This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-10-12 12:00:32+00:00.

Mara was cute when we first got her. She still is. But damn. There are things about her I wish weren’t true. She was six months old when we got her, and cute as a button. She’s a black cat, with bright yellow eyes and a pouty little face. Mostly, she’s friendly. She’ll sit on your lap and demand chin scratches or food. Sometimes both. We called her Mara. Not sure why, but the name stuck.

The trouble started the night before Halloween. Devil’s Night. I was eleven. For my costume, I wanted to be Catgirl, so Mom set about making an elaborate costume. I looked adorable, wearing that black and white maid dress, long winding whiskers and fuzzy little ears. I loved it so much that I wore it to school the day before Halloween, to try it out. Kids teased, but I didn’t care. When I got home from school, my cat was going crazy, which was odd. Mara was generally well-behaved.

“What is it, Mara?” I asked, still wearing my costume.

When I reached down to pick her up, Mara hissed, and swiped at me. Her eyes, tiny slits of rage, scared me good. I dropped my backpack and ran upstairs, crying. Mother wasn’t home yet, but my older sister Bailey was. She told me to stop sulking. Then she saw my arm.

“The cat did that?”

My arm was glistening red. Puss was spewing from where the cat clawed me. Poison filled my veins, or so it felt. Bailey rushed me to the washroom and, to her credit, cleaned up my wounds. It stung badly, and I made a fuss, but I got through it. When Mom got home, I showed her, still sulking about the stupid cat. Mom was too tired to deal with me, but I could see the alarm in her eyes. My arm looked bad. Really bad.

“Somebody let the cat out!” Mom hollered, later that evening, as we prepared for bed.

The cat wouldn’t shut up, moaning and scratching at the door. By now, it’s full-dark. And cold. As instructed, I let the cat outside, then I scooted upstairs to watch TV before bed. One more sleep until Halloween, I reminded myself, anticipating the thrill of trick-or-treating in my Catgirl costume.

I slept. At some point that night, I was woken by a disturbing sound. It sounded like an alarm. My mind scrambled as I stirred from under the blankets.

RRREEEEEEEEEEEKK.

“What’s making that noise?” I asked my sister, who was sleeping in her own bed, next to mine.

“Go find out!” she snapped.

“Nuh, uh.”

Bailey was throwing a fit. “Why won’t Mom do anything?”

But we both knew the answer. Mom can sleep through anything. And no wonder, she works six, sometimes seven days a week. Bailey flung herself off the bed, and stood over me.

“Come with me,” she said.

I did. Sleepy-eyed, scared and confused, I held her hand as we descended downstairs toward the front door. My heart was threatening to explode, my palms sweaty and gross. I knew something bad was about to happen. I could sense it. This was no ordinary sound. Not even close.

RRREEEEEEEEEEEKK.

“I wonder what it is,” Bailey muttered under her breath. Her voice quivered with fear. If my older sister was scared, it MUST be bad. For a moment, we simply stood at the front door, trembling. The sound was close, right outside the door. Bailey took a deep breath.

“Ready?”

I wasn’t. Not even close.

RRREEEEEEEEEEEKK.

The door opened. We both jumped.

“AAAAAAAHHH!”

The cat darted inside like a jack-in-the-box. Mara was crazy-eyed, zooming around the living room like a bouncy ball on speed. Her claws were crimson-red.

“Bobbie, look.”

I followed my sister’s gaze, and gulped. I was petrified. But I couldn’t look away, no matter how hard I tried. Lying dead at the doorway, like some sickly offering, was a rat. The rat was torn to shreds.

Bailey kicked it, but not too hard, and its eyeball rolled down the steps leading to the driveway. The empty socket exploded, leaking a tremendous amount of blood. Honestly, I didn’t think rats could bleed so much. My sister pulled me inside and slammed the door.

“Mara!” she shouted. “Baaaaad kitty!”

Mara could care less. She was stretched across the couch, triumphantly licking her paws, dripping blood everywhere. She was purring. Truth be told, I was more scared of Mom’s reaction. She loved the couch, it was very expensive (as she often told us). If she saw those bloodstains, there would be hell to pay.

“Go fetch some soap and water, and clean up the mess.”

I did, while Bailey scooped up the dead rat and buried it somewhere in the yard. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, except that we managed to keep this a secret. The first of many.

…

Devil’s Night was gloomy the following year, I remember, and rained day and night. Before going to bed, Mara was acting bizarre, scratching at the door, wanting outside. So, I let her out. Had to, otherwise she’d never shut up. Then I went to bed. At 3 AM, there came a terrible noise:

RRREEEEEEEEEEEKK.

My eyes snapped open. Bailey was sitting on the bed, crying. I was stunned. Seeing her cry was the worst thing in the world. She was in high school, and high school kids never cried.

The moment our eyes met, I remembered. Last year, this very same thing happened. I’d long forgotten. Hand in hand, we tip-toed downstairs. By now the sound was at a terrifying volume, like an air raid siren. How anyone could sleep through the racket was beyond me.

Bailey reached for the handle; the door violently opened. The cold hit me like a sucker punch. I shivered. It was like stepping inside a giant refrigerator, the ones they use at restaurants. In a frenzy, Mara dashed inside, while torrents of rain splashed our feet.

“What’s that?” I managed to ask. Whatever it was, I couldn’t keep my eyes off it.

“A possum.”

I looked at Bailey, confused. “Possum?” I’d never heard of such a thing. But whatever it was, it was dead. Its head was dangling vicariously from its water-soaked body. Maggots were crawling out of its neck and mouth. At least the rain washed away the blood. Bailey handed me a shovel. Before I could complain, she held open a green garbage bag, so I scooped up the disparaged possum. THUD it went, then WOOSH, the bag closed. Just then, lightning flashed, and we both jumped.

“Is that?”

Bailey didn’t need to finish. We both saw it. Just beyond the rim of the porch was a line of carcasses leading to the road. Rats. Six in total. Bailey dropped the bag and ran inside the house. I followed.

We didn’t go outside again. Nor did we dispense of the dead rats. Or the possum, for that matter. Instead, Bailey prepared some hot chocolate, and we retreated to our bedrooms, giggling and pretending to be brave. Which we clearly weren’t. We even cracked some jokes; “That’s what you get for having a black cat,” or “The Devil called, he wants his cat back.” Stuff like that.

Although we joked, we were scared. REALLY scared. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in real life. Then Bailey turned off the bedroom light, and we screamed.

“AAAHHHH!”

A pair of yellow eyes, blinking in the darkness.

“Mara!” Bailey shouted. “GET OUT!”

But Mara didn’t move. She was perched on my sister’s dresser, staring. Her eyes were lasers, never blinking. Nobody spoke. You could hear a pin drop. I rolled over and pretended to sleep, exasperated with worry. What if Mara tries to kill me in my sleep? What if she’s hiding more dead animals? What if she brings them into the bedroom? Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

The next day, the dead animals were gone. Probably washed away by the rain, or scavenged by coyotes. We didn’t dare tell Mom.

…

The following two Devils’ Nights were similar, except each year the killings got more severe: raccoons, bunnies, hawks, even bats. Always six in total. Or seven, if you include the offering laying at the foot of the door. The bats scared me most. What if Mara got rabies? Could this get any worse?

We were perplexed. Mara was completely normal the rest of the year. Yes, she’s a cat, so normal isn’t the best choice of words – cats are anything but normal (as any cat owner can attest), – but she never left a trail of dead bodies. Nor did she make strange noises. If she’d go outside, it was only to sunbathe on the front porch or climb the neighbor’s tree. And she never went far.

Last year was different. Mara upped her game. I knew we were in serious trouble. By now, she’s five: a fully grown feline, and a force to be reckoned with. Bailey too, was older, and had little time for her younger sibling. Honestly, I’m surprised she stayed home that night. Maybe she wanted to protect me. Or maybe she was curious, and wanted to see what happens next. I don’t know, I never asked. Besides, this was our Big Secret: Every Devil’s Night, our cat goes on a killing spree.

Neither of us slept. How could we? The cat kept us awake, clawing at the door. “Go let her out,” Bailey ordered. I did as told. Like the previous two years, we stayed up late watching cheesy horror movies from the 80’s. Last year we watched Pet Cemetery, the original. This year, Cat’s Eye seemed appropriate. At some point, I must’ve fallen asleep because I was startled awake by a terrible noise.

RRREEEEEEEEEEEKK.

Oh, how I hated that sound. It was like a thousand fingernails scratching inside my skull. The sound cut right to the bone. Bailey flicked on the bedroom lights, then shot me a look that said, Let’s get this over with, shall we?

We went. The stairs creaked like nuclear bombs, each footfall more severe. We needed to keep quiet. Our mother was sick, and taking time off work. Lately, her sleep was …

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1g1yk5k/every_devils_night_my_cat_goes_on_a_killing_spree/