The Wildings by Nilanjana Roy

He followed Miao’s example, staying flat to the ground, but he almost mewed in terror when a spider dropped down onto his ear, scurrying off rapidly when he twitched it loose. Southpaw could feel thick cobwebs on his fur, and as they moved further into the grounds, he had to duck and weave past the banyan roots.
    He was so intent on keeping up with the two elder cats that it took a while before the kitten realized what had been bothering him ever since they crossed over the broken stone wall into the grounds of the Shuttered House. The sounds of Nizamuddin, the cacophony of the Bigfeet’s cars and their voices, the barking of dogs, the clutter and bustle of a busy neighbourhood—all of these were muffled by the undergrowth, and by the banyan tree whose offshoots shrouded the place.
    Instead, the quiet clicking of beetles built up in his mind, making his whiskers twitch with their steady, unbearably regular beat. Every now and then, the clicking would stop, and Southpaw found his fur tingling as he waited for it to start again.
    They were advancing through a tangle of undergrowth and scrub now, Miao cautiously scanning the ground for predators. “Watch out for snakes,” she linked quietly, using her whiskers to transmit rather than risking a mew. Southpaw felt his paws freeze in place. He had seen a cobra take a crow’s eggs once, and had watched its black hood with mixed fear and bloodlust, unsure whether he wanted to kill it, or run until his paws would carry him no further.
    Katar turned his head. “We can go back if you’re afraid,” thetom signalled. Southpaw twitched his whiskers in the negative, hoping neither cat would sense just how scared he was. The kitten had prowled along the perimeter of the Shuttered House before, unable to stay away, but being inside its grounds, with the sound of the beetles and the dread that rose up in his small stomach, was different.
    They were still in the thick of the scrub, manouevring carefully through the prickly acacia bushes, when Southpaw smelled it. His teeth bared and his lips drew back
    “That dry scent, like the heart of a rotting tree branch, is woodworm,” said Katar. It was a dusty, insidious stink that made Southpaw’s nostrils curl, but far worse was what was beyond it: a sour stench, heavy as a cloud. “This is a Bigfoot smell, Southpaw,” said Miao’s gentle voice. “Mark it well: it’s the smell of age, and decay, and sadness.”
    By now the kitten’s teeth were fully bared, his hackles up. He growled, a low, warning sound, as they approached the crumbling, ramshackle house.
    Behind the festering woodworm and sadness, Southpaw could smell something else, and he flinched as they crept closer, hunter-fashion, bellies to the ground. There were tendrils of damp unfurling from the Shuttered House, and they carried in their wake a combined, rotting smell of unkempt cat fur, sickness, stale food, and dried blood many, many moons old. The kitten shivered as the breeze changed direction, amplifying the sweet stink of madness coming from the house. It felt like being swatted by a gangrenous paw.
    Katar pressed his flank to the kitten’s shivering sides, and Southpaw felt the warmth of the tom, and took heart. Therasping of the beetles was much louder now, but behind that, he heard something else. It was indistinct, and it took a while for him to place it: the faint clicking of claws across the floor.
    Miao watched him with curiosity, the Siamese’s smoky tail twitching at the tip. The pilgrimage to the Shuttered House was a rite of passage for the Nizamuddin cats, who learned its dark history in their first year, but Southpaw was the youngest kitten in her memory to make the trip. “I think he’s old enough for this,” she said quietly to Katar, knowing that Southpaw wouldn’t catch the whisker transmission easily—he had just started his linking lessons, and wasn’t very good at receiving yet.
    “Better he come with us than stray in here on his own,”