Chapter 4 - The Striped House Guest

Chapter 4

The walk home from campus was less like a walk - and more like a brisk saunter. I was wondering of the mysteriously absent Professor Voltari, his likeness to avoid students, and his travels abroad. Atleast I had his name, but even that wasn’t much.

The sun was falling. The streets were quiet. Occasionally cars would traverse by me, some with headlights on, some without them their dark outlines whirred by me.

Step by step along the gray side walk which, thoroughly rooted, was so much so, that by in which any foot step attempting to land on flat ground played host to a more likely result of striding on bumpy, ridged and broken concrete. From below tree growth burst through to the surface - splitting the tracts of stone like an axe through gray cord wood.

It was growing ever darker and the street’s lack of public lights made the journey a solitary and desolate one. I walked along, my thoughts in La-La land, privy to menial details and waiting for a story to break itself.

I arrived at the front vestibule of the apartment. The shadows were crawling up it sides and the dim effervescence of lights danced from the multitude of windows beset on the front of the building - dinner time among the tenants.

Something was different about the exterior of the building. There was something extra.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a large red object about the size of a car door jutting out from the side of our building.

The panel doors which lead to the apartment’s shared basement were left wide open.

This was unusual. I had never seen the apartment left this way before, the large, red wooden doors, which were so olden I could notice their paint job - a chipping crimson surface of which I could even spy the grain of the wood that comprised the doors, which was long grained and splintery.

Struck by my own curiosity and disobeying the commonality of simply leaving the matter alone: I ventured closer to the basement doors which, seemed to me a welcoming sight for my intrigued mind; and perhaps - a scoop for my novel.

I thought of mystery seekers discovering totems in old wells, dripping caves and mine shafts.

This was the closest I would get to any of that.

I stepped assuredly forward from off the broken sidewalk, with its roots shooting to the surface, I traversed the lawn to the door and soon my foot made contact with the squeaky wooden step at the top of a staircase.

*Squeeeak*

My foot came down on the wooden top step; which seemed to contain the same old wood that which comprised the red basement door.

I couldn’t see much from my position at the top of the basement’s ingress. Why was this left open? What was down there? Workmen fixing a pipe?

I imagined I may also be alone if I went down there. The thought stung me with fear.

So, step.

As I placed my foot on the second dusty stair I half-expected their to be a well-lit basement on which before I had never laid eyes.

What was before me was different.

The basement of the apartment seemed to me to be atypical. It was hardly finished. It was a dusty, dimly lit cavern that most likely played home to pests - from vermin to insect.

After a quick moment, I forgot me fears and descended down the stairs where I found myself at the bottom.

I looked onward. Through the darkness.

My heart began to pound. My senses whicked. And I felt that perhaps I was not alone, after all.

But how could I know? From this position I was nearly bathed in darkness.

I turned my body backwards to the only source of light available, that of the street above.

With an inability to see into the inky blackness, and with my will to explore consequently satiated - I turned around to climb to my exit.

I heard a noise.

A rustle.

I stopped turning. Then in the reconvening silence - turned to face the door at the top of the stairs through which I had entered.

Then I heard the rustle again. This time louder. Closer. Somewhere behind the staircase.

If at once before, I thought I was alone. I was wrong.

The rustling came again and I recognized the distinct sound of movement, this time accompanied by a soft, humming - a humming that seemed squarely directed at me.

I tried to keep my wits about me.

With my body turned to face the waning sunlight of the surface above - I placed my foot on the bottom step of the stair case, ready to leave, if not only for the safety of what was down there, but for my own.

Because it wasn’t just humming.

It was humming …at me.

I looked into the direction of what was making the sound.

Casting my gaze from the night sky above to down below the basement’s entrance, somewhere through the rungs of the basement stairs - I peered at the object which was producing the sound, directly into the eyes of a small, orange plush stuffed animal, like the ones you win at the carnival. A toy, which someone had left turned on: its large glassy eyes peering inquisitively, and it remained humming contently and “staring” directly at me.

I spoke out loud for the sake of filling the void between darkness and me with palatable sound of something other than the bespoken humming and the haunting air of my own breathing.

“Hm..” I mustered. “Just a toy.”

But it wasn’t a plush animal. It wasn’t humming.

…It was purring.

And now it appeared not to be a stuffed animal, but rather a house cat - most likely, an orange tabby.

Much like the one my neighbors had growing up, named Oliver.

I was immediately brought back to a time when I was a kid and enjoyed watching Public Broadcasting segments detailing how house cats were ancestors of their larger, wild relatives.

In the failing light I managed a view that produced something that WAS much larger than a house cat. Bulkier. With a larger maw, as the zookeepers call it.

Instantly I knew what it truly was, if not from the years of loving nature shows. No could’ve missed this.

And It certainly wasn’t a plush animal.

As I was looking through the rungs of the stairs; In the contrast between the purple sky above cast through the doorway above, which mixed with the darkness of the basement, I could see the outline of a small, stately tiger cub - with its eyes set on me.

It was unmistakeable.

It WAS alive - its head bobbing up and down, mouth agape as it panted gingerly.

What wits I had gathered before, were now being tested.

“What was a small exotic animal doing here?” I could not venture a guess.

I peered stealthily to the corners of the basement out of sheer fright, assuming i’d be met with the gaze of the cub’s larger, more formidable parents.

My heart beat which had already remained elevated from my venture into the darkness, was now so loud it was able to contact villages several miles away. Where was the cub’s larger, more dangerous family? Why was it all alone.

I ventured the quickest route away from the critter. I placed my second foot on the bottom step.

The rustling loudened and suddenly the tiger cub raced out from behind the stairs, around the wall of the basement and found itself planted at the base of the stairs mere feet away from me.

I spun around ready to defend myself. How? I didn’t know. But most say its better face your challenges head on, rather than risk a claw in the back.

Reality struck me again. I had been wrong. It wasn’t a plush stuffed animal. It was alive. And there it was, a tiger cub, looking up at me at my feet, purring sedately.

I froze.

In both panic and excitement. Adrenaline surged. Sweat gushed down the back of my neck.

Its appearance was grand for such a small animal. It possessed all the features of all the larger, full grown members of its species.

In the low light I could make out its tufty ears, its white cheeks producing long, thin whiskers like pipe cleaners splaying out from its “face.” It had glassy blue eyes and, yes, running al along hits meridians were unmistakable black stripes which scalloped its highlighter orange fur like lines on a beach.

The sheer docility of the cub, mixed with the fact that it was seemingly alone, quickly made me exorcise my latent fear of it attacking me and suddenly - I did not fear it at all anymore.

I was so impressed that I was nonplussed. In fact, I found the cub rather charming.

“Hello, there!” I spoke, softly, as to not excite it too much.

I hardly flinched.

“uh…Is your trainer around?” I proffered, speaking purely for my own enjoyment.

The cub produced a paw to its mouth and began licking it, then proceeded to groom itself.

At once, I noticed it had a collar around its neck. It was bejeweled green - with a large green stone placed in the center, “maybe jade?” I thought. The stone was regally positioned below the cub’s furry white chin. This gave me the message that, “no wonder that it didn’t attack me - it was trained or had at least an owner.”

I thought to myself “Sometimes people say that animals can’t be owned.”

“Where are your friends?” I asked rhetorically.

The animal continued licking itself. Breaking only to look up me with its large, teal, marble-like doe eyes.

The cubs eyes were like pools, soft and glistening.

“Are you lost?”

Excitation got the best of me.

Once I was convinced the Tiger wouldn’t attack me - I denounced my more rational thought of leaving; gathered the cub up into my arms like Johnny Unitas cradling a football and quickly rambled up the stairs - the waning daylight gave way to the violet night and headed for my apartment door.

Unbeknownst of my adventure: the cars rolled by; the trees continued to break through the concrete.