Without cats, the other side could simply reach over and have any human it wanted.  All it would need is a corner, and a shadow.  You would feel nothing – you wouldn’t have time.  But your companions would see you drop, as if grabbed by the ankles.  Then you would be swiftly and silently dragged around a corner into the shadows.  Your companions would race to that corner, but you wouldn’t be there.  Only shadows, and the sounds of consumption.

Fortunately for us, we do have cats.  The other side must therefore know our names.  It must call out our names, and we must answer.  If you hear an old man’s voice, breathy and weak, asking if you are there, you must not answer.  No matter how it pleads.  No matter what memories it asks you to recall.  You must not answer.  If you do, not even a cat can save you, even if one were sitting on your lap.  If you answer, the other side will have you.  And its hunger will only be sated for a very short time.

You must not answer.