The moon silhouetted the rather large mansion. The mansion had two wings hinged together by a tower with a conical roof and lay back on the lot with a sprawling front yard landscaped with ancient maple and elm trees. The day's rain continued through the night, the ground long since soaked. The soot-gray brick seemed to thrive in this weather. A stranger stood outside the kitchen window, feet sinking into the soft, wet soil, trampling the delicate, yellow-orange marigolds that grew there. The stranger brought a cigarette to his lips and inhaled slowly and blew out the smoke. He thought of the lady who lived here, elegant, sensual. He smiled. The blackened ashes grew at the lit end; he shook them onto the ground.

Tyler, a simple, motley breed of cat with short black and white fur, looked up from his favorite pillow. The yard darkened as the moon hid behind the clouds. A glow of red light floated outside the window.

The stranger crept along the wall to the back door, dropping the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with his muddied foot. He squatted down on the stoop and inspected the too-large pet door. He squeezed his body through the door.

The deafening siren of the home-security system cut through the silence and ripped Bertrahm and Margaret Gelfmann from their sleep. They both jumped up. Bertrahm glanced at the clock radio. The red digits stared back at him through the darkness: 1:03 A.M. Bertrahm cringed and let out a resounding moan of complaint. He had to be up in just four hours.

"That damned alarm! Better be an intruder this time." Bertrahm tore the blankets from his body and swung his long legs off the edge of the bed. "I'd be surprised if the damned thing ever did work right," he added. He stood up and straightened his cotton shorts. Despite the clamorous noise squawking throughout the spacious house, Bertrahm was still in a sleep-induced stupor as he ambled his way towards the door of the bedroom.

"Don't scare me, Bert!" snapped Margaret. "Check it out just to make sure. You know I'm not used to this house yet."

"Margaret, who'd rob us in this miserable weather?"

"I'd feel better if you'd just check it out, please, for me."

"All right." A coldness crept over Margaret. She pulled the woolen covers up around her and pulled the feather-down pillow tight around her ears, trying to drown out the obnoxious alarm. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep.

Margaret felt uncomfortable in their new house. She had fallen in love with it immediately when she saw it in the realtor's guide, but she knew that they really couldn't afford it, that it would take much sacrifice. And it did. She was ecstatic when her husband had surprised her with it. There was little money left over to furnish it as they wanted, as such a grand house deserved. There was no money to hire help to maintain it. She had thought it all worth it. That is, until they moved in. Now, living within its many walls, she felt uneasy. Why, she didn't know, but the alarm didn't make her feel any better either, false alarm or not.

The rain peppered the roof. Margaret usually liked the rain, but tonight, in this house, she felt a little edgy. Partly because of the alarm, but it was more than that. She couldn't quite grasp it. Yet there it was, just beyond reach, beyond comprehension.

The stranger stood up in the entranceway and surveyed his surroundings. He wiped his soiled feet on the mat leaving behind two smeared footprints. He pulled a cigarette from its pack and lit it. Tyler still sat on his pillow, looking curiously at the intruder. The stranger slowly approached the cat. Tyler met him halfway, sniffing him out carefully. The stranger bent down to pet him. Tyler, ever so naïve, ever so trusting, let him. The stranger scooped him up and brought him close to his face; he stroked Tyler's fur, the cigarette still dangling from his mouth. Reddened ashes fell to the floor.

Bertrahm groped through the darkness, his feet padded along the plush carpet, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light as he searched for the door. His large, knotty hands felt the smoothness of the papered wall and panned out probing for the knob. He quickly found it; the brass was cold to his touch. Bertrahm opened the door.

The master-bedroom door opened out into the center of the hallway. At one end was a spare bedroom they used for storage and the narrow maid's stairs. At the other was a grand, spiral staircase with a black, wrought-iron railing. The alarm was much louder out in the hall. It seemed to Bertrahm that the hallway was darker than the bedroom. The only light that made its way into the corridor was from the meek, amber street lamps outside that were barely able to penetrate the storm. The moon was still entirely concealed by the storm. Bertrahm turned left towards the security unit just as a bright flash of lightning filled the corridor with intense, white light. He squinted and brought his hand up to block his eyes. A clap of thunder roared through the residence almost obscuring the relentless trill of the alarm. He glanced at the alarm's display. BACK DOOR flashed across the screen. He quickly punched in the security code. The irritating sound ceased; the alarm was deactivated.

Tyler purred and rubbed his head against the stranger. The stranger smelled a delicate perfume on the cat. He thought of her, her long, red hair cascading over her shoulders, the smooth curve of her neck. He snickered. Tyler looked into his face, really looked at it.

All of Tyler's muscles tensed and tightened. He flattened his ears. His fur rose upon his back and he bared his claws. The stranger held fast on his prey. Tyler squirmed and hissed and swung his sharpened paw.

It struck squarely on the stranger's cheek and bore five neat, scarlet lines in the soft flesh. The stranger didn't even flinch. He squeezed the cat. He squeezed it hard. Tyler screeched.

Bertrahm flinched at the sound and turned towards the stairway. He began to take each step of the small staircase quickly. He paused for a moment. What if it wasn't a false alarm. He began again, cautiously taking each step towards the kitchen.

Margaret heard Tyler's squeal too. She shivered as a new coldness festered just beneath her creamy-white skin. She pulled the blankets tighter around her body.

The stranger heard the rapid footsteps and promptly dropped the cat. Tyler hit the floor with a dull thump and let out a small meow. The stranger ducked into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. There was a soiled nightgown crumpled on the floor. He picked it up and stood stiff against the wall. He felt the material between his naked fingers: black satin. He brought it to his face and, holding the cigarette in one hand, he inhaled deeply. He smelled her.

Bertrahm, taking each step one at a time, reached the dimly lit kitchen. Rain sprinkled upon the kitchen windows. The room appeared empty. He rounded the stove and spotted Tyler happily grooming himself in the corner.

Bertrahm scratched his bearded chin and looked at the cat. He shook his head and walked to the back door. It was locked. He thought he smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke, but chased the thought away; Margaret hadn't smoked in years and he didn't want to think of any other possibility. Bertrahm didn't notice the muddied mat.

Bertrahm went back through the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife from the drawer, just in case. He climbed the small stairway back to the master bedroom. He stopped short of his bedroom door, hand gripping the knob. He wanted badly to open the door and try to salvage what little sleep remained, but Margaret's voice echoed in his head: I'd feel better if you'd just check it out, please, for me. Bertrahm grudgingly walked down the hallway towards the spiral stairs. He proceeded carelessly, telling himself that they needed to get a new alarm system.

The stranger let the nightgown fall to the floor and took the final puff off his cigarette. He put it out on the wall beside him and promptly lit another.

Tyler sauntered around the corner and began to meow at the stranger. The stranger swiftly swung his foot; it landed firmly on Tyler's gut, sending Tyler scrambling across the floor.

Bertrahm rushed each step of the winding staircase. The rain pelted the roof and spattered the small arched windows that lined the steps. The wind rustled the old limbs of the elms and maples that enveloped the house. The thick, dark clouds briefly unmasked the glowing moon. Light shone through the arched windows. Shadows danced along the walls as if they were at some mysterious ball.

Bertrahm continued down the dark stairway and stopped at mid-landing to check the guestroom. He peered into the room and took a quick, half-attempted look at the room. The room was large, considering it was only the guestroom. As with the rest of the house, the room was sparsely furnished. There was a double bed, chest of drawers, and a bed table with a small lamp. The bed was neatly made and the room was empty. Everything was as it should be. Nothing, he thought and continued down the stairwell.

Margaret couldn't sleep. Something kept gnawing at her consciousness. Something just felt wrong. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake it.

The stranger slowly climbed the maid's stairway ever so carefully as not to make a sound. He could actually smell her along the way, the sweet smell of her sexuality, the sweet smell of her beauty.

He opened the door that connected the stairwell with the hallway. It creaked.

Margaret looked up. "Bert? Is that you?"

The stranger stopped at the top of the stairs. He heard her call out. His heart beat just a little bit faster. He proceeded towards the master-bedroom door. He grasped the doorknob. He could picture her in that black, satin nightgown, skin illuminated in the moon's glow. He turned the knob.

"Bert, everything okay with the alarm?" Margaret asked the dark figure standing in the doorway. She saw the glowing of the cigarette; she could smell the smoke.

The stranger closed the door behind him. He looked into her sweet face and approached her. Lightning flashed and briefly lit up the room.

Margaret saw his face. Her scream was smothered by a rather loud crash of thunder. Bertrahm thought he heard his wife call out. He listened again, but he heard nothing. He continued down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs was the foyer. The stone slate felt cold to Bertrahm's bare feet as he walked to the front door. He tried the door. Still locked. He opened the peephole window and looked out. He couldn't see anything through the rain. Bertrahm remembered that he had forgotten to reset the alarm and did so on the front-door unit. He promptly continued through the foyer towards the library.

The library was Bertrahm's favorite room. The musty smell of the old books always reminded him of the huge library downtown he used to go to as a kid. The library had dark, almost black, wooden bookcases sprawling all available wall space with an eclectic collection of many-colored books. Bertrahm switched on the light. The shadows ran away. The leather couch sat empty against the far wall with a dark wooden coffee table at its feet. No one here, either, he thought and went to turn off the light. Before his fingers touched the switch, as if anticipating Bertrahm's intentions, the light went out. Almost simultaneously, the grandfather clock chimed announcing the arrival of the quarter hour. Startled, Bertrahm jumped. "Damned clock!" Bertrahm wiped the sweat from his face and cursed. He tried the switch and nothing happened. It's just the storm; it knocked out the electricity. That's all. Bertrahm tried to convince himself.

The stranger lit another cigarette and walked stealthily around the room, admiring Margaret's beauty. He brushed her limp hair. He panted a smile upon her still face with apple-red lipstick he got from his pocket.

Bertrahm slowly retraced his steps through the foyer toward the living room. He stood in the large archway and hastily surveyed the living room and conservatory with one sweeping glance. The ceiling was vaulted and, opposite where Bertrahm stood, a floor-to-ceiling, stained-glass window was cut into the wall. The multi-colored panes cast freakish red, blue, and green lights across the room. Assorted music books still lay in a haphazard stack on the piano bench from Margaret's afternoon practice. A dark green, velvet sofa roosted in the center of the room with two matching armchairs nestled in front of it. In between, a leaded glass table crouched close to the ornate area rug beneath it. The granite fireplace guarded over everything. It was neatly kept and grew from the floor upwards through the ceiling. On one side of the hearth was an assortment of black, iron utensils that looked as if they had never been used. "Nothing out of the ordinary here." Bertrahm spoke out loud, as if to chase away the fear that was welling up in his chest. He continued towards the dining room.

The stranger continued to paint Margaret's face, adding rosy-color to her cheeks. He hummed along to an unheard tune.

The old hardwood floor screeched and creaked with each of Bertrahm's steps. Lightning flashed, bathing the dining room in a glaring white light. Bertrahm moved around the rectangular oak, dining-room table and walked to the patio doors. Though they were both locked, Bertrahm looked out the window and scrutinized the patio with no success. It was too dark to see a thing. He made his way between the table and the mahogany serving-table. With the room dark again, his eyes needed time to adjust. He carefully navigated toward the breakfast room and kitchen. The rain continued.

After picking out the perfect dress out of her closet, the stranger carefully dressed the dead Margaret tossing her spent nightgown to the floor. He still hummed the tune. As the ashes lingered on the end of his cigarette, he was careful not to let them fall on her. He wanted her to be perfect.

Bertrahm put his hands forward in anticipation of the swinging door that connected the dining room with the breakfast room. His fingers pressed against the painted surface.

Bertrahm stopped dead in his tracks.

His mouth dried up.

The hair on the back of his neck perked up on end.

Bertrahm heard something, something scratching. He listened again, straining his ears for the slightest sound. Nothing. He was sure that he had heard scratching. Or had he? No. He definitely had heard something. He paused a moment. He called out. He listened. Silence.

When he had dressed her just right, the stranger stood back and took her in. In life she was beautiful, but now, in death, she was breathtaking. She was magnificent, a work of art.

Bertrahm slowly pushed against the door, breathless, fear squeezing his chest. Sweat dripped from strands of Bertrahm's graying, brown hair. It stung his eyes. He ignored it and forced himself to continue.

Just then it dawned on him. He released his kept breath. "The cat! It's just the cat." He wiped the sweat from his brow. He marched through the door with a new-felt confidence. The door swung back in place after him. His feet thundered on the wood floor of the breakfast room. He quickly pushed forward into the kitchen.

"Tyler?" Bertrahm shouted as if he expected to get some kind of reply. The cat was no where to be found. Bertrahm looked at Tyler's empty pillow. It was as worn and old as Tyler himself. Near Tyler's pillow, a few scattered cigarette ashes lay on the floor. Bertrahm's skin puckered as tiny bumps sprouted and spread across his bare chest; he thought about the smoke he had smelled before. Bertrahm felt cold. He wished he had remembered to put on his robe. He stood there for a moment. Stiff and cold. Dazed. Frightened.

The stranger put on Margaret's discarded nightgown. He selected one of the ornately-designed bottles of perfume that stood in the center of her vanity. He squeezed the bulb and perfume escaped into the air. It was her. He squeezed the bulb again, this time aiming at himself.

A loud crash broke the silence and jolted Bertrahm out of his daze. This time there was no doubt. He had heard it and it came from the cat's room. Bertrahm looked at Tyler's empty pillow and the ashes beside it. "Who's there?" he asked, barely able to get above a whisper. No reply. Bertrahm turned and cautiously moved towards the maid's-quarters-turned-cat's-room. He checked the back door. Still locked. He still didn't see the fresh mud on the mat in the darkness.

He peered into the laundry room. Bertrahm also didn't notice a still-smoldering cigarette butt that lay in the corner of the room; a thick stream of smoke spiraled towards the ceiling. He turned back around and headed into Tyler's room, still hoping to find him the cause behind the noise. The stink of the cat box was thick and heavy in the air. It hit him the moment he entered. Margaret must have forgotten to clean it.

Upon the first glimpse, the room appeared empty. Bertrahm knew the sound had come from here. He was sure of it. Bertrahm switched on the light. It didn't respond. The electricity was still out. Bertrahm searched in the darkness for Tyler. No luck. Tyler's carpeted, cat tree was unoccupied. He looked at the closet. The door was shut. All of his childhood fears came flooding back in a wave of emotion. His voice quivering, Bertrahm called out, "Anyone in there?" His body trembled, and he felt colder than ever. "I have a gun," he lied. "Come on out of there." There was no answer. As he moved closer to the closet, Bertrahm again noticed the faint odor of cigarette smoke. Fear climbed into his throat and began to fester. He reached outward, hand shaking, fingers cold. He grasped the doorknob. The metal was warm. Strange, Bertrahm thought. The knob was stiff from disuse. The rain poured down upon the roof. The sound, punctuated by claps of thunder, echoed in Bertrahm's head. He slowly turned the knob and gently pulled on the door.

The stranger began to paint his own face, first his lips, then his eyes. He took puffs from his cigarette between strokes. He continued to hum.

The door wouldn't give. It was slightly warped from age. Bertrahm pulled harder. Only the lower portion came free of the door jam. Bertrahm yanked even harder and the door flung open sending Bertrahm crashing to the floor along with a pile of mops and brooms. The lights suddenly came on.

The stranger danced around the room in rhythm to the tune that played in his head. He smiled at Margaret. "May I have this dance?"

The abrupt light blinded Bertrahm. He shook his head and gathered his senses. He looked into the closet and saw Tyler sitting there amongst a collection of cleaning solutions. Tyler strolled casually towards Bertrahm and rubbed his body against him.

"How'd you get in there?" Bertrahm said out loud, laughing. As he picked himself up and put weight upon his feet, a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He winced, contorting his face into an awful grimace. He neglected it as he cleaned up the mess. He shut the closet door, deciding to give it up and go back to bed. Limping, Bertrahm slowly began the route back to bed, the pain in his leg subsiding only slightly. He knew it would hurt like hell in the morning.

Tyler followed Bertrahm into the kitchen. Bertrahm, forgetting about the ashes went to the cupboard and pulled a glass down from the shelf. He walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. He grasped the carton of milk from the top shelf and checked the date: two days past. He brought the carton close to his nose. Smelled okay to him. He poured the milk into the glass. The cat looked up at the sound of the milk filling the glass. Tyler smacked his lips, tail swaying casually in the air. "Meow." Bertrahm took a drink from the glass. There it was again. That cigarette smell.

Having wrapped Margaret's lifeless arms around his neck, the stranger held her at the waist as he waltzed in tiny circles around the bed. He whispered in her ear. He caressed her bare back. He could feel the stickiness of the drying blood.

The alarm again shrieked and screamed. Bertrahm dropped the glass. It shattered on the tile floor and milk spilled all over. He cursed the damned alarm and ran to the back door to shut it off. This time the display flashed FRONT DOOR. Bertrahm disengaged the alarm and took off for the front door. He ran through the dining room, into the foyer. He reached the door. It was still locked. He looked out the window and saw nothing.

The alarm surprised the stranger and he looked for a place to hide Margaret.

Disgusted and too tired to clean up his mess, Bertrahm went upstairs to bed, his leg now throbbing. He opened the door to his bedroom. "Margaret, honey, it's just . . ." Margaret lay in the bed fast asleep. He didn't know how with all of the commotion. Bertrahm entered the room and again he smelled cigarette smoke. It was slight, but it was nonetheless there. He made a mental note to question Margaret in the morning. He crawled into his side of the bed and pulled the covers on top of himself. He turned to kiss his wife. The pillow still covered Margaret's head; Bertrahm removed the pillow.

The stranger with a horribly disfigured face covered in make–up looked back at him. His eyes were glassy black, but not just black. Empty. A warped, lipsticked smile spread across his face. The smell of cigarette smoke and women's perfume hung on his putrid breath. Vomit rose up from the depths of Bertrahm's stomach. The bitter taste of bile lingered on his tongue long after the vile liquid seeped back down his gullet. He opened his mouth wide, but nothing audible came out.

Torrential rains pounded down upon the mansion. There was a glimmer of crimson, a flash of steel. A scream most primal, most horrifying, finally managed to escape Bertrahm's gaping lips, penetrating the thick walls of the house.

Tyler momentarily stopped lapping up the milk, ears perked.

The house went quiet.

Tyler finished the milk, wandered to his pillow, and went to sleep.