The Window Sill Visitor

When I was nine, I lived with my grandmother in a cottage that overlooked a narrow, crooked lane. The cottage was old, with small rooms and a kitchen that barely fit the two of us. Every afternoon, I would sit on a stool and help my grandmother, whom I called Abuela, snap green beans or shell peas. The kitchen had a single window that faced the dining room, and through it I could see the table set for supper.

At precisely half past four, a new sound would weave through the afternoon quiet: a thin, plaintive mewling, as if a kitten were lost and hungry. It came from the open window, which we kept ajar to let in the breeze. I would look up from my bowl of beans and say, ‘Abuela, the cat is crying again.’

Abuela was hard of hearing, and she wore a hearing aid that whistled when it turned on. She would glance at the kitchen window, then at the door where our three cats lounged in the sun. Those cats would suddenly flatten their ears and hiss, or yowl in unease, as if they sensed something wrong. Abuela would shoo them all outside, then hand me a small saucer and a carton of milk. ‘Pour it on the sill,’ she would say, ‘and we’ll see what comes.’

I would pour the milk, and we would finish our supper in silence. The mewling would stop as soon as the milk was set down. When I returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes, the saucer would be empty, licked clean, but no cat in sight. This happened every day. I asked Abuela if she knew the cat’s owner, but she just shrugged and said, ‘It’s probably a stray from the woods.’

But I knew better. One night, as I drifted off to sleep, I had a dream. In the dream, I was in the dining room, and the kitchen window was open. On the sill sat a black and white cat with a pink collar. The cat stared at me with eyes that were not cat eyes—they were human, pale and knowing. It opened its mouth, but instead of a meow, a voice that sounded like my own came out: ‘Pour the milk, and I will come in.’

The dream repeated every night, and each time the cat took a step closer. On the third night, it was in the dining room, sitting on the table, its collar glinting. The next afternoon, when I poured the milk, I felt a chill. I looked at Abuela, who was straining to hear the usual cries, but they were gone. Instead, I heard a soft padding sound, like bare feet on the floorboards. I turned to the door, and there she was—a girl, no older than me, with black and white hair, wearing a pink collar around her neck. She smiled, and her teeth were sharp.

I screamed, and Abuela turned, but she saw nothing. The girl vanished, but the saucer was empty, and the milk was gone. That night, I had a new dream. The cat was on my bed, and it spoke with my voice: ‘You let me in. Now I need a body.’ In the morning, I found myself in front of the window, my hands dripping with milk, and the saucer shattered on the floor. Abuela stood behind me, her face gray with fear. ‘Mija,’ she whispered, ‘I remember that cat. It belonged to a girl who disappeared years ago. They said she was eaten by her own cat.’

I looked out the window, and on the sill sat the cat again, its pink collar now stained brown. It licked its lips, and I realized the milk in my hands was not milk but something thicker. Abuela pulled me away, but I could still hear the mewling, growing louder each afternoon. And in my dreams, the cat always says, ‘Pour the milk. Let me in.’ I have not dared to sleep since.