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      INTRODUCTION: …IN THE DARK, by Robert Reginald

      It may be true that all cats are gray in the dark, but the twenty-five stories and two poems in this anthology feature pieces both dark and light, with nary a gray one among them. “Cat” is defined herein in the broadest possible terms, including all feline creatures of whatever size and situation—but mostly, we’re still dealing with the domestic house cat, Felis silvestris catus.

      Humans who keep pets tend to fixate either on cats and dogs, but rarely have both. Most folks will at least tolerate dogs, even if they don’t want them sharing their households; but there’s a certain percentage of the population that actively hates cats, often for irrational reasons. You’ll find both cat lovers and haters represented within the virtual pages of this Megapack.

      The mysterious, almost indefinable nature of the cat has often intrigued and inspired writers of popular literature. This anthology features cats in science fiction, horror, mystery, young adult, western, and mythological settings, among others. Several of the tales are told from the cat’s point of view. Some of the kitties are agents of good, and others of evil; but most just provide interesting glimpses into the lives of felines and their “owners” (who actually owns whom is one of the enduring [and unaswerable] questions posed by those who choose to share their lives with these mysterious creatures).

      Anyone who loves cats and their antics and their natures will find something of interest here. Some of the stories date back 100 years or more; but even most of those are by fairly well-known writers. I’ve also seeded this book with a number of reprinted pieces from current-day authors, one of whom (A. R. Morlan) has recently published a collection of cat stories for Borgo Press.

      This is the first of what I hope will become a continuing series of cat story anthologies. If you want to see more of these—if you have story suggestions—please let us know. In the meantime, enjoy!—

      —Robert Reginald, 29 June 2013

      SEVEN SAW MURDER, by G. T. Fleming-Roberts

      Julie found Pinkney Street mildly terrifying that night. It was a narrow street filled with old people who shut themselves up at dusk.

      The street lamps came at every other intersection, and their yellow rays were blunted from thrusting at impenetrable darkness—a darkness that was one part night and another part broad-leafed maples spaced precisely along the sidewalk.

      Julie was afraid of the dark and not much else. She was not afraid of the sort of men who step from doorways and follow women. Julie had been a model in Chicago and then a “cover girl” before she had married Harvey.

      She knew something about men who became annoying and what to do about it. But she was afraid of darkness and the unseen things and even the small sounds they made.

      She wasn’t afraid of Harvey’s Uncle Charley Pedlow; wasn’t afraid to ask Uncle Charley to lend Harvey some money. Charley Pedlow had an enormous amount of money, even though he lived on Pinkney Street in what was just a degree better than a shack. Harvey had said that he didn’t know just how much money Uncle Charley had, but he was sure it was more than some of the social reformers thought any man ought to have.

      Harvey wouldn’t ask his uncle for money. Harvey’s pride got in the way. Besides, he had several times made it clear that he had no use for the man because of his reputation for selfishness, mercilessness in financial deals, and his annoying eccentricity.

      Julie smiled as she thought of Harvey and walked briskly across an unlighted intersection. Randolph Street, that was. Now you counted four houses from the corner, and Uncle Charley’s was the one that looked like a squat “A” on top of a flat “H.”

      The house sat thirty feet back from the sidewalk. Two maples dwarfed it, shrouded it, reduced it to something you could pass every day without noticing.

      Julie had never been there, but Harvey had pointed it out to her. She had met Uncle Charley just twice—both times unavoidably.

      She stopped on the sidewalk and stared in at the house. Somebody was standing on the stoop at the south side of Uncle Charley’s door—a scarcely discernible figure pancaked against the wall, watching her.

      “Is that you, Mr. Pedlow?” she called nervously.

      The shadowy figure moved a little. Something metallic dropped to the stoop, rang like a cracked bell. Whoever it was, there on the stoop, turned and ran into the shadows along the south side of the house.

      Julie shivered and pulled the silver fox pelts closer about her throat. She had worn the furs chiefly because of what they did for her morale, but she was glad of them now for another reason; the June night had suddenly become chill.

      She clutched her large handbag under her arm, drew a long breath, took resolute steps up the brick approach walk and onto the stoop. She could find no bell-push in the dark, so she knocked.

      In a little while, she heard footsteps through the paper-thin walls. There was a slim show of yellow light, soon blotted out by the advancing figure of a man. A key turned over, a knob rattled, and the door opened far enough to allow a shaggy gray head to thrust out.

      Julie spoke hurriedly.

      “Mr. Pedlow. I’m Harvey’s wife.”

      “Well, well!” Uncle Charley sounded highly pleased. He opened the door fully, clicked on the ceiling light of the living room.

      He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty-five. His shoulders were pulled down to a slope by wide blue suspenders. He wore brown wool pants so much larger around the waist than he was that there