“I just had a frakked-up thought,” Simon said, stopping short as he reached for the doorknob.

“What’s up?” Sarah asked, her eyebrow raised dubiously.

“Well, you know how Mrs. B had – I mean ‘has’ all those cats?” Simon asked, correcting himself.

“They didn’t call her the Crazy Cat-Lady for nothing,” Tommy said as he walked up the porch stairs.

“She wasn’t crazy!” Simon shouted. “She wasn’t. You guys didn’t know her like I did. Anyway, you know how you hear all those stories about cats who, you know, eat their dead owners? Mrs. B’s got a lot of cats…”

“That’s it,” Tommy said. “I’m out.”

“Hold on. We don’t know if she’s dead or not.”

“Dude,” Sarah said, holding Simon’s hand, “if you weren’t sure Mrs. B was dead, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Screw it. Let’s do this,” Simon said, entering the small house.

The house was dimly-lit, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust. In the middle of the floor, lay Mrs. B: dead. Surrounding her, the cats sat. Silent. As if standing guard. Or standing vigil…