The Dull Green Gaze

One sweltering August afternoon, I dialed my friend Mara, hoping to shake off the boredom that clung to me like humidity. ‘Sleepover?’ I asked, already mentally packing my bag. ‘Sure, anything to lift my spirits,’ she replied, her voice thin. When I pressed her for the reason, she sighed. ‘Percival passed away last night. He was seventeen, you know. I found him in his favorite sunbeam, peaceful as could be.’ I murmured condolences and told her I’d be right over, my heart heavy for her loss.

Mara lived in a converted mill, all exposed brick and creaky wooden beams, tucked beside a canal that barely moved. As I stepped into her living room, the air was thick with the smell of old paper and dust. I settled onto a worn velvet couch, and that’s when a flicker of movement snagged my attention. In the corner of my eye, something black and solid. I turned my head slowly, and there it sat: a cat. Black as pitch, with stark white paws, and eyes the color of river stones, dull green and ancient. It stared at me, unblinking, and my skin prickled with an inexplicable dread.

I forced myself to look back at Mara, who was pouring tea. ‘What did Percival look like?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. She set the kettle down, a sad smile on her lips. ‘Mostly black, except for his feet—white as snow. He had these long, extravagant whiskers, and his eyes were a kind of greenish-gray, almost like moss.’ My stomach lurched. I turned back to the spot where the cat had been, but it was gone, as if it had never been there at all. A cold draft brushed my neck, though the windows were sealed and the fans still.

Night descended like a heavy curtain. We’d watched a movie, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying that apparition. Mara had gone to the bathroom, and I sat alone in the dim lamplight. Then I felt it—a soft, tickling brush against my hand, like fur. I jerked away, my heart hammering. There was nothing there, yet the sensation lingered, a phantom touch that made my skin crawl. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to calm down, and eventually, exhaustion won. I drifted into a restless sleep.

In that sleep, I dreamed. The cat was there again, sitting on my chest, its weight a pressure I could feel. It opened its mouth, and a voice like gravel underfoot spoke, not from its throat but from somewhere inside my skull. ‘You see me,’ it said. ‘But you must not tell her. She cannot know I’ve returned. Not yet.’ I tried to speak, but my tongue was lead. The cat’s eyes bore into mine, those dull green orbs filled with a terrible, ancient knowledge. ‘I have a task for you. You must help me find my final resting place. The place where I truly died. Only then can I leave.’

I woke with a gasp, slick with sweat. The room was still dark, and Mara’s soft breathing came from the bed across the room. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that the dream was no ordinary nightmare. The cat appeared in my peripheral vision again, sitting on the windowsill, its silhouette stark against the moonlit glass. It tilted its head, as if waiting. And then it vanished, leaving me with a whispered echo in my mind: ‘The old mill wheel. Where the water stills.’

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was real. I slipped out of bed, my feet bare on the cold wooden floor, and padded to the window. The canal outside glittered under the moon, and where the old mill wheel had once turned, a dark, stagnant pool reflected the sky. My heart raced. I felt drawn to that spot, an urge so strong it was almost a physical pull. I pulled on my jacket and crept out of the house, into the humid night.

The air was cloying, and the grass was slick with dew. I reached the edge of the canal, where the old wheel, broken and mossy, sat half-submerged. The water was still, like black glass. I peered into it, and something glinted below the surface. I knelt down and reached in, my fingers closing around a cold, metallic object. It was a locket, tarnished and old. My fingers trembled as I opened it. Inside was a faded photograph of Mara as a child, holding a kitten with white paws and dull green eyes. And behind the photo, a scrap of paper with a date—yesterday’s date.

As I stood there, a sound broke the silence: a low, mournful mew, echoing across the water. I turned, and there it was again, the black cat, sitting on the bank, its eyes glowing faintly. It let out another mew, then turned and disappeared into the night, leaving me alone with the locket and a growing horror. I realized then that I had been chosen to deliver a secret that would shatter Mara’s heart, a secret the cat was doomed to carry even beyond death. And I knew, with dread, that the cat would not rest until that secret was told. But how could I tell her? And what would happen if I did?