The Cinder Path

I was eight that summer, the year my mother’s sister took a house-sitting job in a fishing village called Saltmarsh. The house, a narrow, three-story building wedged between a bakery and a chandler’s, belonged to a couple who had gone abroad for a season—the husband to a geological survey in Greenland, the wife to a nursing fellowship in a remote African clinic. The only residents left were their two cats: a fat, orange tabby named Marmalade and a sleek, black cat called Licorice. A third, a ragged gray tom named Cinder, had vanished a fortnight before we arrived, and the owners had left a note asking that if he turned up, we should feed him but not fuss, as he was a ‘wild one.’

My aunt, Delia, was a tall, quiet woman who used to laugh at my jokes and let me help her bake bread and fold laundry. Her husband, Uncle Frank, worked the night shift at a nearby cannery, so on the evenings he was away, I’d stay over. The house was musty, smelling of fish glue and old wood, but I loved it. My favorite spot was the attic window, which looked down on the village’s main street, where the evening crowds—fishermen, tourists, and locals—bustled home from the day’s work. I’d sit there with Licorice in my lap, watching the lamplights flicker on, and feel safe and warm.

The first strange thing happened on a Tuesday. Delia was downstairs, making a stew, and I was in the attic, sorting through a box of dress-up clothes left by the owners. I heard a soft scrabbling behind me, near the chimney, and turned to see Cinder—the missing tom—perched on a dusty trunk. He was staring at me with eyes that seemed too bright, too yellow, and his fur was matted with something dark, like tar, and clinging to his paws was a wad of grey, fibrous stuff, like dried seaweed. He made no sound, but he flicked his tail once, then vanished through a gap in the wall. I called down to Delia, but by the time she came up, he was gone, and she said I must have imagined it. But I hadn’t.

That night, as I lay in the narrow guest bed, I heard a low, guttural purring outside the window. The window was partway open, and the curtain billowed. I leaned out and saw Cinder sitting on the fire escape, and beside him, two other cats—not Marmalade or Licorice, but strange cats, all grey and lean, with the same bright yellow eyes. They were all looking at me. Then, in unison, they turned their heads toward the dark alley behind the bakery and slunk away. I would have dismissed it as a cat gathering, but beneath the purrs, I could swear I heard a word, shaped like a hiss: ‘Come.’

The next day, I noticed the cats’ presence during the day, too. Marmalade and Licorice, usually friendly, were now jittery, refusing to enter the house, only staring at the basement door with flattened ears. Delia thought it was because the basement was damp and musty (it had flooded once, and the owner had never cleaned it fully). On a whim, I decided to explore the basement, though Delia had forbidden it, saying it was no place for a child. But curiosity got the better of me. I opened the door at the foot of the stairs, and a wave of cold, stale air hit me, carrying a faint, fishy smell. The stairs were steep, and I had to feel my way down in the dim light. At the bottom, I found the floor slick with a black, oily substance, and in a corner, a heap of burlap sacks. I lifted one, and beneath it, I found a trapdoor. I pulled it open, revealing a dark, earthen pit. From within came a chorus of mews, thin and desperate. I leaned over, and I could make out two kittens, barely old enough to open their eyes, lying in a nest of grey, stringy material. They were shivering, and their eyes were cloudy—they were blind. I reached down, and as my fingers touched them, I felt a vibration, a hum, and the kittens suddenly turned their heads toward me, and their eyes cleared, and they were yellow, like Cinder’s. And they spoke—well, not spoke, but I heard in my mind: ‘You came.’ I screamed and scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door.

I ran to tell Delia, but she was on the phone, talking to Uncle Frank, complaining about the smell coming from the basement and about how the cats wouldn’t come in. I stood there, shaking, unable to find words. She hung up and saw me, and I burst into tears, babbling about the trapdoor and the kittens, but she grabbed my shoulders, her face pale. She said, ‘I went down there this morning to put some things in storage, and I saw the trapdoor, but there was no nest, no kittens—just an old rag doll and some torn cloth.’ She led me down to show me, and indeed, the pit was empty, the burlap sacks gone. The floor was clean. But when we came up, the two cats were at the kitchen window, staring in, and Cinder was there, too, and for the first time, I saw that his fur was not grey with dirt, but a pale, thin, almost translucent grey, and his eyes were like burning coals. He opened his mouth, and I could see his teeth were too many, and too sharp, and he seemed to grin.

That evening, as the sun set and the high street grew quiet, I was alone in the kitchen with Delia. The overhead light flickered, then went out, plunging the room into a deep gloom, broken only by the dying light from the window. The cats had gone, but I sensed them watching from the shadows. Delia lit a candle, and I saw her hands trembling. She whispered, ‘I didn’t believe the owner when he said the house had a history. He told me stories about his grandmother, who lived here in the ’40s. She was a witch, they say, and she could command the cats to do her bidding. She made a pact, and it kept her family safe, but at a price.’ I asked what price, and she shook her head, saying, ‘She left a letter in the library, but it was sealed. I never read it.’ We went to the library, a small room lined with shelves, and on the desk lay a yellowed envelope, addressed to ‘The Caretaker.’ Delia opened it. The letter was written in a spidery hand, and it said: ‘The cats are not pets; they are keepers. The third one, Cinder, must never be let through the cinder path, for it is the gate, and the kitten in the basement is the key. Do not feed the grey. Do not look into their eyes. And if you hear a scratching at the door of the root cellar, do not open it, for it will be the shadows of those who came before, and they will want to come home.’ As we read, a scratching began, not at the cellar door, but at the back door—a rhythmic, insistent scrape, as of claws on wood. Delia froze. I ran to the window and saw, in the thin light of the moon, a pack of grey cats—dozens of them—pressed against the glass, their eyes all yellow, all focused on me. And Cinder stood at the front, his mouth open, and in the shadows behind him, I saw not other cats, but shapes that were too tall, too thin, and they moved like smoke.

I grabbed Delia’s hand, and we fled to the attic, the only room with a locking door. We bolted it, but the scratching grew louder, and the house began to tremble, and the walls seemed to breathe. From the basement, we heard a low, resonant mew, and the sound of claws on the stairs. Then, silence. Delia and I huddled together, shaking, as the silence stretched. After what felt like hours, the scratching stopped, and the room was still. We dared to peek through the window, and the street was empty, the cats gone. The moon was high, and all was calm. But when we finally descended, we found the back door open, and the floor of the kitchen covered in a silty, grey ash—and in the ash, footprints, small, with five toes, but they were not human—they were the prints of a child, but between the toes, there were webs. And peering out from the basement doorway, I saw a pale face, with eyes of yellow, and it smiled, and it spoke, but not in my mind—in a clear, childish voice, it said, ‘Papa says I can come out now.’

We left that house the next morning, and never returned. The owner later wrote to my aunt, saying that all three cats had never come back, and that the house had been sold, as it was ‘too quiet.’ But sometimes, in my dreams, I hear that voice, and I see the grey face, and I know that the cinder path is still there, and if I ever go back, it will be open. And the cats will be waiting, and they will not be friendly.