The Best of Robert Bloch by Robert Bloch

cat was still around. If it didn't watch out, he'd fix it, too. He should worry now.
    Nobody was going to find out about that cigarette. Mrs. Mingle was dead. He ought to be glad, everything was all right, sure, he felt great.
    The shadow followed him down the street.
    "Get out of here!"
    Ronnie turned and heaved the lath at the cat. It hissed. Ronnie heard the wind hiss, heard his cigarette butt hiss, heard Mrs. Mingle hiss.
    He began to run. The cat ran after him.
    "Hey, Ronnie!"
    Marvin Ogden was calling him. He couldn't stop now, not even to hit the punk. He ran on. The cat kept pace.
    Then he was winded and he slowed down. It was just in time, too. Up ahead was a crowd of kids, standing on the sidewalk in front of a heap of charred, smoking boards.
    They were looking at Mingle's cottage—
    Ronnie closed his eyes and darted back up the street. The cat followed.
    He had to get rid of it before he went to school. What if people saw him with her cat? Maybe they'd start to talk. He had to get rid of it—
    Ronnie ran clear down to Sinclair Street. The cat was right behind him. On the corner he picked up a stone and let fly. The cat dodged. Then it sat down on the sidewalk and looked at him. Just looked.
    Ronnie couldn't take his eyes off the cat. It stared so. Mrs. Mingle had stared, too. But she was dead. And this was only a cat. A cat he had to get away from, fast.
    The streetcar came down Sinclair Street. Ronnie found a dime in his pocket and boarded the car. The cat didn't move. He stood on the platform as the car pulled away and looked back at the cat. It just sat there.
    Ronnie rode around the loop, then transferred to the Hollis Avenue bus. It brought him over to the school, ten minutes late. He got off and started to hurry across the street.
    A shadow crossed the entrance to the building.
    Ronnie saw the cat. It squatted there, waiting.
    He ran.
    That's all Ronnie remembered of the rest of the morning. He ran. He ran, and the cat followed. He couldn't get rid of the cat. He ran.
    Up and down the streets, back and forth, all over the whole neighborhood; stopping and dodging and throwing stones and swearing and panting and sweating. But always the running, and always the cat right behind hun. Once it started to chase him and before he knew it he was heading straight for the place where the burned smell filled the air, straight for the ruins of Mrs. Mingle's cottage. The cat wanted him to go there, wanted him to see—
    Ronnie began to cry. He sobbed and panted all the way home. The cat didn't make a sound. It followed hun. All right, let it. He'd fix it. He'd tell Ma. Ma would get rid of it for him. Ma.
    "Ma!"
    He yelled as he ran up the steps.
    No answer. She was out. Marketing.
    And the cat crept up the steps behind him.
    Ronnie slammed the door, locked it. Ma had her key. He was safe now. Safe at home. Safe in bed—he wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over his head, wait for Ma to come and make everything all right. There was a scratching at the door.
    "Ma!" His scream echoed through the empty house.
    He ran upstairs. The scratching died away.
    And then he heard the footsteps on the porch, the slow footsteps; he heard the rattling and turning of the doorknob. It was old lady Mingle, coming from the grave. It was the witch, coming to get him. It was—
    "Ma!"
    "Ronnie, what's the matter? What you doing home from school?"
    He heard her. It was all right. Just in time, Ronnie closed his mouth. He couldn't tell her about the cat. He mustn't ever tell her. Then everything would come out. He had to be careful what he said.
    "I got sick to my stomach," he said. "Miss Sanders said I should come home and lay down."
    Then Ma was up the stairs, helping him undress, asking should she get the doctor, fussing over him and putting him to bed. And he could cry and she didn't know it wasn't from a gut-ache. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. It was all right.
    Yes, it was all right now, and he was in bed. Ma brought him