Adrian and Lacey

Adrian and Lacey: ages 11 and 8: The grass sparkled with morning dew, sending a cold chill through my sneakers as I kicked my soccer ball around the yard. It was a perfect morning for practice. High up in our big backyard oak tree, a couple of thick branches formed a perfect natural fork. I lined up my shot, took a deep breath, and booted the ball straight through the gap. It made a nice, clean swoosh as it flew through the air.

"Goal!!!!!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

But right as my voice echoed across the yard, I could swear I heard something else—a faint, high-pitched noise. I jogged over to grab the ball from the bushes, but when I turned around, my eight-year-old sister Lacey was suddenly standing there. Her sandy pigtails were completely tangled, her cheeks were flushed bright red, and she was breathing heavily like she had just sprinted a country mile. As I walked back toward her, that strange sound happened again. A tiny, unmistakable meow.

I stopped in my tracks. "Lace. Please tell me you just meowed."

She immediately wrung her fingers together, looking incredibly guilty. "Oh, about that..."

Before she could finish, I felt something soft and warm brush right against my bare leg. I jumped, looking down instantly. Weaving perfectly through my ankles was a small, smoky gray tabby cat.

I stared at my sister in absolute disbelief. "OH MY GOD, Lacey!!! Why is she here? Why is she under my legs? Why is it looking at me like that? Also, WHY do you even have a cat?!!!"

Lacey’s face turned an even darker shade of red. "Yeah... Um, well, I definitely didn't... pick it up from the side of the road where it was sitting in a mud puddle?"

"Lacey! GROSS!" I looked down at my shin, then at the kitten’s paws. Sure enough, both were caked in a matching shade of muddy brown.

Ignoring my disgust, Lacey scooped the little cat up into her arms and gently scratched it under the chin. The cat purred instantly, nuzzling its face right against her cheek. Lacey squealed with delight. "KITTEN!!! It likes me!"

"NO! Not good!" I said, shaking my head. "You KNOW Grandpa Joe HATES cats!!!"

Lacey sniffed defiantly, hugging the cat tighter. "I happen to be very good at hiding things."

"No you aren't," I sighed, looking at the green eyes of the cat.

She glared at me. "Rude! Come ON! Let's go inside and look at the book of names grandpa has!"

She turned and bolted toward the back door, and I followed right behind her, rolling my eyes at the sky. "Since when do we need a book to decide a cat's name???"

To my massive relief, Grandpa Joe was fast asleep on the living room couch, snoring softly. Lacey tiptoed past him, picked up a heavy, old leather-bound book from the shelf, and began flipping through the yellowed pages.

"Lyka!" she whispered cheerily. "It means wolf."

I shrugged, just wanting to get this over with. "Fine. Whatever."

Late that night, the cat padded right into my room on silent paws. I sat up, my eyes going wide. "Lyka! You're supposed to be hiding!" I slid out of bed, scooped her up, and carried her back down the hallway to Lacey's room. Lyka's yellow eyes stared at me, like she was judging me for something.

The next morning, Lacey practically yanked me out of bed at six o'clock in the morning so I could watch her sneak downstairs to feed her new pet. Grandpa Joe still had a bag of cat food from the last cat he'd owned, named Duma. No one knew what happened to Duma. One night grandpa said her blue eyes turned brown, and she got some little spots, and then she ran away. He says that's why he hates cats, they're so unpredictable.

Lacey let the cat eat, and then brought her back to her room. As the days passed, I noticed the kitten was starting to get fluffier fur.

Lacey was puzzled. "Aren't cats meant to get less fluffy?" she asked, her voice wavering in confusion.

I wasn't sure. But the fur kept getting fluffier, ruffled at the neck. She was also getting some white fur.

One night, Lacey ran into my room shouting. "Lyka's gone!"

"I guess she didn't like you..." I muttered.

Lacey didn't appreciate my sense of humor. She insisted we had to go look for her, but I convinced her we could in the morning. But we didn't have to.

In the morning, she pulled me downstairs to get shoes on to go look. Lyka was in the kitchen. Lacey tried to run forward, but I held her back.

"Watch what she's doing..." I whispered.

The cat was stretching and wriggling on the ground. I was about to let Lacey go, but I felt like someone was watching us. We both turned around. Grandpa Joe was standing behind us, his mouth wide in horror.

Lacey flinched. "Um... Do you like our cat?"

He didn't respond for a moment, just pointed into the kitchen. Finally he said, "That's not a cat..."

My brow furrowed. "What the fudge do you mean?" I asked, squinting trying to see how it wasn't a cat.

His finger trembled. "It's... It's... It's a skinwalker!"

Lacey actually laughed. "A skinwalker? Grandpa, Lyka's just a kitty!"

His face grew pale. "L-Lyka?" he asked.

Lacey nodded, proud of her name choice. He swallowed. "That means wolf, right children?"

Now I nodded. The cat in the kitchen was stretching in odd ways now, swelling larger.

"To the attic! Now!" Grandpa Joe yelled.

We followed only because of the urgency in his voice. When we were there, he whispered, "You knew I had a cat?"

Lacey nodded, perplexed. "Yeah, her name was Duma."

He nodded shakily. "Do you know what that means?" Neither of us did. He continued. "It means cheetah. And, that one night she supposedly ran away... That was the night of the transformation. She changed, from my fluffy ginger tabby, to a vicious cheetah, with glowing brown eyes. She was a monster, and she was trying to kill me, her master the one who fed her, played with her, gave her treats... I had to..." He faltered off. We both understood. "Now I fear it's the same problem here..."

Then, a boom came from the little door leading to the attic. It pushed up, and a wolf with glowing yellow eyes stood there.