they can stay with a witch throughout her entire life, living side by side. Because a witch
and her familiar is a bond for eternity. A witch’s cat won’t die until she does.
― Kassandra Cross
I've been beset by dreams and nightly seances with a mysterious enchantress who is guided to my apartment by a black Siamese cat I suspect is her familiar.
It seems pure madness but I can't escape the charms of this lovely seductress whom I suspect is a witch.
I'm not even sure if my encounters with this woman are real or the result of being under a spell.
Whatever the explanation, I seem caught up in an experience that is both intoxicating yet disturbing
Again and again, the cycle repeats and the dream of the previous night is repeated—Absynthe enters the flat through the partially open window and a few minutes later, Gillian steals down the fire escape.
We spend the night on the couch, her breath thundering in my ears and my lips thirsting for her long, cold kisses.
But I'm paying a price for this fever dream and it's taking a hard toll on my flesh.
Again, I'm late for my morning lecture, and again I left early and had the misfortune to run into Antoine Bastard making his rounds with his menacing baton.
“Were you disturbed last night, M. Henderson?” he asks. I feel I am on some maddening carousel of circular events.
“No, not at all,” I reply, not wanting to share any details with the man.
“You look terrible,” he sayss. “Did you sleep well, or were you disturbed by that dreadful cat?”
“Do you mean Absynthe?”
He looks at me as if I were insane.
“Who the hell is Absynthe?”
“Gillian’s Siamese, of course, Surely, you know she has a cat?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he says flatly.
“I’m talking about Gillian Bigelow, your tenant,” I reply hotly.
“”I have no female tenants. You’re clearly mistaken, Monsieur.”
“Then who is occupying your third floor loft?”
The man stares hard at me for several moments until I feel distinctly uncomfortable.
“No one goes into the third floor loft—it’s out of bounds.”
“What are you talking about?” I croak, almost hysterically. “Gillian lives there with her Siamese cat, Absynthe.”
The man is unruffled by my reply. “There is no one on the third floor, M. Henderson. Someone must be playing a joke.”
“There’s no joke,” I argue, “I met Ms. Bigelow and she occupies the loft. Let’s go up and you can see for yourself.”
Again, he stares hard at me, but then, relents. “Very well, Monsieur, we will satisfy your curiosity. Come.”
He leads the way up the twisting iron stairs to the third floor landing and then turns the key in the lock.
The loft is a vacant disaster of scaffolding and plaster dust—and everything covered with cat paw prints.
“
You see, Monsieur? This is what I have to deal with—some stray cat invading this space and making a nuisance. But the loft has never been occupied since the last tenant died ten years ago.”
“I don’t understand…”
I lean back against the doorframe to steady myself.
Bastard drones on about the loft.
“The woman who occupied this flat was said to be very beautiful and died under mysterious circumstances—some say she perished of spontaneous combustion—one of the rare complications that arise from drinking copious amounts of Absinthe. I never touch it myself.”
My head was spinning. I excused myself and returned to my flat. Absolutely nothing made sense. I was beginning to doubt my sanity.
I moved out that evening, taking a suite at The Fairmont Royal York Hotel. It was the first restful sleep I had in several days.
I returned to the Consulate a few days later and made further enquiries. Antoine Bastard discovered that the woman who perished in the fire was indeed Gillian Bigelow—he even found a copy of the newspaper with her picture and gave it to me as a souvenir.
A friend of mine, an artist, fell in love with the photo of the girl and painted me a portrait. It now hangs above the desk in my study.
My experience has greatly affected me and in many ways changed my life.
I’ve taken to novel writing now, and occasionally, I’ll pause and look up and stare at Gillian’s portrait. I feel the same strange aura surround me when I stare at her likeness.
I suppose she’s become my Muse. Occasionally, she crosses my dreams, trails her fragrance across my path and tempts me again with long, cold kisses.
I’m even thinking of purchasing a cat—a black Siamese. I may even name her Absynthe.