The Hungry Little Kitty

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Once upon a time, there was a man who had no kindness in him. His house was warm when others were cold, his cupboards full when his neighbors went hungry. He did not greet strangers, did not offer bread to beggars, and when the wind howled through the streets, he bolted his door against it.   On the first night of winter, as the frost crept over the rooftops and the river froze solid, a small cat appeared at his doorstep. It was thin, its fur patchy, its tail bent where it had once been broken. It scratched at the wood with delicate paws, letting out a quiet, pitiful mewl.   The man kicked snow at it, scowled, and slammed the door.   In the morning, the cat was dead, curled stiff in the frost. He took it by the scruff, tossed it into the woods, and went about his day.   The next night, as he sat by his fire, he heard a familiar scratching at the door. When he opened it, his stomach turned. The same cat sat there, staring up at him with dull yellow eyes. The frostbite still marked its ears, its tail still bent at the break. The same cat he had thrown into the woods, now sitting on his doorstep once more.   His hands clenched. He grabbed the wretched thing by the scruff and carried it to the well, tossing it over the edge and listening for the splash. Satisfied, he dusted his hands and returned to bed.   But the next night, the scratching came again.   The cat was soaked, its fur hanging in icicle-thin strands, but its eyes still shone through the wet.   A cold knot formed in the man’s stomach. He snatched it up and carried it behind the house, where he buried it in a pit so deep the frost alone should have kept it locked in the earth.   The following night, it was back.   The dirt still clung to its fur, packed beneath its tiny claws.   The man cursed and grabbed his axe. He swung, fast and hard, cleaving the thing in two, watching as it collapsed in a heap of wet, broken bone. He burned what was left, feeding the flames high and hot, watching until nothing remained but cinders.   But on the next night, the cat sat at his doorstep once more, its blackened bones peeking through the charred remains of its skin.   Panic clawed through his chest. He ran it through with a pitchfork, cut it into pieces, fed its remains to the pigs. He threw it in the river, watched the current drag it beneath the ice. He crushed its skull beneath his boot, left its body out for the wolves.   And still, every night, it came back.   The cat that had drowned. The cat that had burned. The cat that had been torn apart and buried deep in the earth. Each one returned, a little worse, a little more wrong, until the thing scratching at his door was no longer a cat at all.   By the seventh night, the man sat by his fire, trembling. The wind outside was low, constant, carrying no snow, only silence. He dared not move, dared not breathe, as the first claw ran slow and deliberate across the wood.   Then another.   And another.   Not just at the door.   At the windows.   At the walls.   He rose on shaking legs. The fire cast long shadows against the room, stretching the shapes of his furniture, twisting them into something unnatural. The scratching grew louder, claws raking across the floorboards now, though the door was still closed.   Then the whispers began.   Not words. Not voices. Just a soft, growing chorus of sound, pressing against the walls, filling the space between the crackling fire and the pounding of his heart.   The door creaked open.   The firelight flickered.   And standing there, in his doorway, were all of them.   The cat he had left in the cold, its breath still frozen in its throat. The cat he had drowned, its fur slick with ice. The one he had burned, its bones charred black. The one he had buried, the one he had broken, the one he had fed to the pigs.   They did not move at first.   They only stared.   Then, together, as one, they stepped forward.   The fire guttered out.   The next morning, when the townsfolk passed by his house, they found the door hanging open. The fire had gone cold. The chairs were overturned, the table scratched deep with claw marks. But there was no sign of the man.   Only a cat sat curled in the hearth, licking its paws.   Its belly was full.   And it did not look hungry.
 

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