. Hurry your old bones and draw me a bath.” He untangles himself with unconcealed wrath.
“My word! Is that you making all that racket?” Ambrose scurries to the bed. “How in heaven’s name did you get in here?”
“Have you finally lost your senses? Bring my pot, or face the consequences.”
“The master will have my hide if he sees you.” Ambrose throws back the bedding.
“Ambrose, it is far too early for—”
The withered old man grabs Thornewood by the scruff and lifts him bodily from the bed.
Thornewood twists and screams. “How dare you! Release me!”
“Enough of that.” Ambrose’s grip tightens. “My God, you do smell ripe. It’ll be the work of an entire morning to clean all this mess.”
“Unhand me!” Thornewood swipes at Ambrose—not with fists, but with unsheathed nails and paws. He stares down at his dangling arms covered in matted orange fur, tipped with white socks. What sorcery is this? I’ve had too much wine, and now I dream.
Ambrose descends the marble staircase, calling out for the gardener. “Get rid of this mangy thing before that pompous shit sees it in the manor.”
“Pompous? Shit? How dare you!” Thornewood stretches to bite the valet’s gnarled hand.
“What d’ye want done wi’ it?” The gardener leans closer to look at Thornewood. “Reckon he’d be a right good rat-catcher, that one.”
“A rat-catcher? You fiend!” Thornewood howls and reaches for the gardener’s face.
“I highly doubt Lord Thornewood would appreciate this mangy thing running about his gardens.” Ambrose holds him out to the gardener. “Take it and put it out of its misery.”
The gardener takes hold of Thornewood’s neck, careful to stay out of reach of his claws and teeth.
“Bloody business, this.” The gardener mutters as he turns Thornewood to look into his eyes. He carries him outside to the garden shack.
Thornewood’s tail tucks in under his body as he looks around the room full of sharp tools. He scratches his own leg to get himself to wake from this nightmare. He draws blood but remains trapped in the dream. The gardener searches through the containers for the right tool. Thornewood trembles. If I die in a dream, will I ever wake?
“What they don’t know can’t kill ‘em.” The gardener opens a burlap sack and drops Thornewood inside. “Aye, ye’re a proper lil’ hunter, that’s plain t’see.” He closes the sack and carries Thornewood away from the manor.
Thornewood strains to see through the mesh of the sack. They pass through the gate to his estate and walk for miles. “Please let me out. I won’t punish you, I swear it. I don’t even know your name.”
“Hush now, we’re near done wi’ it.”
What seems like an eternity of time passes, and the gardener sets the sack on the ground. He holds it open. “Out wi’ ye.”
Thornewood crouches low, stalking forward. The stench of the city is unmistakable—sweet rot, soot, and filth. He emerges, squinting into the noonday sun. The gardener towers over him, smiling down. “G’wan then, plenty o’ juicy rats t’hunt.”
Thornewood’s ears flatten against his skull. “You mean to leave me here? In this filth?”
“No fretin’ now, Ambrose’d ‘ad yer head.” The gardener straightens to his full height. “Clean yerself up a bit, and someone might take ye in.”
The hairs on Thornewood’s tail bristled. “Clean myself? You wretch, how dare you speak to me in this way!”
The gardener smiles at Thornewood and walks away.
Thornewood’s tail loses all strength and tucks between his legs. “Come back, please.”
The gardener looks back one last time and waves at Thornewood before disappearing down an alley. Thornewood stares after him, willing him to return. Minutes pass. He surveys his surroundings. He is in a narrow alley with stone walls on either side. Piles of trash and human filth are all around him. The odor is overwhelming. His body trembles.
Something moves out of the corner of his eye. He stares and slinks down lower. His muscles are tight, and his breathing is shallow. A rotten apple rocks back and forth. Thornewood squints and slinks forward. The apple moves again, and Thornewood freezes. He can smell sweet blood, and he hears something breathing as though it were next to him. His feet move silently as he closes the distance. His eyes are heavy with the ecstasy of the hunt, drunk on the scent of fresh meat.
Thornewood leaps and crashes down. Teeth sink into soft flesh. It screams, and with a twist of Thornewood’s head, the rat’s neck snaps. Warm blood fills his mouth as he devours his prey. He sits back with a satisfaction he has never known and cleans blood and brains off his paws and face.
He struts away from his kill, tail held tall with pride. The city seems empty, but for the rats. The stink of stale death is everywhere. Thornewood walks through the streets and occasionally calls out for the gardener. He continues away from the city into the countryside. He feels tired. His body finds a warm, soft spot, and he curls into himself, letting his eyes drift shut. Sleep takes him.
Thornewood awakens. Eyes thick with sleep. What a marvelous dream, though he will change himself into a great cat in the retelling.
He sits up and stretches. It feels as though he has slept for days.
“Ambrose, you old fool. I am ready for my breakfast.”
He rubs his eyes and blinks against the morning light.
This is not his room. This is not his bed. He looks down, and his paws are sinking into a pile of hay.
He howls.
Thank you for reading! This is my day eight submission for Bradley Ramsey’s Domain of the Devourer month long challenge. Please hit the like button to help me win Bradley’s narration of one of my stories from the month!
It is also my week one submission for Mina Howell and Edward.Marlo.Ruiz’s Dreadful Tales of October!
This story was inspired by the father of all horror Edgar Allen Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death.
If you enjoyed this story check out these other submissions for Bradley’s challenge:
Cover from Adobe Stock Images by hannamonika.
Loved this story! Everything about it was (please don't hate me) "purr-fect."
WOW I love this!
The beginning was really hot and I'm really sorry to say that but jeez 😂
I love how you used the Masque of the Red Death as inspiration for this, Poe would be proud 💕