Silent stalker. Every night he’d wait for the moon to crest, the soft, milky light illuminating his path. He loved to watch them writhe and thrash. Preen.
He sensed a rival tonight. An intruder. These were his stalking grounds; a rival would not be tolerated. He launched himself at a shaggy coat, heading for the neck. They tumbled into a concrete block, rusty nails aglow. His rival never stood a chance.
Andy arrived at the film site. When he spotted the mutilated cat inside its concrete coffin, he knew what had to be done. “Throw out that old footage, boys. We’ve got a thriller to film.”
Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends: