Catbox
by Arthur Bangs

Monday

The door to the apartment made a swishing sound as it opened a few inches. A man's head appeared in the crack in the doorway before he opened it all the way and entered. A woman followed, closing the door behind her.

They were both in their late twenties, with cherubic faces still showing traces of the baby fat of their teenage years, auburn hair – his spiky and carefully disheveled, hers shoulder-length and pinned back with a barrette – and matching black plastic-framed glasses. He wore a dark purple button-down shirt, black jeans and a pair of black Chuck Taylors. She wore a thrift store dress with leggings underneath. Their clothes fit them snugly, as if they had put on some weight since the day they bought them.

Closing the door behind them, the young woman grabbed her companion by the arm. "Wait," she said, kicking off her shoes. "Sarah asked that we take our shoes off." Grumbling, the young man unlaced his sneakers and set them by the door next to the young woman's. The couple walked into the living room and looked around. The walls were painted pure white and the floor was a metallic black tile. In the center of the room were an oval glass coffee table and a black leather couch on a chrome frame. Large panel windows along the west side provided a view of the New York skyline at sunset.

He whistled. "Nice view."

"The place is kinda stark, though – don't you think, Warren? I mean, where's the furniture?"

"I think it's supposed to be "edgy,"" Warren said, making air quotes with his fingers.

"Edgy." She sniffed. "This place reeks of Pine Sol."

He grinned at her, bemused. "How do you know what Pine Sol smells like? Did you start cleaning our apartment when I wasn't looking?"

"Funny." She glanced at the ceiling and sniffed again, this time in disgust. "It's not even a loft. What's the point in moving to Williamsburg if you're not going to get a loft? Everyone has lofts."

He shook his head. "Not with these new luxury condo towers. They care more about stealing someone else's view of Manhattan than creating an open living space." He gestured to the vent in the ceiling. "They even have central air. It feels like we're in an office building, doesn't it?"

She frowned. "Frankly, I'm disappointed. With the money they have, I was expecting something more exciting."
He stared at her. "Bob and Sarah exciting?"

She giggled.

In the middle of the coffee table was a black cube the size of a hat box.

"Here kitties," he said as he approached the table, his eyes drawn to the box. "What are their names again?"

"Hannibal and Tiger."

"Tiger? Blech. I bet Bob named that one. It takes the imagination of a "Bob" to name a cat "Tiger." There's a whole race of bland Bobs out there, Ashley," Warren said, waving a hand at the city outside the window, "who bland generation after bland generation spawn bland little children just like them and give them bland names like Bob. Tiger! It's cruelty to animals, really. Tiger!"

"Are you finished?" Ashley asked.

Warren took a deep breath and exhaled. "Yes."

She smirked. "Good. To be honest, I'm surprised Bob and Sarah even own cats."

"Yeah, they seem more like the tropical fish type – something cold and scaly that they can look at from a distance and never have to touch."

"Or how about a robot cat, which they could turn off and throw in the closet when they go on vacation?"

Warren laughed. "At the very least it would spare us from having to come here every day this week. I'm surprised that they asked us to feed them while they're away. They have enough money to hire professional cat sitters, and we've gone out with them – what, three times? Don't they have any other friends?"

"It was worth it just to be able to check out their place," Ashley said, "even if it is a little underwhelming."

Warren walked around the table, peeking under the couch.

"Here Hannibal... here Tiger..."

"Don't bother, Warren – cats never answer to their names."

Warren shrugged. "It can't hurt to try. Did they say if the cats like strangers?"

There was a noise from the hallway at the far end of the room, and a moment later two cats padded around the corner.

"Oh, hello kitties!" Ashley called out, crouching and extending her hands towards them. "You must be Tiger," she said to the striped tabby that walked up to her. Scratching its head, she said, "You're such a beautiful cat! And so big!" She looked up at Warren, who was sniggering. "What?"

"Don't bother, Ashley – if the cats don't give a damn what you call them, they're not gonna give a damn about anything you have to say."

Ashley stood up. "What am I supposed to do, just pet it silently like some idiot?" Tiger weaved between her legs.

Warren bent down and ran his fingers over Hannibal's arched back, and the black cat purred. "They are big cats, aren't they? Do you think they're some exotic breed, like savannahs?"

Ashley shook her head. "Savannahs are long big. These cats are just fat."

"Great. So our job is to make them fatter."

Ashley disappeared down the hallway the cats had come from, Tiger following her. "Here's the kitchen... and the cat food... the cat food..."

Warren sat down on the couch, wincing slightly in discomfort. He tucked his thumb inside the waistband of his pants and adjusted it to relieve the pressure on his gut, then sighed in relief. Running his hand over his head, he molded his hair into a ridge running from front to back. He looked at his reflection in the glass table and frowned. "I'm thinking of changing my hair."

"How?" Ashley said from the kitchen.

"Maybe comb it down, grow it out a little. Saw some guy at the bar last night who had it like that... think it might look good on me."

"Which bar?"

"The second one, I think. Abbey."

He glanced over at Hannibal, who was sitting a few feet away and staring at him, and then looked at the thing on the table.

"What the hell is it?" he murmured.

"What?"

He shouted, "The black thing on the table. What d'you think it is?"

"Maybe it's art."

Warren leaned forward and stared at the cube. It was pitch black, with a matte finish that seemed to suck all of the light in the room towards it like a black hole. He touched it tentatively, as if he had expected it to burn his fingers.

"Feels like metal. Hmm..." He ran his hand from the top of the cube down one of the sides. "There's a crease here," he said, running a finger in a horizontal line around four sides. "I think it's a box."

"I can't find the fucking cat food."

He ignored her. "Why would they keep a big black box on their coffee table? It makes no sense."

"What?"

"I said it makes no sense! Having a big box on their coffee table."

"Ah! Found it. Shit!"

Warren looked towards the kitchen. "What?"

Ashley appeared in the doorway with a crumpled bag of dry cat food. "The bag's almost empty."

"How much is left?"

She hefted the bag and looked inside. "I have no idea. They said to fill the bowl completely every day... a few days' worth? Not the whole week, at any rate. Do they expect us to go out and buy more for them?"

Warren got up and followed Ashley into the kitchen, the black cat at his heels.

"Yeesh."

The design of the kitchen was in keeping with that of the living room: black and white tile floor, white cabinets, black countertops and glossy black appliances.

"Yeah, I know. Real homey, huh?" The cats' food and water bowls, one red and the other black, were in the corner, resting on a natty little cloth mat that seemed out of place in the otherwise cold and pristine kitchen. She picked them up and handed one to him. "This one looks like the water dish."

Warren looked at Ashley for a few seconds with an expression of what am I supposed to do with this? on his face before realizing that she expected him to fill it with water. Bringing it over to the sink, he rinsed and refilled it as Ashley poured food into the other bowl. Tiger nuzzled one of her hands as she did so.

"Hey, stop – that tickles!"

"What is it?" Warren said as he placed the water dish back on the mat.

"He's licking my fingers." Ashley stood up and wiped her hand on her dress. "What are we going to do about the cat food?"

"Where did you find that bag?"

Ashley nodded to the cabinet by the refrigerator. "This was the only thing in there."

Warren walked over to the cabinet, opened it, and looked inside. "You're right."

Ashley rolled her eyes. "Oh, I'm right. Thank you so much for confirming that."

Warren ignored her response, shutting the cabinet door and reaching for the refrigerator door. "Did you check the fridge? Huh."

"What? Is there cat food in there?"

"No, but look at this." Warren opened the refrigerator all the way so Ashley could see. It was nearly empty, with only a half-full bottle of Volvic water and a box of Arm & Hammer on the top shelf, but the bottom shelf was filled with cans of beer. Warren pulled one out. "Pabst Blue Ribbon," he said, and popped it open.

"What are you doing?" Ashley said.

"I'm having a beer." Tilting it back, he gulped down half the can before stopping, then wiped his lips and grinned. "Don't worry. They probably bought these for us."

"How do you know?"

"Do Bob and Sarah look like the PBR type? What did they order that night we had dinner with them at Dressler?"

Ashley smirked. "The house red."

Warren laughed. "That's right! 'The house red, please,'" he said in a low, monotone voice. "It was like Bob had never ordered a drink at a restaurant before."

"Didn't you think that was a little strange?"

"What do you mean?"

Ashley leaned against the counter. "I guess I expected him to make a more... sophisticated choice, you know? I mean, they're smart, they have plenty of money, but they're so... How can you live in this neighborhood and not develop at least some culture?"

"By spending all of your waking hours working. Those people have no lives but their jobs. And Bob – the guy's a robot. I swear, Sarah plugs him into an outlet before bed each night."

They explored the rest of the apartment, which consisted of a bedroom, a study, a laundry room and a bathroom. The bedroom and study were as sparsely furnished as the living room, the bedroom containing only a king-sized bed, dressers and night stand, the study a simple wooden desk and chair set and two bookcases. Warren walked up to a bookcase and tugged at its glass doors.

"Locked. That's okay – I wasn't in the mood to read," he tilted his head to one side, "The Art of Electronics anyway. God, I nearly fell asleep just reading the title!"

The desk was littered with computer disks but no computer.

"Sarah uses a laptop," Ashley said. "She probably brought it with her to do some work. So much for getting away from it all."

"
Being married to someone with a personality like Bob, can you blame her?"

"Okay, I get it. You think Bob is dull. Would you just shut up about it already?"

"I think he's is dull? Are you saying that you don't?" Warren grinned. "Oh, don't tell me – you've got a thing for Bob?"

Ashley blushed. "No, I was stupid enough to fall in love with you instead. But still, physically, he's... not unattractive."

Warren laughed so hard he snorted up some beer.

"Shut up!" Ashley said, shoving him hard. "Well, what do you think about Sarah?"

"Sarah?" he asked, still recovering from his fit of laughter and wiping the beer off his nose. "You have to wonder about anyone who would marry someone like Bob, but as far as looks go, I'd fuck her."

She glared at him. "You don't need to be so crass about it."

Warren smiled innocently. "Just being honest, honey."

"Uh-huh." Ashley looked around the room. "No television, either."

"Big surprise." Warren saw the look she was giving him and groaned. "We've been through this already. We're not getting rid of the TV."

"It's the twenty-first century. No one watches TV these days." Seeing his frown, she said, "Oh c'mon, there's no need to get in a mood about it."

"No, it's not that... I guess I assumed that Bob would have some gadgets here. I wanted to check out the flying alarm clock."

"Sarah told me he has a workshop in Canarsie."

"Canarsie? What the hell's in Canarsie?"

"Bob's workshop."

"That's not what I – forget it. Still, you'd think that he'd have something here. The flying alarm clock, the robot vacuum, the executive decision maker..."

"Executive decision maker – who in the world would actually buy stuff like that? Aside from your father, of course. I'm sure he has plenty of that crap in his office."

Warren scowled at her. "Whatever. I just figured that someone who designed those types of things would have some of them lying around the house. I mean, look around. It's like they hardly even live here. Hell, if it wasn't for the food bowls in the kitchen, you wouldn't even know that they had cats. No scratching posts? No litter box?"

"Sarah told me not to worry about the litter box. It's self-cleaning." Ashley shrugged.

"So they have a self-cleaning litter box but they don't have a machine to feed the cats. Great. So where the hell is this litter box?"

"How the fuck should I know? They probably have it hidden somewhere so people can't see it. Are you almost finished with that beer? I want to go."

***

Tuesday

Ashley traced the seam running around the black cube.

"Yeah, it's definitely a box of some sort."

"What do you think's in it?" Warren asked as he returned from the kitchen, a can of beer in each hand. He handed her one and sat down next to her on the couch.

"Thanks," Ashley said, taking a sip and placing the can on the glass table. "I have no idea. Maybe nothing. Maybe they just like how it looks."

Warren picked up the box and shook it.

"What are you doing? What if there's something valuable in there?"

"If there was something valuable in here, they wouldn't keep it on the coffee table, would they?"

"If you break something, I'm not paying for it."

"Pay for it with what? You don't have any money." Warren held it near his right ear and shook it again. "There's definitely something in here. Something substantial. What's this?" He ran his finger over the box, an inch from one the edges. "There's a slot here." He held the box in front of Ashley and tilted it at an angle to catch the window light. "See? Right there."

Ashley squinted at the box, then rubbed the spot he pointed to with her finger. "Maybe it's a keyhole."

"I wonder if the key is anywhere around here." Warren handed her the box and headed toward the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

Warren brushed the hair off his forehead before he realized what he was doing, then patted it back down and shrugged. "Just looking around."

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"This," she held up the box. "Just forget about it."

"Don't you want to know what's in it?"

"No, I don't. I don't care."

Warren sat back down and leaned toward her. "Bull Shit," he said, enunciating the words slowly and evenly. "You want to know as much as I do. You live for this kind of stuff."

Ashley avoided his look. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just here to feed the cats."

"You only agreed to feed the cats so you could see the inside of their apartment."

"Sarah asked me to do them a favor! What was I supposed to say?"

"You could've said no. Hell, you're the last person I know to do a favor for anyone, let alone someone you hardly know."

"That's a fucking lie! Besides, look who's talking!"

Warren shrugged. "Hey, at least I admit it." He stood back up and walked to the hall. "I'm going to look for the key to the box. You can feed the cats, since apparently that's the only reason why you're here."

***

Wednesday

Ashley balled up the pair of brown socks again and put them at the end of the row on the table. "Find anything interesting?"

Warren rummaged through the women's underwear in the drawer on his lap and sighed. "Not really. Christ, even their dressers are boring! Wait a sec – what do we have here?" He pulled a card out of the drawer and showed it to her.

"'Andrew Wrigley,'" she said, reading the name on the driver's license. "Who the hell is Andrew Wrigley?"

Warren spiked an eyebrow impishly. "It's quite the mystery, isn't it? Why does Sarah have another man's driver's license hidden among her unmentionables?"

"'Another man's?' Sounds to me like you've already come up with a theory."

Warren read the license. "Andrew Wrigley... born June 15, 1985. Ah... a younger man... what do you think? Ten years younger? How old is Sarah?"

"At least thirty-three. Go on."

"Okay... hmm... 114 Moore Street, Brooklyn. Williamsburg?"

Ashley sniggered. "East Williamsburg."

"So she's slumming it." He looked at the picture on the license again. "Good God, look at that faux hawk. Okay, here's how I see it. Bob is in Canarsie working on his latest hi-tech toy, or better yet, off on one of his meetings with the Cutting Edge – "

"The Sharper Image."

"- yeah, the Sharper Image or Hammacher Schlemmer or whatever, leaving Sarah all by herself in Williamsburg. But Sarah isn't at home writing code with the kitties, is she?"

Ashley grinned. "Nope! She's at a coffeehouse, settled in a lounge chair with her laptop and a large coffee, light and sweet. Gross!"

"Exactly. So, one day she's at the coffeehouse – not one of the ones on Bedford Avenue, but someplace off the beaten path where she won't be interrupted by acquaintances like you. She's sitting in the corner with her laptop, sipping her coffee and typing code, when Andrew Wrigley comes in."

Ashley set aside her drawer and curled up on the couch. "Tell me about Andrew Wrigley."

Warren inspected the driver's license. "This license is brand new... Andrew's not from around here. He's trying really hard to look the part of a hip young New Yorker, but under that spiky 'do is a tow-headed, God-fearing hayseed from upstate. After completing a worthless BA at some SUNY school twenty minutes from home and having seen too many local revivals of Rent, he decides to find his fortune in the Big City. But when he arrives here it's nothing like he imagined. Away from Mom and Dad for the first time in his life, he finds the city to be an unfriendly, lonely place. During the daytime he roams the streets of Williamsburg searching desperately for companionship, and at night he cries himself to sleep in his little hovel on Moore Street.

"One day he walks into a coffeehouse, which, having seen Friends, he views as some sort of hipster Mecca – and there he discovers a reasonably attractive woman all by herself, typing away at a laptop. He lingers at the counter, pretending to be deliberating about whether he wants chai or cappuccino, but he's really mustering up the courage to make his move. Finally he goes for it, but being new to the neighborhood, he's as clueless as he is earnest, and ends up making a big mess of it, coming across as exactly who he is, a no-no when picking up women.

"But he gets lucky. Sarah, who is married to perhaps the least romantic man in the world, is flattered by Andrew's awkwardly sincere advances, and the next thing you know they're back at his place, squirming together under the unwashed sheets of his twin-sized bed."

Ashley giggled. "That hussy. You sure this isn't your fantasy?"

Warren ignored her. "They meet again, maybe a few times, at places where Sarah knows she'll never bump into any friends. One evening, while Bob is on the West Coast pitching his latest piece of crap, she invites Andrew over. He arrives with a bottle of red wine – cheap stuff with a fancy-looking label, because Andrew doesn't know anything about wine but wants to make it look like he does. They eat some delivery, polish off the wine, and the next thing you know they're shutting the cats up in the bathroom and tearing each other's clothes off in the boudoir.

"Andrew leaves early the next morning so the neighbors won't see him, but he unknowingly drops something." Warren flicked the license with a finger. "Minutes before Bob is supposed to arrive home from the West Coast, Sarah discovers this on the floor, right where Andrew's pants had ended up the night before, and in a panic she shoves it into her underwear drawer."

Ashley interrupted. "But wait – why does she still have it? Why didn't she give it back to Andrew?"

Warren grinned. "Nearly getting caught by Bob scares Sarah straight, and she swears to herself never to see Andrew again. Andrew texts her asking for his license, but she ignores him. Andrew may be a bit naïve and unsophisticated, but he's not that stupid. He realizes that she's ending things with him, and milquetoast that he is, he decides not to push the issue. Instead he gets a new card from the DMV and goes on with his lonely little life.

"But Sarah doesn't throw out the license, she keeps it. Why? Because even though she has vowed to be a good girl from now on, a part of her still wants to be unfaithful, to have an illicit affair, to feel that thrill of danger she felt when they would meet in the back-street cafes, to have a younger man lusting over her. This license isn't just a memento of her little adventure, but that last remnant of independent Sarah still straining at the bonds of marriage to boring Bob. By keeping the license she keeps alive this image of herself as she once was, even if only for a moment, and just maybe, as she could be again."

"Wow. That's pathetic." Ashley shook her head slowly. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Warren sat back on the couch, hands behind his head. "I know the way people work."

"You do, huh?"

Her quizzical expression quickly changed to shock as she noticed something in Bob's sock drawer. She reached in and pulled out a stack of one hundred dollar bills, held together by a paper band upon which was printed "$10,000." Ashley dropped it on the table and looked at Warren.

They didn't speak for nearly a minute as they stared at the money. Tentatively, Warren reached out and picked up the stack. Then he began to count the bills. Ashley watched him, murmuring the numbers to herself as they reached one hundred. When he had finished, Warren placed it back on the table. He stared at it again, gnawing on his lip, before picking it up again.

"What are you doing?" Ashley asked, watching him carefully slide a bill from out of the stack.

"I just want to look at it..." He put the stack on the table and held the bill up to the window's light.

"Forgot what a hundred looks like?"

Warren shot her a venomous look. Then, giving her an equally spiteful smile, he reached into his back pocket and pulled his wallet out by the chain.

"You're taking it?"

He held out his hands, hundred in the one and the wallet in the other. "Hey, it's not as if they're going to miss it."

"Of course they're going to miss it!" She pointed at the stack of hundreds. "You counted it: ten grand on the dot. What if they count it when they come back?"

Warren shrugged. "The bank miscounted. Bob took a hundred and forgot about it. Sarah took one and forgot to tell Bob. Regardless, anyone with ten grand in their sock drawer isn't going to miss a hundred bucks."

"But it's wrong."

"Wrong? Take a look at what we're doing right now, Ashley. We're elbow deep in the delicates of a couple who entrusted us with the care of their cats! I think it's a little too late for you to start moralizing."

Ashley stood up and motioned with her hands as if to push away the drawer on the couch. "I'm not going to dig through their stuff anymore."

Warren snorted. "In other words, you're going to make me do the dirty work so you can maintain your air of moral superiority – all while secretly savoring whatever sordid things I discover."

"That's a fucking lie! I didn't want to have anything to do with any of this!"

Warren jumped off of the couch, standing so close to Ashley that she had to step back. "Where was your indignation when it came to Andrew Wrigley? You didn't seem to have a problem probing into the secret life of your dear friend Sarah." He looked at her with a mixture of contempt and disgust. "And we've already established that you only agreed to feed the cats so you could check out their apartment. You're such a fucking hypocrite. You pretend to be above it all, but when it comes down to it, you're nosy, selfish, and yes, greedy too." He held the hundred up to her face. "You want this money as much as I do. More, even. It's like my father all over again."

"Your – your – " she stammered.

"Yeah, my father! Remember him? The guy who paid for our apartment? The guy whose patience was pushed a little too far after someone 'suggested' that I ask him for more money?"

"Oh, don't you dare blame that on me! I've been working – "

"Working? Ah, yes! Ashley, the freelance writer! You sold an article about bars in Brooklyn to an online magazine for thirty bucks two months ago, and haven't shut up about it since!"

"It's more money than you've made in the past two months."

"I am a filmmaker!" Warren shouted. "I went to film school!"

Ashley laughed. "You only got in because your dad was buddies with the school president and gave them a generous 'donation,' and you ended up dropping out because you were too hungover to go to class. Now you're just a child living in a land of make believe, telling everyone at the bar who will listen – and some who won't - about the wonderful 'independent film' you're going to make – before you drink yourself into a stupor."

Warren jabbed his chest with a forefinger. "I've met with producers..."

"No, Warren, you've gotten drunk with people with money who you want to be your producers. But I have news for you: none of them is gonna give you a dime for your stupid movie. They laugh at you when your back is turned. You're a joke to them!"

"It's NOT... it's not a movie, it's a film. A movie is two hours worth of product placements, cliché storylines, bad actors and special effects designed to satisfy the pre-packaged, pre-digested sensibilities of millions of idiots with the attention spans of gnats. A film is a work of art, a director's vision come to life. A film says something."

"'It's not a movie, it's a film,'" Ashley said in a dead-on impersonation, waving her hands in the air. "You sound like such a fucking hipster. Okay, if we're talking about our motives for coming here, how about you? You were all for coming here to feed the cats because you're trying to ingratiate yourself with Bob and Sarah so they'll give you money for your 'film.'"

Warren crossed his arms. "Well, I might have gotten my father to finance my film if you hadn't made me ask him for more money so that we could rent a house in the Hamptons for the summer."

"Oh, that's right! It's all my fault." She pointed at the hundred. "I suppose that's going straight into the "film" budget, just like all of the money Daddy gives you."

"At least my father can afford to give us money, unlike your white trash parents. I worry about bringing you up to Westchester sometimes because I'm afraid you're going to embarrass me in front of my father's friends with your white trash ways."

Ashley smacked Warren across the face so hard he recoiled. "Don't you ever fucking call me white trash."

Warren rubbed his cheek and stared sullenly at the floor. "If the shoe fits..."

Ashley raised her hand to hit him again and he flinched. She shook her head slowly. "You're nothing but a spoiled little brat. I'm out of here," she said, and walked to the door.

"Who's going to put all this stuff back?" Warren demanded, gesturing toward the drawers.

"You are, of course." She slammed the door.

***

Thursday

Without speaking, they kicked off their shoes and entered the apartment, Warren going straight to the bedroom and Ashley into the kitchen. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out the bag of cat food and poured it into the bowl.

"Fucking assholes," she said, shaking the bag. A few last bits dropped out. "Fucking assholes," she repeated, louder.

"What is it?" Came Warren's voice from the bedroom in a tone of indifference.

"No more cat food. Fucking assholes." She said again.

"Let them starve, then." Ashley could hear the sound of a drawer being dislodged from a dresser. A moment later, Warren passed by the kitchen doorway with the drawer in his arms. Ashley looked through all the cabinets to see if there was a bag of cat food she hadn't noticed before. After a fruitless search she slammed a cabinet door shut and leaned against the counter. She stared at Tiger, who sniffed the freshly poured bowl of food and then walked out of the kitchen. He looked back, his amber eyes meeting Ashley's for a moment, then ran down the hallway. Ashley went into the hall and saw him disappear into the laundry room. She followed him, but when she entered the room, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Here Tiger..." she whispered, walking around the small room. It contained what looked like an industrial-strength side-loader washer and dryer, an empty hamper, and a shelf containing Tide detergent, laundry bleach, Downy fabric softener, spray starch, stain remover spray, glass cleaner, Murphy Oil Soap, Pine Sol, Mr. Clean, Ajax powder, fabric spray, Scrubbing bubbles, disinfectant wipes, Endust, air freshener, stain remover and odor remover. Ashley stared at the cleaning products in amazement.

"Holy anal retentive."

Below the shelf was a rod from which a few thick metal clothing hangers were suspended. The hangers were empty except for two that held a couple of giant black garment bags. The garment bags were swinging slightly on their hangers, causing the other hangers to chime softly. Sweeping them to the side, she discovered a three-foot square opening in the wall that had been obscured by the garment bags. Ashley leaned against the wall and peered into the hole, but the light in the laundry room penetrated only a couple of feet into it. She heard a faint sound in the darkness within.

Tiger flew out of the hole, between Ashley's legs and into the hall, followed by Hannibal. Ashley shrieked.

"What is it?" came from the living room.

Ashley looked in the direction of Warren's voice. "Nothing."

Having regained her composure, she crouched in front of the opening and looked in again, but saw only darkness.

"Flashlight," she murmured. She stood again and looked on the shelves, but saw only cleaning supplies. She glanced at the hall, then hiking up her peasant skirt, got onto her hands and knees.

Ashley crawled into the hole, reaching out with one hand to probe the darkness. The walls and ceiling felt smooth and pliant but firm, like hard rubber, while the floor felt dirty and somewhat gritty. As she got deeper, she noticed a strange smell that seemed to emanate from the far end of the hole. Her groping fingers found a thin, lumpy object in her path that felt like a mossy stick. She held it up to her eyes and stared at it, but couldn't make it out what it was.

Suddenly there was a sound like grinding metal gears just a few feet ahead of her. A moment later Warren said something loudly and in an excited voice from the living room. Ashley looked over her shoulder at the square of light just beyond her feet. She shivered and wiped the sweat from her face, then faced the noise again.

"Just a little further..." she whispered, and continued to crawl, one hand blindly groping in the direction of the noise. She gasped as her hand came into contact with the smooth surface of some object in her path. She ran her fingers over what felt like a rim, then pulled her hand back in shock as they touched something wet. Collapsing onto her side, she put her fingers to her hand and sniffed.

"Shit. Shit. Fucking shit. Goddamned fucking cat litter."

The whirring of the self-cleaning litter box ceased. Just then it sounded like the door bell rang out in the living room, and a few seconds later Tiger and Hannibal came running into the hole. Not expecting Ashley there, they stumbled over her legs and got caught in her skirt, and started screeching and clawing at her legs.

"Ow!" Ashley kicked at the cats. Warren shouted something, but in the crawl space with the cats the only thing he said which she recognized was her name. She started crawling backwards towards the opening in the wall, the cats biting and scratching her legs and each other in confusion.

When her feet were a few inches away from the opening, a panel slid down and slammed shut, leaving her in complete darkness.

"Warren! Warren!" Ashley screamed and stamped at the panel with both feet, putting the cats into an even bigger frenzy, but it wouldn't budge. "Get me out of here! I can't – I can't breathe! Help! Warren please!" She slammed her fists against the walls and kicked at the panel until her hands and feet throbbed with pain, screaming her throat raw for help that wasn't coming.

After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity in the darkness, the panel slid back up. Drawing upon a reserve of energy she didn't know she had, Ashley threw herself feet first out of the hole and onto the floor of the laundry room. Tumbling out with her, the cats untangled themselves from her skirt and loped into the hall. Still gasping, Ashley pulled at her skirt; it was sticking to her scratched and bloody legs.

"Warren? Warren!" she rasped.

No answer.

Ashley got to her feet and staggered into the living room.

Warren was lying on the floor between the couch and coffee table. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Warren? Warren, this isn't funny. I've... Warren?"

She knelt down next to him, wincing in pain as her gashed knees hit the floor. She nudged his temple with the back of her hand; there was no reaction. Ashley waved her hand over his sightless eyes, then slapped him in the cheek, soft at first, then harder, but he remained still and lifeless.

Ashley stumbled backwards, away from the body, until her back hit the living room wall. Horrified but unable to stop staring at Warren, she began to moan.

"Help... help..." Her voice was barely a whisper. She slowly picked herself up and, leaning heavily against the wall, made her way to the kitchen. Reaching for the shiny black telephone mounted on the wall, her trembling fingers dropped the receiver twice before she was able to cradle it to her ear.

There was no dial tone.

She rattled the switch hook, but the phone remained dead.

Ashley limped down the hall and through the living room, keeping as close to the wall and as far from Warren's body as possible. Stumbling over their shoes and falling upon the front door, she grabbed the knob with both hands. It wouldn't turn. She pounded the door with her fists, shrieking in her hoarse voice for help, but no one seemed to hear her. With a groan she collapsed. Sitting with her back against the door, her sweat-slicked hands still weakly twisting at the knob, she stared dully at the body partly obscured by the coffee table in the living room. After a minute or so, the look of dread on her face changed to one of grim realization.

Ashley didn't even bother trying to get up this time. She crawled across the room, her legs leaving a thin trail of red on the shiny black floor, around the coffee table and the black box, and finally to the corpse that lay there. She stifled a sob as she slid her fingers into his jeans pocket, searching for the cell phone. She only had to take one look at the phone to know that it wouldn't work. It was hot to the touch, and when she flipped it open the dead screen was edged with black. With a scream she threw the phone; it bounced off the window and clattered into a corner.

Hannibal crawled out from under the couch, sniffed Warren's face, and then began licking his cheek.

"Stop it, you fucking monster!" Ashley smacked Hannibal in the head, knocking him back a couple of feet. The cat hissed at her, then walked to the corner to investigate the cell phone. Tiger nipped at Ashley's fingers but she swatted him away.

Ashley shoved aside the drawer Warren had been looking through and crawled onto the couch. Sitting there, she looked at the box on the table.

There was a small key inserted in the slot, as black as the box itself.

Ashley looked down at Warren, then back at the box. She reached towards the key, then stopped. Her hand remained outstretched for a long time, her fingers rubbing against each other slowly as she stared at the key. Slowly, slowly, her hand moved closer, until her fingertips were touching the key. Gripping it between two fingers, she turned it.

The top of the box popped open as if on a spring. Ashley leaned forward and looked inside.

Staring back at her was the carefully preserved head of Andrew Wrigley. Some of the flesh on his cheek had been torn – no, eaten - away, stripped down to the cheekbone, but the likeness to his driver's license was unmistakable.

Just as unconsciously as it had moved to the key, Ashley's hand now floated to her skirt and into her pocket. Pulling it back out, Ashley turned her hand over and looked at what she held.

It was the rotten, chewed-up finger, caked with dry blood and cat litter, that she had stumbled upon in the crawl space.
The box slammed shut, and the ringing of a door bell echoed through the apartment. At the sound of the bell, the cats dashed down the hall and into the laundry room.

END

BIO: Arthur Bangs is a writer from New York City. He is currently working on a degree in education and aspires to become a high school English teacher.