High pitched mewling sounded through the night. I glanced at my glowin red alarm clock. 2 am. Tonight was one of those nights where my cat- Lizzy- was clearly going to be a bitch.
"What, Brat?" as I'd gotten used to calling her. Of course, there was no reply, just more meowing and a jingle of her collar- the one I regret buying every time this happens.
I pinched the my nose in frustration as she meowed again (she'd gotten louder). Something was up.
Meow. What could she possibly want at 2am? If she's feeling playful, there's nothing I can do.
Does she seem playful? Hard to tell. She has water in her bowl, the brat, and foo- Shit.
I peeled the sheets off like a second skin, and stumbled through the dark, careful not to trip. Meow. "God, I'm coming, okay Brat?" Better to get it over with.
Meow. I glanced down, expecting the whiny, fluffy orange tabby to be instantly at my feet. I froze.
The silhouette was too large. Too large, human- it sat crouched outside of my door.
Smirking, he meowed once more, matching Lizzy's pitch exactly.
Then he shook his right hand, and a jingle sounded from the collar. The collar. He was holding Lizzy's collar.
A knife glinted in his left hand.