Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
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"In the shadowed alleys of the human soul, where guilt and madness tread, lurks the true horror: not the deeds that damn us, but the eyes that witness them—green as the abyss, black as our deepest fears. For in the gaze of Pluto, the unearthly guardian, we find not just our reflection but the gaze of the cosmos itself, indifferent, insatiable, and infinitely dark."
The first time I saw the cat was on a soggy October night. I was stumbling home from Duffy’s, the smoke and whiskey clouding my senses. The pavement glistened under the streetlights, slick and oily like the back alleys that vein this grubby town.
I remember pausing, swaying under the harsh glare of a bare bulb outside the corner store. That’s when I spotted it across the street, perched atop a dumpster, eyes aglow like tiny green flames. Scratch that, not it. Him. I don’t know why but I knew right then the creature was male. Something in the way he held himself, chest thrust forward, standing proud like he owned the dumpster and the very ground it rested on.
I blinked, wondering if those last few shots of rye were playing tricks on me. I’d heard boozed up souls claim to see all kinds of freaky things lurking in the shadows. But the cat didn’t vanish. He was as real as the damp creeping down my neck and the stale piss-scent wafting from the alley.
He stared right at me with those luminous eyes. My guts turned to ice water. I ain’t never seen eyes glow like that, not on cat nor beast nor man. I should have turned and walked—no, ran—in the other direction right then. But my feet stayed rooted as if my soles had fused with the pavement.
A car cruised past, headlights washing over the creature. He was midnight black from nose to tail, lean yet muscular. Not a speck of white on him, save one solitary patch on his chest. As he stood and arched his back, I glimpsed something that turned my blood cold. There on his sleek fur, the white patch formed a perfect miniature replica of the comedy/tragedy drama masks.
Now folks say I have a way of seeing faces that ain’t really there. My old man used to joke it was the Irish blood in me that made me prone to visions. But just then even my whiskey-addled mind couldn’t deny what was right before my eyes. As the cat leapt nimbly down from his perch, landed soundless on the curb, and slunk off down the street, the white image lingered behind my eyes. I watched him disappear into the night, and I could have sworn I saw him turn to glance back at me, eyes flashing, just once.
I told myself it was just a stray prowling the streets, hungry enough to risk the dangers of the town after dark. But that white mask burned in my mind long after I’d collapsed into bed.
Over the next few days, I caught sight of him lurking around the edges of my vision. On the walk to work at the foundry, I’d spy his shadow slipping between buildings. Coming out of the corner store with my lunch pail, I’d glimpse a black streak turning the far corner. Once I spotted him at dusk, silhouetted atop the dumpster in the alley next to Duffy’s. His eyes glinted green in the dying light.
