Free Scratch by Brian Keene Page B

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.”