"How would H.P. Lovecraft write about my pets?"

As written by my Friend, Brad:

It was just recently that an event occurred that I found most unnerving.

After long, tortuous hours at the keyboard tweaking cascading style
sheets, supporting clients via IM and pouring over man pages detailing
the intricacies of yum on Fedora Core 3 — I felt weary and hastened to
the kitchen to prepare more coffee.

My office is usually cold at night, I've been learning as the seasons
progress and Orion once again rises high in the sky. The rest of the old
farm house on the rocky hilltop should not be as cold as it was, though,
for I had left logs on top of coals from a previous fire in the old wood
burning stove, expecting them to ignite.

I resolved to get the hairdryer from the bathroom and by use of its
forceful gusts fan, thereby, the coals and logs to a roaring blaze
whilst congratulating myself on my ingenuity. But first I had need to
attend to the matter of the coffee.

It was then that I walked forward and paused, looking longingly towards
my futon. While not one for self-pity, generally, I could not help but
allow the chill on the back of my arms and the ache in my legs at that
late hour to fix my attention upon that post-modern item of furniture,
and was thereby lost in a reverie containing piles of heavy warm
comforters and the sensation of blood reacquainting itself with
forgotten paths through horizontal legs that are usually folded under my
desk.

Approaching the futon with the slow, idle, comatose rapture known only
by the groggy who long for sleep, it was then that I caught the
attention of its inhabitants.

It is not unusual, of course, with six cats in the house, to find one or
even two on my futon. At this time, though, they were, most unusually,
all six there — each spread out to cover their own section of the
mattress, equidistant from the others.

My heart froze as the beasts turned their heads toward me in perfect
unison, as if guided by some unseen hand. Then, with their gazes fixed
upon me I beheld their alien eyes in the darkened room. Those eyes,
fonts of a vast, cold, feline intelligence that knew not the definition
of mercy any more than I could read Sanskrit.

Trembling, I heard their message, though their furry, feral lips did not
move, nor even a whisker twitch. Such as they have no need of voices,
for their intent was plain to see.

“Nuh-uh, buddy. You're not laying down here. Not by a long shot. We've
got squatters rights, and we aim to enforce 'em, see?”

In that moment, for the first time in my life, I finally came to know
terror as I felt the erie grip of madness tighten in a knot at the base
of my skull with the dawning realization of my own damnation to eternal
torment by these foul, furry demons.


P.S. — Happy Halloween/Samhain to all
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