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She stopped in mid-sentence. I felt a mixture of amazement and panic. Ellie’s imagination was elaborate enough to have Mr. Chickbaum interrupt her when she was speaking.
 

“I don’t know what that word means,” Ellie said. “Just remember, you promised. When you get the door open and your friends come through, you promise you’ll show yourselves to Mommy and Daddy?”
 

Valerie and I glanced at each other. Her expression mirrored my own confusion. I didn’t understand this bit about the door.
 

“And then you can live here with me?”
 

Valerie shrugged. We turned our attention back to the door.
 

“The whole world? But you’ll let everybody else stay, right? You won’t hurt them?”
 

I bit my lip, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.
 

“How soon until you can open the door?” A pause, and then, “Really? That
is
soon.”
 

Then, “But you always spend the night. How come you can’t now?”
 

“Okay. I understand.”
 

“I love you, too, Mr. Chickbaum. You’re my best friend forever and ever.”
 

Ellie grew quiet. We stood there, listening to the silence, waiting for more. Small feet padded across the carpet again. The box spring beneath her mattress creaked.
 

The sound of small feet continued for a brief moment after.
 

It startled me. That couldn’t be right. She’d already gotten back into bed. I glanced at Valerie to see if she’d notice it, too. If she had, she gave no indication. I shook my head, frustrated that I’d let my imagination get the best of me. First, I’d been listening for Mr. Chickbaum’s voice. Now I was imagining his footsteps.
 

I yawned, realizing just how tired I was. Worrying about Ellie had left me mentally and emotionally exhausted. In the dim hallway light, I noticed dark circles under Valerie’s eyes. It was impacting her, as well.
 

We tiptoed carefully down the hall and went into our bedroom. We didn’t speak—undressing in silence. I brushed my teeth, gargled, and pissed. Then I climbed into bed while Valerie took her turn in the bathroom. When she slid into bed beside me, we still didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. Our fears were mutual. We lay there in the dark, holding each other, afraid for our daughter.

I didn’t remember falling asleep, so when I awoke in the middle of the night, I was startled and disoriented. My heart hammered in my chest, and I was holding my breath, but I didn’t know why.
 

Then, outside our bedroom window, Hannibal howled, chasing some unknown prey. I waited, listening for the answering cry of another cat, or maybe a possum, skunk or raccoon. But no response was forthcoming. Hissing, Hannibal took off across the yard. I heard his paws swishing through the wet grass. More howls echoed through the night.
 

Valerie sat up, clasping her chest. “What’s wrong?”
 

“Hannibal’s fighting something. Stay here.”
 

I climbed out of bed and put on a pair of sweatpants. Without bothering to turn on the light, I slipped into my bedroom shoes and opened the dresser. I grabbed a flashlight and my Taurus 357 from the drawer, and after fumbling with the key, deactivated the child safety locks on the back of the handgun. Then I slid five bullets into the cylinder and glanced down at Valerie.
 

“Be careful,” she said.
 

“I will.”
 

I stepped out onto the deck and swept the flashlight beam around the yard. I caught a glimpse of Hannibal—a white streak against the darkness. He was running towards the vacant field that borders our property. I called after him in a hushed voice, not wanting to wake Ellie or our neighbors, but he was intent on the chase and ignored me.
 

Cursing, I dashed down the stairs. Gravel crunched under my feet. I ran across the yard. Cold dew soaked through my bedroom shoes, soaking my feet. A light mist hovered just over the ground, swirling slowly. I swore harder, vowing to remove the cat door and start locking Hannibal inside the garage at night. Sooner or later, he was going to tangle with something that he couldn’t beat. Rabies was a concern, as well. He’d had his shots, but if he got into a fight with a rabid raccoon, I was concerned that he could spread the disease to one of us.
 

“Hannibal! Come here!”
 

He vanished into the field. I ran after him. The tall grass clung to my sweatpants. I noticed how quiet it was. At night, I’d lie awake in bed and listen to the shrill songs of insects and birds, or the harsh croaking of bullfrogs. Now, there was none of that. No traffic on the road, either. Even the wind was still.
 

I’d gone about twenty yards when the field exploded with noise. Hannibal growled. It rose in pitch and intensity, then turned into a long, drawn-out series of hisses and howls. The animal—whatever it was—shrieked; a high-pitched squeal.
 

A rabbit, I thought. He’s got a rabbit.
 

The grass swayed in front of me. I shined the light in that direction, and the beam glanced across a pile of junk. Somebody had been using the vacant field as a dump. There was an old, rusty shopping cart, several bald tires, a cracked commode, and an old door lying flat on the ground. Its tarnished brass doorknob gleamed in the moonlight. Someone had spray painted graffiti across the top of the door. I frowned, trying to make sense of it. There were no words or letters—just an odd series of images, like something from a heavy metal CD cover. It was certainly an odd thing to paint on a door.
 

The scuffling animals distracted me. I shined the light lower. Sure enough, Hannibal was tumbling and wrestling with something else. I couldn’t tell what it was, though. They moved too fast, darting back and forth and rolling around on the ground.
 

“Hannibal,” I shouted. “Let it go!”
 

His growls grew louder.
 

“Hannibal!”
 

The thing squealed.
 

Pointing the handgun at the ground, I fired one shot into the dirt at my feet. Immediately, Hannibal released his prey and fled into the darkness. The animal ran off, as well. I studied the flattened weeds where they’d been fighting, and saw a few diminutive drops of blood. I hoped the blood didn’t belong to my cat.
 

I called for Hannibal a few more times, but he didn’t answer. Eventually, I made my way back to the house. Luckily, none of our neighbors lights were on. They’d slept through the shot. Ellie had, as well. Valerie was waiting for me in the kitchen. Her eyes were wide. A cup of tea sat on the table in front of her, untouched.
 

“What was it?”
 

I shrugged, unloading the pistol. “I don’t know. A rabbit, I think. It sounded like one, at least.”
 

“Is Hannibal okay?”
 

“I hope so. He took off when I broke them up.”
 

“He’ll come back,” she said. “He always does.”
 

“Yeah. He does.”
 

We went back to bed, and slept uninterrupted for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Valerie and I talked while Ellie got ready for school. We decided that I’d try talking to her during the morning drive, while Valerie checked into getting us an appointment with a therapist or child counselor. Ellie was in a good mood. She chatted through breakfast, and was eager to get to school.
 

“You’re pretty happy this morning,” I said, ruffling her hair as we walked towards the door. “What’s going on?”
 

“It’s a secret, Daddy.”
 

“Oh come on,” I teased. “You can tell me.”
 

“No, I can’t. I promised.”
 

“Please? Just a hint?”
 

Ellie hesitated, then smiled. She leaned in close to me, whispering conspiratorially. “Mr. Chickbaum’s friends are coming tonight.”
 

“Ellie ... we need to talk about ... Mr. Chickbaum.”
 

“I know you think he’s pretend, Daddy, but you’ll see. He had to do some stuff last night to get ready. Tonight, he can open the door to his world and then we can meet his friends.”
 

We walked out onto the deck.
 

“Ellie ...”
 

She screamed.
 

Lying on the deck was another half-corpse—two tiny, human legs about three inches tall, attached to the ragged remains of a miniature waist. It wore a little pair of green pants and one green shoe. The other shoe was missing. The bare foot had miniscule toes. Doll baby-sized blood and entrails spread out around the corpse.
 

Ellie screamed again, and then I joined her.
 

Hannibal lay nearby, sunning himself. He licked his lips and gazed at us with contentment.

Afterword

Most of this story is true. Except for the bit about the leprechaun. In real life, Hannibal’s name is Max. He showed up one day much like the cat in this story. He was just a tiny kitten, and fearful of everyone and everything. I don’t know if someone dumped him off at our house or if he was just born wild out in the woods. I fed him for a few days, but he still wouldn’t let anyone come near him.
 

Then, a week later, I was sitting in my office working on the first draft of
Ghost Walk
. I had the office door open to let in some fresh air. I heard a tiny little ‘meep’ and I looked down, and the kitten was standing at the foot of my chair. He crawled up into my lap, I named him Max (after the movie character Mad Max), and he’s been with me ever since. When I got divorced for the second time and moved into a new place, Max came with me. But before that, to repay my kindness, Max was very good at bringing me daily presents. He left them at the door to my office, which was on our property but in a separate building from the house. Often, the presents he brought me were half-presents. Usually, he caught mice and voles. Occasionally, he brought me a bird or a frog, which always saddened me a bit. I tried to discourage him from killing birds and frogs. Once, he killed a squirrel, just like the cat in the story. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen him for myself—dragging the squirrel across the yard. To the best of my knowledge, he never killed a snake, although I did find him messing around with a copperhead once. I shooed Max away and killed the snake with the .357 that I carried with me (the house was in a very remote area, with coyotes and snakes and bears and drunken rednecks, so I had good reason to carry a gun).
 

Several summers ago, author Tim Lebbon was visiting me for a few days. One evening, we were sitting around my fire pit, smoking good cigars and drinking some fine scotch (a gift from author Sarah Langan) and our conversation turned to cats, and their habit of leaving dead things lying around, and how, quite often, it was only half of a dead thing.
 

There’s a certain look an author gets when a story idea suddenly hits him. Tim and I got the look at the same time. We both grew quiet, stared into the fire, and mulled our ideas over.
 

“I just got a killer story idea,” I said.
 

Tim nodded. “Me, too.”
 

I told him mine and he told me his. They were both good ideas. We agreed that, since it was my house and my cat, I should get to write the story, but that I should include Tim’s daughter, Ellie, in it, since she also had a cat.
 

We finished our cigars and drank our scotch. The fire dwindled down to embers.
 

One year later, I wrote this tale. These days, Max is an indoor cat and occupies himself by chasing cat toys around my house.

The entity known as Mr. Chickbaum is also referenced in my novel
A Gathering of Crows
(but in a different form than a leprechaun). There’s a reason for this, which you’ll discover eventually. If I told you now, it would spoil the story to come ...

Brian Keene

September 2012

BRIAN KEENE is the author of over twenty-five books, including
Darkness on the Edge of Town, Take The Long Way Home, Urban Gothic, Castaways
,
Kill Whitey
,
Dark Hollow
,
Dead Sea,
and
The Rising
. He’s also written comic books such as
The Last Zombie, Doom Patrol
and
Dead of Night: Devil Slayer
. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, Italian, French and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been developed for film, including
Ghoul
and
The Ties That Bind
. In addition to writing, Keene also oversees Maelstrom, his own small press publishing imprint specializing in collectible limited editions, via Thunderstorm Books. Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as
The New York Times
, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com,
Publisher’s Weekly,
Media Bistro,
Fangoria Magazine
, and
Rue Morgue Magazine
. Keene lives in Pennsylvania. You can communicate with him online at
www.briankeene.com
, on
Facebook
or on
Twitter
.