The Cats of Ulthar by H. P. Lovecraft It is
said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the
river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this
I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who
sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat
is cryptic, and close to strange things which
men cannot see. He is the soul of ancient 
Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten
cities in Meroë and Ophir. He is the kin
of the jungle’s lords, and heir to the secrets
of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is
his cousin, and he speaks her language; but
he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers
that which she hath forgotten. In Ulthar,
before ever the burgesses forbade the killing
of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his
wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats
of their neighbours. Why they did this I know
not; save that many hate the voice of the
cat in the night, and take it ill that cats
should run stealthily about yards and gardens
at twilight. But whatever the reason, this
old man and woman took pleasure in trapping
and slaying every cat which came near to their
hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after
dark, many villagers fancied that the manner
of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the
villagers did not discuss such things with
the old man and his wife; because of the habitual
expression on the withered faces of the two,
and because their cottage was so small and
so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the
back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as
the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they
feared them more; and instead of berating
them as brutal assassins, merely took care
that no cherished pet or mouser should stray
toward the remote hovel under the dark trees.
When through some unavoidable oversight a
cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark,
the loser would lament impotently; or console
himself by thanking Fate that it was not one
of his children who had thus vanished. For
the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew
not whence it is all cats first came. One
day a caravan of strange wanderers from the
South entered the narrow cobbled streets of
Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike
the other roving folk who passed through the
village twice every year. In the market-place
they told fortunes for silver, and bought
gay beads from the merchants. What was the
land of these wanderers none could tell; but
it was seen that they were given to strange
prayers, and that they had painted on the
sides of their wagons strange figures with
human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks,
rams, and lions. And the leader of the caravan
wore a head-dress with two horns and a curious
disc betwixt the horns. There was in this
singular caravan a little boy with no father
or mother, but only a tiny black kitten to
cherish. The plague had not been kind to him,
yet had left him this small furry thing to
mitigate his sorrow; and when one is very
young, one can find great relief in the lively
antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom
the dark people called Menes smiled more often
than he wept as he sate playing with his graceful
kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon.
On the third morning of the wanderers’ stay
in Ulthar, Menes could not find his kitten;
and as he sobbed aloud in the market-place
certain villagers told him of the old man
and his wife, and of sounds heard in the night.
And when he heard these things his sobbing
gave place to meditation, and finally to prayer.
He stretched out his arms toward the sun and
prayed in a tongue no villager could understand;
though indeed the villagers did not try very
hard to understand, since their attention
was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd
shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very
peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his
petition there seemed to form overhead the
shadowy, nebulous figures of exotic things;
of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flanked
discs. Nature is full of such illusions to
impress the imaginative. That night the wanderers
left Ulthar, and were never seen again. And
the householders were troubled when they noticed
that in all the village there was not a cat
to be found. From each hearth the familiar
cat had vanished; cats large and small, black,
grey, striped, yellow, and white. Old Kranon,
the burgomaster, swore that the dark folk
had taken the cats away in revenge for the
killing of Menes’ kitten; and cursed the
caravan and the little boy. But Nith, the
lean notary, declared that the old cotter
and his wife were more likely persons to suspect;
for their hatred of cats was notorious and
increasingly bold. Still, no one durst complain
to the sinister couple; even when little Atal,
the innkeeper’s son, vowed that he had at
twilight seen all the cats of Ulthar in that
accursed yard under the trees, pacing very
slowly and solemnly in a circle around the
cottage, two abreast, as if in performance
of some unheard-of rite of beasts. The villagers
did not know how much to believe from so small
a boy; and though they feared that the evil
pair had charmed the cats to their death,
they preferred not to chide the old cotter
till they met him outside his dark and repellent
yard. So Ulthar went to sleep in vain anger;
and when the people awaked at dawn—behold!
every cat was back at his accustomed hearth!
Large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow,
and white, none was missing. Very sleek and
fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with
purring content. The citizens talked with
one another of the affair, and marvelled not
a little. Old Kranon again insisted that it
was the dark folk who had taken them, since
cats did not return alive from the cottage
of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed
on one thing: that the refusal of all the
cats to eat their portions of meat or drink
their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious.
And for two whole days the sleek, lazy cats
of Ulthar would touch no food, but only doze
by the fire or in the sun. It was fully a
week before the villagers noticed that no
lights were appearing at dusk in the windows
of the cottage under the trees. Then the lean
Nith remarked that no one had seen the old
man or his wife since the night the cats were
away. In another week the burgomaster decided
to overcome his fears and call at the strangely
silent dwelling as a matter of duty, though
in so doing he was careful to take with him
Shang the blacksmith and Thul the cutter of
stone as witnesses. And when they had broken
down the frail door they found only this:
two cleanly picked human skeletons on the
earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles
crawling in the shadowy corners. There was
subsequently much talk among the burgesses
of Ulthar. Zath, the coroner, disputed at
length with Nith, the lean notary; and Kranon
and Shang and Thul were overwhelmed with questions.
Even little Atal, the innkeeper’s son, was
closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as
reward. They talked of the old cotter and
his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers,
of small Menes and his black kitten, of the
prayer of Menes and of the sky during that
prayer, of the doings of the cats on the night
the caravan left, and of what was later found
in the cottage under the dark trees in the
repellent yard. And in the end the burgesses
passed that remarkable law which is told of
by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travellers
in Nir; namely, that in Ulthar no man may
kill a cat.
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