“Don’t let the cat out of the bag.”
“What cat?” I looked down on my porch and saw a little man in boots. This had to be a joke. “I don’t have a cat.”
He shrugged. His eyes were a startling shade of blue. When he blinked, I felt an electric chill. “I’m just the messenger.”
“Okay . . . thanks, I guess.”
I closed the door, then opened it again to ask who sent him. He was gone.
Day after day, I’d catch a glimpse of him somewhere. In the cubicle at work, I’d answer the phone, hearing, “Don’t let the cat out of the bag,” despite the call log never showing that a call had taken place.
Back at home, I received a letter in the mail. No return address, no signature, just the message. In neat, precise handwriting. It didn’t look the least bit threatening, but it terrified me. I slapped it on the table, went to make coffee in the Keurig, and came back to look at it again. It was gone.
I began to wonder if he meant it in a metaphorical sense… as if the universe was warning me not to reveal an important secret.
Later that night, I went to bed. After several hours of sleep, I must’ve been in a semi-consciousness state.
Something rattled, like crunched paper. I sat straight up and threw the blankets off my feet. Jittery and half-fogged with sleep, I snapped on the light.
Under the bed, a paper bag, folded shut at the top, rocked back and forth. It yowled and hissed.
When I grabbed the bag to pull it out from under the bed, the yowling turned into pitiful mewing. Something moved inside. Then, it began to purr.
Slowly, I unfolded the top of the bag.
S.E. Grosskopf, author of The Messenger –
Manitowoc, Wisconsin, USA
