The Vanishing of Katharina Linden by Helen Grant Read Free Book Online

wildest cat, an enormous tom muscled like a bull, with fur the color of jet and blazing yellow eyes, made a mighty spring onto Hans’s chest, and sat there like the demon Nightmare, snarling into his face with its wicked fangs.
    “Up sprang Hans at once, grasping the creature with both hands so that he felt the terrible strength of its sinews and bunched muscles under his fingers, and flung it from him, as far as he could. Then he reached under his pillow and drew out the little package that he had brought back with him from the town. Tearing off the wrappings, he revealed a rosary—a plain wooden rosary with polished brown beads, which Hans had received from the hands of the holy Fathers.
    “With a great cry, he threw the rosary straight at the snarling creature that had attacked him. ‘By the name of all that is holy,’ he cried at the top of his voice, ‘I order you to leave
—now!’
And as the last word fell from his lips, every one of those diabolical cats vanished and he found himself standing alone, breathing hard, in the dark and silent mill. He had won. The pests had been routed, and the mill belonged to him. Then at last Hans lay down and slept the sleep of the righteous until morning came.”

Chapter Nine

    H err Schiller fell silent. The hand that had mimed the casting of the rosary at the demonic cats dropped to the arm of his chair, patted it lightly, then moved to his pocket, fumbling for his pipe. There was a long silence while he lit it, puffing gently, little wisps of white floating up like smoke signals.
    “Well, I don’t think that was very scary,” said Stefan eventually. I shot him a furious glance; if his chair had been closer to mine I would have aimed a furtive kick at his legs.
    “You don’t think it was scary?” repeated Herr Schiller. I was thankful to notice that he did not sound annoyed—more amused. If Stefan had offended him, it might have been the last visit to Herr Schiller, in which case I would never have forgiven Stefan. Our newfound alliance would be dissolved, even if I spent the remainder of my schooldays playing and working all on my own.
    “No,” said Stefan, quite casually. When Herr Schiller said nothing, but his bushy white eyebrows went up, Stefan was encouraged to continue: “I don’t think there’s anything frightening about a bunch of cats.”
    “But these were not really cats, were they?” probed Herr Schiller ina conversational tone. “They were witches.” He smiled faintly. “You should never judge by appearances, young man.” There was a hint of reproach in his voice.
    “Well, I thought it was a brilliant story,” I cut in defensively, trying to signal my annoyance at Stefan. Who did he think he was, criticizing like that?
    But Herr Schiller appeared not to have heard my comment. He raised a hand in the air in an admonitory fashion, his piercingly blue eyes still fixed on Stefan. “Of course,” he conceded, “there
is
nothing very alarming about an ordinary pussycat, lounging in the sunshine or washing itself on a windowsill. But imagine what it would have been like several hundred years ago, when the night was unbroken by electric light, and outside the little circle of your candle flame everything was endless black. And then if suddenly you were to see a pair of eyes glinting at you, where a moment before there had been nothing … and if you knew that this was not really a cat, but something much,
much
worse, which had assumed this innocent domestic form so it might slip unnoticed into your house while you slept …” Herr Schiller’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper, so that both Stefan and I involuntarily leaned toward him. “A thing so horrible,
so horrible—”
    “Aaaahhhhh!”
screamed Stefan suddenly, so loudly and unexpectedly that I almost jumped out of my skin. Stefan had gone the sickly color of feta cheese, his face almost blue in its whiteness. He seemed to be attempting simultaneously to climb over the back of the