Phillip Tanner sat up abruptly in his large, cushioned chair and stared at the shadow of the cat's paw hovering over the small hole in the baseboard. Curious, he leaned forward to examine the dark shape on the wall: a single paw with eight toes and claws.
"Impossible," he muttered, casting his eyes about the living room of his neighbour's old stone house. "There's no cat here to cast a shadow."
The door of the kitchen flew open, flooding the room with bright fluorescent light, dispelling the ghostly shadow of the feline appendage. In strolled his neighbour Ray Fontesque, holding an ornate coffee tray in his burly hands. Placing it on the coffee table, he smiled at the austere-looking young man reclining in the chair.
"I want to thank you for the invite," said Phillip, taking a steaming mug and cookie from the tray.
"No need to thank me," replied the retired seaman, whose old, leathery face looked as faded as the nautical tattoos on his arms. "With you being new to the neighbourhood, I thought it only proper to welcome you. Besides that, it's been lonely in the house since my wife died. A little company is a welcome change."
"Well, at least you have a cat to keep you company," interjected Phillip.
"What's that?" the seaman asked sharply, fixing his eyes firmly on the young man.
"I saw the shadow of a cat's paw over there," said Phillip, pointing at the spot on the wall above the mousehole. "A paw with eight toes and claws."
"Ah..." sighed the old man, lowering his bulk into a chair. "That would be Old Nick. And I thought I was the only person who could see him."
"I only saw a shadow," whispered Phillip.
"That's a good start," Ray said cryptically, rubbing his white beard with an arthritic hand. The old man sighed. "Sit back, and I'll tell you all about Nicodemus and how I first met him.
"It was ten years ago. I'd left the salties to work on a freshwater laker. The Beguine, as she was called, was taking on a load of grain at a terminal. We'd installed rat guards on grease-coated mooring lines. Normally, that's a sufficient deterrent to keep rats off a vessel. But the grain terminal's loading equipment was swarming with rodents. Once aboard, they'd chew through the plastic and wood constructions, even the power cables. Worse yet, they'd invade the ship's food stores and contaminate them with feces.
"Night was closing in when I saw a big black cat run up the gangplank onto the ship. Naturally, I wondered what our uninvited guest was up to."
The old seaman grinned and leaned forward in his chair.
"Later that night, I discovered what his motive was. When I went to bed down, I found next to my berth ten dead rats lying side-by-side in a neat, orderly row; waiting, as it were, for my inspection. Our feline guest had left his calling card.
"Nicodemus, as the crew members called him, was an instant sensation. A seaman loves a hard-working ratter, especially a polydactyl."
"A polydactyl?" interjected Phillip.
"That's a cat born with extra toes. Hands down, they're the best ratters afloat."
"I see," said Phillip, his mind drifting back to the shadow on the wall.
"Nicodemus took care of the rats in short order," continued Ray, "and he always left them in nice, neat rows next to my berth and the old hat that he curled up in to sleep. The amazing thing was, we never saw a rat on the ship again after he boarded, no matter how many rat-infested grain terminals we visited, and there were several over the years. I guess you could say Nicodemus was a special kind of cat."
"Definitely," murmured Phillip.
"When I retired, I purchased the old house here on Dock Street so I could be near the ships in the port. The crew, bless their souls, gave me Nicodemus as a parting gift. And what a wonderful gift he turned out to be! The house was overflowing with mice. Hunting them down was the kind of work Nicodemus relished. I'd never seen him so happy, running around day and night, chasing his little prey.
"I must confess that I got so caught up in his fun that I took to dressing him in bright little costumes: colourful dinner jackets, party hats, and the like. Most cats don't care for that sort of thing, but Nicodemus reveled in the outfits. You should have seen him parading about like a grand duke in his personal hunting grounds."
"And where is Nicodemus now?" interrupted Phillip.
"Oh, he died," replied Ray sadly. "Two years ago to the day. But you could say that Old Nick has never finished his work, for you'll not find a mouse in this house."
Phillip's eyes widened in disbelief. Putting down his mug, he rose to his feet.
"Old Nick has shown you his extra toes," said Ray. "I think he's taken a fancy to you."
"Thank you for your hospitality," muttered Phillip. "I'm afraid I don't believe in ghosts, feline or otherwise. It's late, and I must be getting home."
Taking hold of his coat, he stepped out of the house into the cool harbour air. Walking across the narrow cobblestone street, he entered the fenced yard of his home, a tall, red-brick Victorian Era house. Behind it, in the distance, stood the various warehouses and paint shops of the port's shipyard, and the marine oil terminal's array of white fuel storage tanks. Phillip unlocked the front door and ascended the stairs to his bedroom on the third floor. Laying out his work clothes for the next day, he got into bed. As soon as he closed his eyes, he heard a loud clap. Another mouse in another trap; the third that day. Phillip groaned and drifted off to sleep.
The sound of innumerable tiny paws running helter-skelter about the room, accompanied by an uproar of desperate squeaks, brought Phillip out of his sleep.
"What the hell?" he shouted, then fell silent when he looked out the bedroom window.
Outside, a large black cat floated in the air, dressed in a luminous green dinner jacket. It also wore a bright red fez on its head, set at a jaunty angle. Cold blue flames radiated from its fur, illuminating the darkness about it. Squinting its eyes, it curled its lips and tilted its head, casting a loving glance at Phillip.
"It's Old Nick — looking like the devil himself!" cried a terrified Philip. Jumping out of bed, he ran to the window and watched as the glowing cat drifted to the ground far below.
"My God! It can't be!" he uttered, his hand shaking as he switched on the light.
Phillip stood open-mouthed and stared at the window in disbelief; then he grabbed his housecoat and ran down the stairs.
"What I need is a good, stiff drink," he said, breathing heavily as he walked into the kitchen.
Freezing suddenly in his tracks, he gasped.
On the floor before him lay ten dead mice, lined up in a neat, orderly row, waiting for his inspection.
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