We live at the edge of the forest, perched on top of a hill where nature still whispers through the trees. Ours is the last house before the wild begins - a place of monkeys in the morning, birdsong at dusk, and secrets hidden in the undergrowth.

I had twelve cats.

They weren't just pets; they were family. Independent but affectionate, they curled on warm ledges, played with leaves, and kept us company during quiet nights. They belonged here as much as we did.

Then one by one, they began to disappear.

At first, we blamed the forest. Maybe they wandered too far and lost their way. Maybe another animal got them. But it didn't feel right. It felt eerie - like something was watching.

Then, one Saturday morning, my neighbour called in alarm.

"We just killed a huge python behind our house," she said. "And they usually come in pairs."

Something in me went cold.

Later, she whispered what we hadn't dared to imagine:

"We think it had been swallowing cats."

And suddenly, the silence made sense.

About two months later, one of my children went out in the evening and let out a piercing scream. Curled along the wall was another python - massive, unmoving, waiting.

Before help could arrive, it slithered back into the shadows.

We never found it again.

Now, the cats are finished. All of them. Gone.

And though the forest still sings and the sun still rises beautifully over the hill, there's a quiet ache in our home - the space where soft paws once walked and gentle purrs once lived.

We learned that in the wild, survival isn't just for the strongest - it's for the most alert.

Because sometimes, danger doesn't hiss or growl.

Sometimes, it waits silently? and swallows what you love.