The Hunt

Zorgoroth Velganhorr was of an ancient race, existing in the shadows of humankind since time immemorial.

He was a great hunter, boasting a thousand kills to his name.

He had brought the strongest of men to their knees, begging for mercy.

He was on the prowl, looking to satiate his hunger.

But to Eliza McLaughlin, he was simply the monster in her closet.

#

Zorgoroth came to Eliza at the height of summer. The natural rhythms of his kind forced him to sleep in daylight, so the short summer nights brought little thrill. Zorgoroth missed the protracted hunts against clever opponents, but he had to eat, so he subsisted on easy prey.

Even so, Zorgoroth found pleasure in toying with weaklings. His kind were not physically imposing; his mastery lay in stealth and trickery. He first shattered the victim’s sanity, then moved in for the kill, leaving a shredded corpse for the imbecilic humans to puzzle over. He then returned to his comrades with a full stomach and regaled them of the hunt. Such effortless excursions, however, netted little glory.

Zorgoroth’s pursuit of Eliza McLaughlin should have been no different. She was, after all, a child of eight. The mighty hunter chose her house at random and slithered undetected through an unlocked door, passing up her older sister to take root in the little girl’s closet. That night, in the girl’s cavernous room, Zorgoroth played his tricks.

He creaked the closet door open, letting the sound echo across the wood floor, the hot-pink walls. He then stepped noisily on the loose floorboards with his clawed feet, advancing several silent steps and hiding in a shadow.

The ominous sounds woke the girl in a groggy daze. She rubbed her eyes. “Katie? Is that you?”

The moonlight spilling from the windows gave Zorgoroth ample opportunity to relish the girl’s confusion. He stood silent, until the stupid girl thought she’d imagined the disturbance.

Just as she began to settle, he scuttled to her bedside, baring his fangs, snarling a guttural growl.

The girl shrieked and called for her parents. But of course, by the time they ran down the hall and switched on the light, Zorgoroth had retreated to the closet and donned his impeccable camouflage.

#

Eliza trembled in her father’s arms. “It was right there, Daddy,” she sobbed. “It’s hiding in the closet.”

Her mother checked the closet, moving aside her hanged clothes and toys littering the floor. She emerged with a tired, puffy-eyed expression. “See? There’s nothing there. It’s your imagination playing tricks. Go to sleep, sweetie.”

“But it was there!” she cried. “It was…”

Her parents exchanged a look, which Eliza read loud and clear: She was being silly, but they didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Thirteen-year-old Katie, jarred from sleep, had no such qualms. She pinched her eyebrows. “You woke me for a stupid imaginary monster?! Stop being a baby, you’re too old for this crap.”

Eliza wilted from her gaze, cheeks reddening with shame.

Their mom scolded Katie and sent her away, but the damage was done. Eliza felt like a scaredy-cat baby. A year prior, she’d drunk too much Sprite and wet herself on the couch after falling asleep—in front of Katie and her sister’s friend, Marissa. This wasn’t that embarrassing, but it was close. She must have imagined the monster. Monsters don’t vanish into thin air.

Her parents left her to sleep, encouraging her to leave the bedside lamp on. She did so, and the monster troubled her no more before morning’s light.

#

The first night had played out by Zorgoroth’s design. A few more nights of playing and his toy’s mind—roiling in her confusion, isolation, terror—would snap.

But it all went miserably, disastrously wrong.

#

When Eliza was four, her father had surprised his girls with a shelter kitten. A short time before, Eliza had overheard her dad mention the silly name “Woodrow Wilson,” which sent her into a giggling fit. So she named the kitten “Woodrow.” He was a short-haired gray who grew to be quite large, his body fit and lean from hunting chipmunks and baby rabbits in the woods behind Eliza’s yard.

Katie called him smelly and a pest, but Eliza fell in love the instant he emerged from his carrier. She doted on him like the mother of a sick child, checking his food and water bowls twenty times a day, scooping his litter every night without being told, playing with him for countless hours—dangling string or watching him roll toy mice around the floor. Years later, he was her best friend.

Eliza wasn’t very popular at school. She had friends, but the snooty girls teased her. She was tall for her age, pudgy, and never knew the right thing to wear. Other girls got it a lot worse, but the bullying hurt all the same. Woodrow never made fun of her. Woodrow was always waiting at the door when she got off the bus, even if he’d been hunting outside. When she had a rough day, he nuzzled her and purred as she pet him with tears stinging her cheeks. Woodrow seemed to know when she needed him most—if Katie was in one of her nasty moods or Holly Boyer said her dress was ugly. At her lowest, he always came walking through her bedroom door with his tail in the air. For his efforts, he was always the honored guest at her dolls’ gala balls, although he preferred to nibble at the dolls’ hair and wreck her careful decorations.

#

The cat—“Wood-Drow,” the people called him, although he didn’t know why—typically curled beside his mistress’s pillow as she slept. But the night the bad thing arrived, he was eating a midnight snack in the kitchen. The big people said he wasn’t supposed to eat at night, but his mistress—“Eee-Lize-A”—often left him something to nibble on. When he heard her scream, he bolted up the stairs, arriving before the others. He sat at the foot of his mistress’s bed, watching the big people console her and the mean girl yell. He didn’t like the mean girl. She batted him away when he’d done nothing wrong. He wanted to scratch her, but she kicked sometimes.

When the big people left, he jumped and sat dutifully beside his mistress, where he should’ve been all along. He sensed a wrongness. She was distressed, but that wasn’t all. There was something bad in the room. In the forest, he was a predator. But he understood his task now was to protect “Eee-Lize-A” from becoming prey.

She stroked his fur and he purred. She said something with wet stuff in her eyes, then buried her face in his fur and made choking sounds. He would have to clean the wet stuff off his fur, but he bore it without complaint.

He dozed lightly, but kept an eye open, even as her breathing slowed.

#

Zorgoroth knew firsthand the complications animals presented to the hunt. Humans were weak creatures, unable to sense a thing except with eyes and ears. Animals were sharper, immune to the mental deception on which he relied. Troublesome dogs had unraveled more efforts than he cared to admit—hulking German Shepherds and Pit Bulls that snapped their teeth when he got close.

But this cat. This cat was a meddling thing. The gray irritant never again left the girl alone after dark. It was always in bed, a barrier between her and the closet. When she made a trip to the bathroom, the cat followed. The girl moved its food, water and litterbox to the corner so all of its needs were met.

He wanted to take the girl the second or third night, but the cat was relentless. His usual gimmicks failed on arrival. The cat growled and hissed the second he opened the closet. It sensed Zorgoroth without sight, smell, or sound. If he ventured too close, the cat drove him away with a flurry of swipes and yowls.

As the fruitless hunt approached a week, Zorgoroth’s annoyance turned to anger. Hoping for a swift end, he threw caution to the wind one night and charged the cat. The damned thing emerged victorious. After securing only one benign scratch across the cat’s flank, he retreated to the closet with a bloody cheek, gashed hand and bites across his chest and face as the girl cowered at the corner of her bed.

With no other option, he watched and waited for an opportunity. Zorgoroth’s stealth was greater than human comprehension; he could remain hidden as long as his stomach would allow. But his anger turned to snarling rage as the days passed. This common housecat had rendered impotent his expert hunting skills.

But worse, much worse, was the effect the cat had on his prey.

#

With Woodrow by her side, Eliza knew she wasn’t crazy. She had stopped trying with her parents—they didn’t believe her, no matter what she said. She even showed them the long scratch along Woodrow’s ribs, and her dad said it was probably a tree branch!

But there was a monster. She was never quite able to see it—even at her bedside, it melded itself with the room’s shadow in a way she didn’t understand. But Woodrow knew it was there, and he was able to fight it. That was good enough for her. The doubt vanished, never to return. This comforting knowledge allowed her to sleep soundly, only waking when Woodrow’s yowling grew particularly vehement. She also knew from Woodrow’s relaxed demeanor that her monster wasn’t a threat during daylight, although she failed to uncover it when she checked the closet. It must be there, tucked away so nobody could find it. Without knowing what it looked like, her mind conjured images of a hideous, evil thing lurking in the corner, ready to drink her blood, or steal her soul, or whatever else monsters did.

One night, Katie barged into her room while Woodrow growled and hissed, forcing the monster to retreat to the closet. Eliza had come to the conclusion that it wanted her alone, so Katie acted as an unknowing shield.

Stupidly unaware of everything, Katie screamed, “Shut your freaking cat up or I’ll throw him out the window!” Poor Woodrow shrank into Eliza’s arms, and all she could do was give a meek apology until her sister left.

She nuzzled herself into Woodrow’s fur, fighting tears. “I’m so sorry. Why does she have to yell at you? You’re the only one who cares about me.” She loved her sister, but she was so mean, even when Eliza hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

Woodrow purred and rubbed his whiskers against her nose, making her itchy and giggly until she felt better.

Several nights passed in which Woodrow did not alert her to the monster’s presence, and she began to grow cautiously optimistic that it had admitted defeat. She wasn’t ready to celebrate, but she believed, in due time, they would outlast it. The princess and her brave knight would triumph against the dreaded beast.

#

Night after night, Zorgoroth seethed. The girl now slept in peace, confident in the cat’s protection. The indignity was unbearable. His hunger was ravenous after two weeks of hunting, but he would not give up until absolutely necessary. Starvation would be preferable to the humiliation of returning to his comrades, forced to admit he couldn’t best a child and her cat after an extended time.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

#

The cat knew his mistress was going away. A mood of disruption permeated the house. The big people threw items in large sacks with wheels that rolled over his tail if he wasn’t careful. His mistress and the mean girl talked hurriedly and bounced as they walked. Everyone carried things outside, throwing them inside their shiny, miniature house that spewed nasty smells and moved too fast to catch, but they wouldn’t let him outside. They said bad sounds like “tripp” and “vay-cay-shun” over and over. He voiced his displeasure to his mistress many times with desperate mrrrows! but she only giggled and petted him. He tried to speak their language, but they never listened.

He found his mistress placing her tiny, lifeless people in a rolling sack. He marked his scent against her bare legs with his whiskers so the other cats would know she was his. She reached down and ran a familiar hand along his back, stopping above his tail to scratch. Her caress raised his back legs and he purred.

He followed her outside her sleeping room, where the bad thing lurked at night, and she shut the swinging barrier. She bent and met him at eye level, face stern. She spoke gibberish, pointing to the barrier, swiveling her neck back and forth. The big person with the deep voice called, “Eee-Lize-A!” She kissed him on the head, cooing as she gave him one last pet. She bounded down the stairs, pulling her sack behind her.

He laid on the ground, resting his chin on his front paws. He was sad. He hoped she’d come back. She had always come back in the past, but what if she didn’t this time?

He glanced at the swinging barrier: She had left a bit of space for him to push it open. That was good. He didn’t like when barriers blocked him from going places he wanted to go.

#

Zorgoroth woke at his usual time, around 10:00 p.m., as the girl typically turned out her bedside lamp and went to sleep. At first he was unaware that the family had left. He assumed she had stayed up late or maybe went to a friend’s. But the house was unnaturally quiet.

His inhuman ears picked up a squeak, a pitter patter of tiny feet, soft scratching sounds. Curious, he cracked the closet door open. To his utter delight, the cat scratched until it pushed open the bedroom door. It chased a mouse around the room until its prey scurried under the girl’s dresser. The cat got onto its haunches and peered underneath, tail flicking in anticipation of a kill.

The cat was distracted—on its own hunt. It would be its last.

Zorgoroth struck swift, catching the cat off guard. The cat sensed him and whipped around, eyes flaring with panic, front paws twitching to attack. Too late. Zorgoroth snapped the cat’s neck with a satisfying crack. Its body went limp, eyes draining of life.

He placed the body on the floor, then toppled the dresser. It crashed onto the cat’s bottom half with a crunching noise. The scene gave the appearance of a clumsy animal suffering an unfortunate accident. The girl would see through it, but that didn’t matter.

Zorgoroth emitted a hitching grunting sound deep in his throat. It started low, then grew in volume, intensifying until it filled the room. It was the closest his kind had to a laugh. Taking down a mere house cat shouldn’t be cause for celebration, but this had been a worthy foe for a thing its size. He studied the cat’s lifeless face and felt a sense of kinship with this fellow hunter.

He retreated to the closet and waited. Her protector vanquished, the girl would be putty in his hands.

He slept deeply, so when morning came, he missed many things.

#

He missed her anguished shrieks after returning from a fantastic weekend at the lake cabin to find her beloved pet, dead.

He missed her cradling Woodrow’s broken body in her arms, rocking him on the bedroom floor, wailing.

He missed her shaking her head, screaming, “The monster got him! And he’s gonna get me too!” as her parents hugged her, explaining how these things happened and her closet monster wasn’t to blame.

He missed her placing Woodrow in his grave—out in the woods, where he loved to hunt.

He missed her mom helping to print and frame her favorite picture of Woodrow. He sat on her bed, looking at her with his loving gaze while she fussed with her mom’s phone camera. Eliza set it on her nightstand, inches from where he’d kept her safe.

He missed her building a crude grave marker, nailing a board to a wooden stake and writing his name in black paint.

He missed her crying until she thought she would drown.

#

He expected all of these things, and was bereft to have slept through them. The girl avoided her room that night, and that displeased him. His hunger was enormous, but she couldn’t stay away forever. Some meals were worth the wait.

That night, he missed something he didn’t expect.

#

Eliza slept with her parents, something she hadn’t done since Woodrow had walked into her life. She sobbed most of the night, enveloped in her mother’s arms.

But for a time, she stopped crying. She tried to toss away the pain and assess her situation like a grown-up—no, like an adult. Woodrow was gone. No matter how much she begged, her parents would force her back to the bedroom, because they didn’t believe her. Then the monster would take her. It hurt so bad. In kindergarten, Mrs. Winn taught them about the boy who cried wolf. The “lesson” was that kids weren’t supposed to tell lies or nobody would listen when something bad actually happened. She now saw the story differently: The boy was telling the truth all along, but the adults didn’t believe wolves were real, so they didn’t care!

Maybe Katie will help. Maybe if I plead, she’ll help me get rid of it.

She croaked a miserable laugh, causing her mom to rustle in bed. What a ridiculous thought. Her sister would probably be happy if Eliza got her blood sucked out—she’d finally get to eat all the double-stuff Oreos for herself. Why did Katie have to hate her so much?

She sobbed again, overwhelmed by a desperate loneliness. She wanted to give up. Even if she did beat the monster, how could she go on without Woodrow? Maybe it was better to let it eat her.

But, as she cried, something new began to blossom inside. Anger bubbled, percolated, until she gritted her teeth and balled her fists through the tears. Eliza McLaughlin knew little of the world, but she understood that this wasn’t fair. She had done nothing wrong, yet that thing had taken her sweet, innocent Woodrow. Why did an evil monster get to win?

She remembered how she’d never again feel Woodrow’s whiskers tickle her in the early morning when he wanted food, and the grief drowned out conscious thought.

When she cried herself out, she wiped puffy eyes and wiggled out of her mother’s arms. She walked to the open window and peered at the sky. The night was cloudless, letting her see the crescent moon and the twinkling stars. It was hard to believe, but Mr. Little had said there were more stars than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world! If that was true, maybe one of them was Kitty Heaven, and Woodrow still watched over her. She picked a big star from the bunch and imagined it was his new home—an endless forest where he played with the other angel-cats and ate all the treats he wanted. She smiled, and for a second, she thought its light flickered. The star had winked. Her mom told her that’s how Woodrow said, “I love you.”

She set her face. No. She wouldn’t let the monster get away with this. She would beat it and go on living. She might be small, but she wasn’t alone. Woodrow would give her strength.

She couldn’t count on her family, but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She just had to come up with a plan, like the kids on TV shows.

#

The following day, Zorgoroth missed a number of unusual things.

#

He missed Eliza offering Katie thirty-three dollars and fifty-two cents—all the money she had saved from extra chores—to borrow her phone “for a summer art project.”

For a wonder, her sister gave it to her without complaint and refused the money. Katie sniffled. “I’m sorry about Woodrow. And I’m sorry for being such a jerk sometimes. I know I haven’t always been the best sister, but…I do love you.”

She offered a hug. Eliza accepted it, snuggling into the warm embrace, holding back tears.

Eliza held her gaze after pulling away. She furrowed her brow, feeling like a water balloon about to burst.

“What?” Katie asked, confused.

After a moment, Eliza stiffened her lip. “Nothing.” She took the phone and walked away.

Maybe Katie didn’t hate her after all, but she wouldn’t swoop in and save her. This was her fight.

Zorgoroth missed her conducting online research all morning, deleting the browser history when she finished like Katie showed her once.

He missed her preparing and calculating all afternoon, snatching items from around the house under her parents’ noses.

In the evening, he missed her faking a cough in her parents’ presence. “I’m not feeling well. Can I go to bed and think happy thoughts about Woodrow?”

He missed her locking the door, drawing the thick shades and pinning them against the wall with duct tape.

He missed her pulling the bed sheets to her shoulders, waiting for dark.

#

Zorgoroth awoke to the sound of his prey crying. Not heaving sobs, but soft, mewling whimpers. His lips peeled back. No running to Mommy and Daddy tonight.

He cracked the closet door soundlessly and peered out. The girl always kept her large windows open, letting in a considerable amount of moonlight. Now, the room was pitch black.

Odd.

His kind’s night vision was better than that of humans, but too weak to see clearly through this blackness. He calculated. Taking her in these conditions was a risk, but it wasn’t a major concern. The girl was broken; she would present no challenge. Saliva dripped from his mouth. The food was ripe. He would take her tonight.

Zorgoroth’s jaw unhinged, emitting a wet smacking noise. His hunger was voracious, but he would savor this moment. The irksome child needed to suffer. He’d make her understand the foolishness of underestimating an elite hunter.

He pushed the door ajar with a slow, audible creeeak. The girl choked off mid-sob. She shuffled, but he couldn’t see her movement in the darkness. He took two heavy steps forward, until he could faintly make out her form—seated upright.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” she whined. “Leave me alone, pleeeease.”

Pathetic.

He gave her his ragged, grunting laugh in response. He started low, then upped the decibels until the sound boomed across the large room. The girl’s figure cringed as he took a slow step. Then another. Anothe—

His foot slipped. He stumbled forward, but the other foot slipped as well. There were slippery things scattered across the floor. He lost balance, waving his arms in a vain attempt to steady himself. After a few clumsy steps, Zorgoroth, the mighty hunter, fell face first in front of her bed.

Sharp objects knifed through his body—arms, chest, belly, even his mouth and cheeks. He howled, as much from surprise as pain. He tried to stand, but the sharp things dug into his palms and bare feet. He grunted and fell backwards, earning additional stabs through the legs and haunches.

A bright light invaded his eyes, making his throw up a bleeding arm.

#

Eliza crouched on the bed. She wore a heavy flannel coat, jeans, and hiking boots. Her face was not red or puffy; she hadn’t really cried in hours. She was shining her father’s heavy-duty flashlight at the monster, allowing her the first good look.

Black fur covered its body, but most of its features resembled a human being—save for its piggish snout and pointed ears, which rested atop its head. It was hardly bigger than her, and in its state of stupid shock, it looked more like a child sporting a werewolf Halloween costume than a ferocious monster. It was bleeding an alien, purple blood from a mass of small cuts across its body. It was hurt and blinded and bewildered.

“I guess you’re not so scary,” Eliza said. There was no emotion in the statement.

The creature moved its arm and squinted. Its eyes were yellow and slitted like a snake’s. Thumbtacks and broken glass—three dinner plates and five water glasses, crushed inside a towel—littered the ground, joining an entire bag of marbles.

The monster sneered as its eyes skittered across the ground. It uttered a curse in some terrible language. It turned enraged eyes on her, speaking in English. “You use juvenile tricks on me, girl? You are no hunter!”

The previous school year, a real-life scientist came to teach Eliza’s class chemistry experiments. He had a funny accent and told the kids he was from a country called “Serbia.” Her closet monster talked just like that goofy scientist. Well, if the bearded man who pushed up his glasses with one finger had tried to scare them by growling like a dog. A giggle escaped her throat.

The monster didn’t like that. It bared its jagged teeth and lunged for her. Its bleeding foot slipped and it fell to one knee, groaning in pain. She tensed, pulling a small plastic container from her jacket pocket. She unscrewed the lid, jumped from her bed—the glass no problem for her thick boots—and threw chili powder in its face. The dust struck true, hitting its exposed eyeballs. It shrieked and clawed at its burning eyes.

While it writhed, Eliza pulled a common claw hammer from underneath her pillow. She had spent hours choosing the best weapon from the garage—it was heavy, but not too heavy. She swung the hammer with both arms at the creature’s mouth. It connected squarely and dislodged the jaw from its socket. The monster gave a ragged scream, falling back.

She crouched, preparing to swing again. Through its agony it swiped a sharp claw at her cheek. It wasn’t deep, but it made her yelp in pain. Her grip wavered, but she didn’t drop the hammer.

Thanks, Woodrow.

She swung, crushing its fingers. She reloaded, breaking its snout-nose. A third time, cracking its skull. She swung again. Again.

#

On the verge of unconsciousness, Zorgoroth saw the girl through a haze of fiery tears. Her face was contorted with exertion and rage. Blood dripped from the gash in her cheek. She had flipped the hammer to the sharp side and held it above her head, its silver metal tip sparkling in the harsh light.

“You made W-Woodrow die,” she snarled, her lip quivering. “Now I’m gonna make you die!”

Zorgoroth released a gurgling bellow through his broken jaw. It wasn’t of anger, or fear. It was a cry of humiliation. He had been outclassed by a little girl. He deserved to die by her hands.

#

Eliza screamed with animalistic fury and swung. She struck over and over, putting the full force of her pain into each blow. Each time she tore away flesh and continued the onslaught. Its purple blood splattered across her jacket and speckled her face. She had mangled its hairy features to pulp when the hammer fell from her trembling fingers.

She rolled off the lifeless monster and lay on the ground, panting. Her palms were raw, muscles jelly.

She stared at the ceiling. She had slain the beast, but felt no triumph. It didn’t fill the hole in her heart.

Her shaky legs carried her to the window. She pulled a strip of tape free with her last remaining strength, peering behind the shade. Heavy clouds severed her from everything that lay beyond.

She crawled into bed, the pounds and shouts outside her locked door falling on indifferent ears. Eliza hugged the framed picture to her chest and cried.