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Scout had tried to tell her he was going to have nightmares. He’d tried to tell her in the most sideways manner possible, so it couldn’t be suggested that he was a coward, because he wasn’t actually scared of anything, no goddamn way. Nothing except goddamn ghost white taxidermied cats, sitting on the mantle, staring at the bed. There had to be an exception to every rule. Scout’s exception was zombie cats and he thought that was pretty fair.
It was dead. Live cats were bad enough, for staring. This one wasn’t going to stop. It kept staring, and would keep staring on into infinity. When cars passed and their headlights swept the window, it’s eyes flashed and Scout felt his throat constrict every time. He got up and pulled the blinds shut. The new shadows the thing cast were worse. He tried ignoring it. Didn’t matter if he turned over, or buried his face in Miss Pauling’s hair, careful not to wake her. It wouldn’t stop staring.
It stared at him from the depths of his subconscious, three hours later, when he’d finally fallen asleep. Woke him up yelling and kicking and scared Miss Pauling half to death.
She moved the cat to the cupboard under the bathroom sink, and cuddled and shushed Scout back to sleep.