text: It was Spring of 1992 when they found Maude’s body. The whole neighborhood had known Maude, of course, in the way that only a cul-de-sac neighborhood could. All the residents of Kalamazoo Circuit had grown accustomed to the sound of her old Toyota pickup turning over, its engine (nearly as old as *she* was) sputtering and whining in the cold air that frequented Northern Massachusetts. The first sign that anything was wrong, in fact, had been the truck, which had sat in the driveway for nearly a full week before the neighborhood discovered her. While long stays at her home weren’t at all unusual for Maude, when Sunday morning came around, and her neighbors woke to see the chalk-white, dented pickup still parked, rumors began to fly. Maude had never before missed church on Sunday morning. It was the Robinson family at Number Seventeen who stopped by first, with Theresa Robinson and her son Luca lingering on Maude’s doorstep, knocking away at the door. They stayed only a minute or two before walking off, somewhat embarrassed. Then, the Thomas’ stopped by, intending to borrow a cup of sugar, but there was no response for them either. By then, the sun was beginning to set, and the citizens of Kalamazoo Circuit all slid their blinds closed, with just enough of a gap open to see Maude’s front door, in case it cracked open. All the neighbors hoped for that, for the door to open wide, and for Maude to step forward, adjusting her glasses in the diminished light, for what was left of the sun to reflect off her silver hair... but it never happened. And so, with great trepidation, it was the new wife of Harvey Waldorf in Number Four, Cynthia, who first called the police, sending a parade of rescue vehicles through the narrow streets of Kalamazoo Circuit. Maude’s neighbor, a retired beauty queen named Sylvia, gave a copy of Maude’s key to the tallest of the police officers now gathered on Maude’s lawn, which was starting to resemble something of a Policeman’s Ball. The officer turned the key in the door, and entered with a small team of paramedics, closing the door behind them. The residents of Kalamazoo Circuit held their breath in wait. The last any of her neighbors saw of Maude was her distinct form, rolled out on a gurney, covered under a thick, white sheet. Her pale hand peeked out through an opening, and many of the neighbors swore they’d seen a dark, black, circular mark on the back of it, almost as if she’d been branded. The neighborhood all felt the loss, none more than Sylvia, who had been Maude’s friend and confidant since first moving in to Number Twenty-Seven. And so, Sylvia took a holiday, and the rest of the neighborhood drifted back into relative normality. Except for Joan. Joan was an unusual child, at least by the community’s standards. While the other children would run and play in the center of the circle, Joan would sit quietly underneath a nearby tree, a book resting open on her lap. Her mother Abigail, and her father Anthony, had no idea what to make of her behavior, which only increased in strangeness on the day Maude was discovered. On that night, Joan had spent the majority of the evening looking out her window at the house across the street, where Maude had lived. She wouldn’t take dinner, and when Abigail came by with a plate of snacks, only shook her head, her gaze still fixed out the window. The first hour, her parents were concerned. By the fourth hour, they simply didn’t know what to do. But she eventually pulled herself from the scene, and fell asleep, and within a few weeks, was back to her old self. One day, Joan came home from school - much to her parent’s surprise - with a mangy black cat, cradled delicately in her arms. “Joan...” her mother started, “Where did you get that cat?” “It’s not a cat. It’s Maude” Joan replied, in a very matter-of-fact tone, and breezed past her mother into the house before Abigail could say another word about it. She continued on to her bedroom, closing the door sharply behind her, leaving her mother looking on in confusion. Abigail stared at the closed door for a moment, and then vigorously shook her head, as if trying to shake out her thoughts. Joan was still in her bedroom by the time her father Anthony came home, and sat down to dinner with his wife. Abigail was silent for a while, unsure how to relay the news of their daughter’s newly discovered pet, and decided to wait until Anthony had finished his dinner. And so, the last of his pork chops slowly digesting, Anthony looked up to see his wife seated across from him, absently wringing a napkin in her hands, looking back at him expectantly. “Something on your mind, dear?” “It’s Joan.” replied Abigail, the napkin beginning to tear. “She’s brought home... a cat.” “A cat?” Anthony’s hand went to his chin, and he thoughtfully stoked his beard. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” “I don’t know.” said Abigail, placing the tattered napkin on the table. “It’s a very strange cat.” “Strange how?” he asked, tilting a dwindling cup of coffee to his lips. Squirming with discomfort at the answer to her husband’s question, Abigail hesitated before speaking. “Well,” she started, “Joan says... that it’s Maude.” Certain he had misheard her, Anthony tilted his head at his wife. “*Who’s* Maude?” “The cat is. The cat is Maude.” replied Abigail. Anthony paused, placing his cup back in its saucer. “I’m certain you misheard her.”, he said, “Didn’t Maude have a cat?” “I believe so.” “Then it’s just that: Maude’s cat. You misheard Joan, that’s all.” said Anthony, the matter rested in his mind. Deciding that made enough sense to her, Abigail nodded, and began collecting the dishes from the night’s meal. “Yes.” she said, “I suppose you’re right.” She brought the dishes to the sink, and stopped thinking about the cat for the night. Curled up in a small, black circle, the cat purred peacefully next to a sleeping Joan. Watching the cat for the next several days, Abigail simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was happening in her home. Though it seemed a perfectly ordinary house cat, whenever it entered the same room as Abigail, the hair on the back of her neck stuck straight out, as if trying to escape her very skin. She came to dread the laundry room most of all, which was where the small creature tended to spend its days, waiting for Joan to return from school, but any of the rooms in her house seemed to suit the cat just fine. In fact, the only way to be certain where the cat was, was to wait for Joan’s return. From the moment the girl walked in the front door, the cat would run to her side, and would scarcely leave it thereafter. It appeared very much as if Joan had adopted a second, smaller shadow, one that slinked around corners, and left a trail of tiny black hairs in its wake. The pair became inseparable. Things went on like this for quite some time, and indeed, may have gone on like this forever, if not for one fateful day when Joan’s father, freshly home from work, his mind elsewhere, accidentally left the front door wide open, giving the cat an opportunity to escape. The cat’s body was found later that night, lifeless and bloodied, on the busy streets outside Kalamazoo Circuit. At first, Joan was inconsolable. The poor girl fretted nearly every hour of the day, taking long crying spells in the laundry room whenever she returned from school. Her father felt terribly, and tried many times to apologize to Joan, but the girl ignored every effort, barely speaking to either parent, escaping further and further into her own mind, and her own grief. Days passed, and still, the girl found no comfort. Joan’s family had a single, four-door sedan, which brought Anthony to and from the small insurance office where he worked, and would sometimes take the family on weekend trips to the beach, or to the park. But, as their direct neighbor Rose would notice one morning in Summer, the small sedan had begun to gather great deals of pollen. Rose got up early the next day, and decided to sit by her window, watching Joan’s home. In the past, it would often happen that Rose and Anthony would catch one another’s eye from their respective kitchen windows, and Anthony would nod, and Rose would wave, and soon, Rose would see the sedan rolling out towards the main road, with Anthony inside. But Rose hadn’t seen Anthony drinking his coffee in several days now, nor the wife, nor the daughter, whom she thought was named Mary. And so, uncertain, she maintained her watch on the neighboring window, and when she couldn’t stand it any longer, picked up her phone, and dialed the police. In all the history of the neighborhood, nobody on Kalamazoo Circuit could recall such a horrible tragedy. The following day, Joan, Abigail, and Anthony, were wheeled out on gurneys, covered in thick sheets, white as snow. The police interviewed several of the residents, but nobody knew what could have happened, or who could have done such a thing. Across the street, at Number Twenty-Four, a young girl named Seline, new to the neighborhood, watched the display from her front yard, her head tilted, and her brow furrowed. She felt sad for the family, although they had never met. She watched as the three bodies were loaded into different vehicles, and driven off. And as she watched, she felt something brush against her leg, and looked down. Looking back up at her, through bright green, almost cartoonish eyes, sat a mangy black cat. Enamored, Seline picked up the cat, which cried out softly as it was lifted. She brought the animal closer to her face, smiling. Joan’s body was the last to be loaded in, and as she was moved, her hand fell out. Many of the neighbors swore they saw a thick, black, circular mark on the back of her hand. Almost as if she had been branded. Seline spared one last look behind her at the departing ambulances before walking into her home, where her mother was unpacking boxes. “Oh!” her mother said, “You found a cat!” “It’s not a cat.” replied Seline. “It’s Maude.