Cat Hands

The night was oppressively dark as the man frantically hurried home, each step an urgent plea against the suffocating gloom. The air, heavy with some unseen dread, pressed in around him.

Then, to his left, at the crumbling wall of a forgotten well, he saw it. Not a normal cat, but a feline monstrosity with unmistakably human hands. They glistened with fresh blood, evidence of a freshly torn mouse lying mangled beside it.

The man froze, locked in a trance. He could only stare, paralyzed, as the creature—its head tilting with an unsettling grace, otherwise perfectly normal—began to chew with a chilling precision.

A feral, ancient flicker in the cat's eyes was oddly hypnotizing, compelling the man forward. He felt an irresistible, horrifying curiosity, a sudden, desperate urge to possess this creature, human hands and all.

The cat remained utterly still, a predator patiently waiting. As the man reached out, intending to touch those impossible human hands, his own hand never made it.

In a blur, the cat's human hands shot out, locking around the man's throat. They squeezed, crushing his cries, stealing every last breath. The night suddenly grew colder, darker, as the cat, with its chillingly human hands, began to consume the man, its new, very large meal.

Georgia