The following are excerpts from logs written by various people associated with Stephens Island, compiled after a ship’s crew made the return voyage to New Zealand from the island. We have collected these excerpts to provide the essential information about the horrors which occurred on that island some twenty years ago, and to explain the sequence of events which led to the island’s abandonment.
June 15, 1894
Today, a cat, unknown to all inhabitants of the island, brought the carcass of a strange, small bird to our doorstep. I could not myself identify it, and so have sent it to Walter Buller, a noted ornithologist, on board the NZGSS Hinemoa, in the care of A. W. Bethune. Hopefully, it will prove valuable to him. — D. Lyall
March 12, 1895
The cats have continued bringing specimens to our door. They are proving invaluable to the study of the new species, as Buller confirmed to me it was. I shall be selling them as I can to the naturalist Henry Travers, as he has offered an excellent reward for them. Buller will be happy to receive the news of the birds’ prevalence on the island, despite the lack of live specimens at present. — D. Lyall
October 9, 1895
Travers has told me that he has sold the nine birds which I sold to him to a man named Walter Rothschild, who appears to be far wealthier than Buller was, and could afford to pay a much greater sum for the specimens. - D. Lyall
December 19, 1895
The bird has been given a name, Traversia lyalli, in honor of myself and Mr. Travers courtesy of Mr. Rothschild. What a wonderful Christmas gift this is. — D. Lyall
February 9, 1896
Wrens are becoming increasingly difficult to find due to the emboldened cat population. It seems to grow almost daily, with new cats hunting the specimens and fewer being left for us to study. I must mention this to Buller, because he will want to know of our struggle to send new specimens for study. — D. Lyall
November 2, 1896
This is intolerable. The birds are becoming scarcer by the day due to those damned cats. Before long, I should think they will become extinct. That might put a stop to those stupid felines. - D. Lyall
May 12, 1897
Travers has informed me of his inability to sell the few remaining specimens, and we commiserated over the damage the cats had done to our business. I told him I was debating leaving the island for another, in hopes of finding better fortune there. He advised I should do so. God help my replacement on this cat-infested rock. — D. Lyall
July 15, 1897
What on Earth have I gotten myself into? Cats surround the lighthouse entirely, and are territorial creatures. There are few places on this island where one cannot find a feral cat. They truly are a nuisance and should be dealt with as the pests they are. I must find a way to send for weapons or some form of deterrent for these beasts, before the entire island is subjugated by them. - P. Henaghan
November 14, 1897
The island is truly doomed. Any prey for these vicious cats is swiftly becoming scarcer, but that does not seem to be doing enough to decrease the cats’ proclivity for breeding. They are becoming impossible to manage, despite my best efforts. I may soon resign my post as the situation only continues to deteriorate. — P. Henaghan
November 24, 1898
Upon my arrival to the island, a swarm of feral cats greeted me. I can only imagine what the rest of the population have been dealing with over the past three years. It is a wonder that humans choose to remain on this island. They must really love it here or not have another place they can go. Although, I cannot recall meeting with the members of the households which I was informed have not left the island. Odd, that. Perhaps someday I will journey out to see them. — R. Cathcart
August 1, 1899
Since arriving to the island, I have managed to kill only a hundred of the cats which still infest the island. I am running low on ammunition and their numbers continue to swell. How on earth they survive in such numbers despite their avian prey seemingly going extinct is anyone’s guess. I must continue the fight against them, even if I seem to be alone in it. Those people who are still here seem never to answer their door or leave their home anymore. Thankfully, my predecessor requested weapons to fight these feline pests. Without them, I scarcely would have made a dent in their numbers. — R. Cathcart
November 24, 1899
I finally ventured into what counts for a town on this tiny island. I could not, given countless pages of writing, adequately describe the horror which I saw there, but I must try. If only for my successors to know. The cats had taken over entirely. They occupied every piece of available land. Every alleyway seethed with a mass of feral monsters who had grown larger than any cats ought to, while still looking as agile, vicious, and lethal as any common wild cat would. They would not attack me directly, as I did my best to pose as much a threat as they did with my gun. I could scarcely take my eyes off them for a second. Where on earth could these cats be getting their supply of food from? I dared not guess. I had to force myself to go up to the door of the nearest house. I knocked, but received no reply. I tried the door and found it locked. I kicked at the door, hoping it would be moved by my effort, but made no progress. Finally, I found a stone in the front garden and, throwing it through the window, managed to make myself an entrance. I wish I had not. The smell of putrefaction hung heavily in the air, along with that of cats and their leavings. While I had hoped that this was just an abandoned house, and the smell only from food that had remained too long, my hopes were dashed once I entered the bedroom of those who had once lived here. Their bodies lay in the bed, emaciated and in some places heavily scavenged from. These people died of hunger long ago, perhaps even years ago. Since then, they had only served as a food source for the ever-growing horde of cats. They say there is no dignity in death. But this? To be used as food for felines? This is the most ignominious and unfitting death imaginable, and these people did not deserve it. I curse the person who first brought cats to this island. They have truly doomed those people, and others who lived here. I will not go quietly, however. I will fight with my last strength to rid this island of as many cats as I am able. — R. Cathcart
November 25, 1899
I endeavoured to bury the bodies of the people who had once lived here. I went so far as to attempt to dig the holes behind their house deep enough to prevent the cats from digging them back up. It was certainly not something which I desired to do, but it was necessary, I believe, to help reduce the food that the cats can access. In doing so, however, I had occasion to shoot five of the beasts which had returned in the night to feed on the bodies. It feels as though I am watched wherever I go on this island, watched by the thousands of eyes of vicious, cruel, uncaring cats who wish for every human on this island to die so that they may have dominion over it. I don’t know if I am the last to survive. — R. Cathcart
November 26, 1899
I examined the other homes, but found them to be abandoned. Odd. I have no record of those families having left the island from my predecessors’ times here. I must be more careful when searching through the town. The cats tend to be nocturnal, but some are staying up in the daylight hours, and I believe they lack fear of humans. I may soon be in more danger than I initially thought throughout the day. — R. Cathcart
December 25, 1899
This being my second Christmas away from home without word from my family, I am beginning to be worried by the lack of contact from the outside world. Ships never dock anymore, for fear of risking the cats boarding them. I fear I may not last much longer, as the supplies rarely reach this island. It appears they are set adrift from the boat while it is beyond the horizon, with the sailors relying on hope that the items will reach my island. I have not seen a ship since that which brought the shotgun and numerous shells which I have been provided. I receive no word from them and have no way to send word back, so I am unsure of why they continue to send supplies. Hope? Perhaps. But I must find a way to send word to them, less they decide to abandon me. — R. Cathcart
December 25, 1899
The good ship HMS Calliope has, for the past year, been supplying R. Cathcart and the inhabitants of Stephens Island. We have not yet attempted a rescue mission, as intelligence gathered by D. Lyall and P. Henaghan has made the amount of risk quite clearly greater than the reward of seeing Mr. Cathcart and the other few inhabitants of that island again. It is more than likely that all of them have perished despite our efforts of sending in packages of supplies due to a feral group of cats which has overrun the island in its entirety, per Mr. Henaghan. He was one of a few brave souls who volunteered to take command of the lighthouse, if only serving in that post for six months. As we are keeping the island below our horizon and using maps to attempt to send supplies in its direction, we have no idea if Mr. Cathcart is alive or keeping the beacon alive for any passing ships which might go near the island.
- Ensign J. Taylor
January 1, 1900
The dawn of a new century? It certainly doesn’t feel that way for me. I feel as stuck in the past as I am on this island. Lucky for me, the Calliope has managed to continue supplying me. However, I’ve yet to meet the ship due to the cats, who still swarm when I am out in the open for too long, especially at dark. In fact, I’ve yet to see any friendly face since I arrived, discounting those unfortunate souls who had lost their lives.
- R. Cathcart
Unfortunately, it seems, R. Cathcart was not fated to see another human in his time on this side of the veil. His body and possessions, along with the logbooks held within the lighthouse, was taken from the island by the HMS Calliope after a year of refusing to dock, under the assumption that the cat population would have by then decreased significantly enough. They found that the lighthouse had, as Ensign Taylor had feared, ceased its activity, to the detriment of a single sailing ship, en route (per official records) from Resolution Island to Wellington. No survivors were found.
* Note: The persons D. Lyall, P. Henaghan, and R. Cathcart are all based on the real people who were involved with keeping lighthouses on Stephens Island, though their log entries are fabrications. Ensign J. Taylor is fictional, while the ship HMS Calliope was a real ship used in New Zealand during the period these entries were dated. This scenario is based on an episode of “Citation Needed” discussing the Stephens Island Wren*