ALSO BY RANDY RUSSELL (WITH JANET BARNETT)
Ghost Dogs of the South
The Granny Curse and Other Ghosts
and Legends from East Tennessee
Mountain Ghost Stories and
Curious Tales of Western North Carolina
JOHN F. BLAIR,
P U B L I S H E R
1406 Plaza Drive
Winston-Salem, North Carolina 27103
www.blairpub.com
Copyright © 2008 by Randy Russell
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address John F. Blair, Publisher Subsidiary Rights Department, 1406 Plaza Drive, Winston-Salem, North Carolina 27103.
First John F. Blair Publisher hardcover edition October 2008
Manufactured in the United States of America
All photographs property of the author
Jacket and interior design by Debra Long Hampton
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Russell, Randy.
Ghost cats of the south / by Randy Russell.
p. cm.
Companion to: Ghost dogs of the south.
ISBN-13: 978-0-89587-360-6 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0-89587-360-5 (alk. paper)
1. Animal ghosts. 2. Cats—Miscellanea. I. Title.
BF1484.R868 2008
398.20975’05—dc22
2008023025
www.blairpub.com
Contents
Preface
Chicken Soup Cat
Slivers of Bone
Garden Cat
Rose Perfume
A Piece of Yarn
The Lightning Tree
Camp Cats
Eat-Your-Face Cat
Cat Shine
Bump-Heads Cat
Ice-Cold Cat
Cat Cookies
Chimney Cats
Butcher Cat
Wedding Cat
Mostly There Cat
Piano Cat
No-Smoking Cat
College Cats
Run-Over-Flat Cats
A Patch of Fog
The Cat in the Well
Author’s Afterword
Preface
As a “ghostlorist” with three previously published titles in the field of Southern folklore, I am often asked whether or not I believe ghosts are real. Yes, I do. I have collected literally hundreds of first-person ghost experiences from across the South, encounters shared with me by the people who lived them. I have researched three hundred years of published folklore and have become familiar with the myths and legends of ghosts as well.
Sadly overlooked in published folklore are people’s encounters with the ghosts of past family members of the four-legged variety. Conversely, visits from departed pets are easily the most common ghost experiences I hear when people share their real-life encounters with me. And cats refuse to be left out of most anything.
Cats are tied to place. No domestic animal is more territorial than the cat. When a cat moves in with a family, it likes to believe it has found a “forever home.” Forever means just that to a cat.
Two rather famous cats vie for historical honors as the South’s oldest example of a cat ghost.
The woodland beast that is half woman and half cat continues to be seen throughout the southern Appalachian Mountains. The fable of the Wampus Cat had its origin among the Cherokee of East Tennessee and western North Carolina at the time of the American Revolution.
A small cat is still seen today by visitors to an old Spanish fort in St. Augustine, Florida. The lithe animal was brought to America in the 1740s, according to legend. I am happy to share this well-established ghost cat in this collection.
In historical folklore, cats are often symbolic companions of witches. Cats see well at night. Witches want to. There are plenty of witches in the South, and I include in this collection more than one example of the continuing folk stories involving witches and their cats.
More important, perhaps, is the vast array of cat ghosts that populate our everyday lives. Many of the stories in this collection involve people just like us, and cats just like yours.
Ghosts hang around longer in the South than elsewhere. It’s warmer here. The folklore is rich and fertile. All of the stories in this book are based on researched folklore of the South or were nurtured from the hundreds of ghost experiences shared with me by others when a comfortable corner, and a moment’s confidentiality, could be found.
I would like to thank the North Carolina Center for the Advancement of Teaching in Cullowhee for regularly offering week-long seminars in folklore for the benefit of teachers across the state. I would also like to thank Cherokee artist and mask carver Davy Arch for his generosity in sharing the culture of his people and the stories told among his family and friends.
I thank the entire staff of John F. Blair, Publisher, in Winston-Salem. Blair published my first book, coauthored with my wife, Janet Barnett, in 1987. Mountain Ghost Stories and Curious Tales of Western North Carolina has remained in print since that time, due in no small part to the continuing enthusiasm of this important and historical publishing house for Southern folklore.
Finally, I would like to thank everyone who warmly and companionably provides a domestic cat with a forever home and a forever family. Cats are their own reward, of course. Just ask one.
I also need to offer a caveat to those who love cats no matter what they do. Ghost cats, like cats themselves, don’t always behave the way we would want them to. In short, not all ghost cats are good ghosts. But all ghost cats have one thing in common. They exist.
NONESUCH, KENTUCKY
Chicken Soup Cat
“Oh, darn!” she said. “Arnie, we’re out of gas again!”
The van heaved to a sputtering stop on a narrow Kentucky country road south of the interstate. It was a route Arnie had chosen on the spur of the moment to bypass traffic on the approach to Lexington. He and Pam were on their way to Florida and then back along the Gulf Coast to perform at the more crowded winter resorts. Arnie and Pam were street musicians, at least until they could get a song to take off on youtube.com and make money selling their CDs.
Arnie would get them there, to a place where they could perform one day as stage musicians to large, adoring crowds. Pam was sure of it. He was tall and handsome, with thick, curly hair. Arnie sang and played the sousaphone on the street. Pam played accordion. He was thirty now. She was younger. They danced around and had fun with it.
They covered all the classic rock songs and could knock out a polka in a heartbeat. It was quite a show. People loved it. Arnie and Pam always made enough money to eat and pay their motel bill. Sometimes, they saved enough to rent a house in a tourist area and stay in one place for a while.
Arnie and Pam, trying to reach more people and see more places, had tried the Pacific Northwest for the summer. Pam was only a little pregnant when they left. Seattle was a bust, as was most of Oregon. The streets of the South were where a sousaphone-and-accordion band belonged. They had barely put back enough money for gas.
The couple had spent the trip thus far sleeping in the van at state parks along the way. And Pam found she needed more sleeping room. She’d never expected to be this big this soon. A sousaphone and an accordion take up a lot of space in a van. Not to mention Arnie, who slept sprawled out like a starfish.
And now this, out of gas on a twisting road somewhere on the short side of Lexington. They’d turned off Interstate 64 at a town called Jett and headed south on Highway 60, but it wasn’t Highway 60 for long until it was something else. The nearest town now, according to the map, was Nonesuch. And the Kentucky River was just beyond. But neit
her Arnie nor Pam could tell exactly where they were by looking at the map. It wasn’t like either one of them to pay attention to the odometer, for one thing. Or the fuel gauge.
Arnie threw up on the side of the road.
“Hey, I’m pregnant,” Pam said. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing that.”
“Share and share alike,” he said. “I think I have a fever. It hit me when I stood up from riding in the van. Might be this curvy road, though.”
Pam laughed. “Nobody ever came straight home from anywhere on this road, that’s a fact.”
A man driving a pickup truck stopped. He had a can of gasoline in the bed of his truck. He told Arnie and Pam that the nearest town was Nonesuch and that they could find a gas station there. He asked where they were headed and where they were from.
“We’re looking for a place to park for winter,” Arnie said. “And a job, if you know of any.”
Pam stared at him with her mouth open. He must have a fever, she thought. Sometimes, Arnie said things just to talk, but he never used the word job lightly. He’d be a father soon, and maybe that’s what was messing him up.
The man told them he knew a place they could rent by the week, if they wanted.
“Better stay a night or two,” the man said,“to see for sure.” He winked at Pam.
They followed him along an old road to a little clapboard farmhouse. Then the man drove away, his arm out the window of his truck.
Pam turned the van in a circle in a front yard that was mostly weeds, then put it in reverse to back up to the porch. They heard a loud clunk, followed by two smaller clanks. The van wouldn’t budge. The transmission had come apart, she guessed. Arnie wasn’t good with cars, and neither was she.
The farmhouse was three rooms and a kitchen. Nothing much worked. The electricity was turned off. The propane tank was empty. But water flowed in the kitchen sink and the little bathroom. The living room had a fireplace, and Pam found a long stack of firewood along the south side of the house. Arnie moved the mattresses from the bedrooms and placed them side by side in front of the fireplace. Pam unzipped their sleeping bags and covered the mattresses.
Arnie was too sick in the morning to bring in firewood. They had some food in the van. Pam used a pan from the kitchen for coffee. She made bologna sandwiches. Four pieces of lunchmeat were left in the van. They had a jar of mustard. Arnie didn’t want to eat. He seemed to have the flu. First chills, then fever, then chills again.
That night, Pam tried to make toast by putting the last slices of bread in a skillet and setting it in the fireplace. It worked. She placed the remaining two bologna slices in the skillet, too.
On her last trip for firewood, it was snowing, just enough to sprinkle her hair with tiny crystals. She didn’t get the door quite closed. While she put their sandwiches together, a cat walked in. The room smelled like chicken soup.
“Hi, kitty,” Pam said.
The cat meowed. It was a big, fat cat and didn’t look hungry at all.
“I smell soup,” Arnie said. He sat up on the mattress when the cat walked across him.
“So do I,” Pam admitted. “I think it’s the cat.”
“Oh, the cat. I thought I was dreaming that.”
The cat sat by Pam and watched the fire burn. She gave him a bit of fried bologna.
Pam played her accordion in her mind and sang out loud, “My kitty has a first name, it’s O-s-c-a-r.”
She stroked the cat from his ears down his back. He was a big boy, about eighteen pounds, she guessed. His ears and head were scarred. A tough old guy.
“Oscar,” she said, “you smell like chicken soup. How do you do that?”
He stroked his whiskers with his paw and didn’t answer.
Arnie ate half his sandwich. The old tomcat rubbed against Pam’s belly. He knew.
When she went to sleep, the cat was still there. When she woke up in the morning, he was gone.
“If I don’t go get food, we’re going to die.”
“Soup,” Arnie said. He was half asleep, still sick and weak. “Chicken soup.”
“Yeah, you’re going to die anyway,” Pam teased. “And I’m naming the baby after the cat, not you.”
“Soup,” was all he said.
Pam got firewood first. The ground was blanketed in snow. Snow was in the trees. The world seemed silent in the snow. It seemed closer and smaller, as if the sky were on the ground and went only as high as the trees.
She cooked the last of the coffee. How could it be so cold so soon? Kentucky may be in the South, she thought, but it isn’t far enough south for me.
Putting on all the clothes she could find, Pam discovered that her blue crocheted sweater reached only at the middle button now, between her breasts and belly. She was a different-sized person. She pulled on three pair of knee socks. The outer pair was red-and-white striped, the ones she wore for performing. If she froze to death in the woods, she would stick her feet in the air just before she died, so her body would be found sooner. She pulled her open sleeping bag off the mattress and wrapped it around her shoulders. It made a pretty good parka and kept her neck warm, too. It also fit easily around her stomach, and then some. Pam didn’t need gloves, if she kept her hands rolled inside the edges of the sleeping bag.
If it’s a boy, she thought, I’m naming him Oscar. Middle name, Mayer.
The cat was on the porch when she stepped outside in her winter-weather wardrobe. The daylight smelled like chicken soup. The outdoors looked pretty in snow. The big cat meowed and jumped off the porch in a trot.
Pam had no idea which way to go. She figured she would walk back to the main road and wait for a car to come by. Or perhaps she could figure out the way to Nonesuch. She didn’t know.
The cat came back for her. He paced back and forth in front of the porch. Pam smelled chicken soup again. And just like that, the cat was off again.
“Okay,” she said,“let’s go.”
She followed the cat. And the smell of chicken soup. Hot soup. It was just the thing for snow.
By the time they reached a road, Pam’s shoes were soaked and her feet were cold. Her socks were wet almost to her knees from walking in snow. At least it had stopped snowing and there was little or no wind. The exercise kept her warm. She had to hurry to keep up with the cat. If they weren’t going to town, they were going somewhere, she supposed. That old cat had to live somewhere. It had a collar, after all.
Pam watched the ground, following the cat tracks. Every time she stopped and looked up to see where they were going, the big tomcat stopped, but only for a moment, to make sure she was there. Then he took off. Eventually, she looked up and couldn’t see him anymore. But the tracks were there. And the smell of chicken soup.
She heard the sound of a door closing.
There it was. A roadside café. It had a row of windows in front and lights on inside. The windows looked steamy. Smoke rose from the vent on the roof. One car was in the parking lot. The sign over the front door said the café was the Yellow Cat Diner. Cat tracks led to the front door. The whole place smelled like chicken soup.
The man inside wore a white T-shirt and an apron and had a faded tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. He wore a paper hat on his head. The tomcat sat on the counter. A pie was inside a small display case. Bacon sizzled on the grill. A jukebox sat just inside the door.
“Morning, miss,” he said. “Take off your shoes and sit in that last booth by the gas heater. You can prop your feet up there. Did you follow the cat here?”
“Yes.” Pam smiled, letting the sleeping bag slip from her shoulders.
“Two eggs or three?” the man asked. “Do you like them with the yolks runny?”
Later, they rode in his car out to the little dilapidated farmhouse and brought Arnie back to the café. The place was empty when they left, except for the cat.
“We have to hurry directly back,” the man told them. “The customers will be coming in soon. I have some things there for the flu. You can go to
town later. Hope you don’t mind.”
Pam and Arnie didn’t mind at all. Anyplace warm would do. Anyplace with food.
“Soup?” Arnie asked.
“Yeah, we got soup. Hamburgers and chili, too. We’ll get awful busy here shortly. Got breaded tenderloins in the freezer, you want something fancy. And I know somebody who’ll come out and look at your van. See what it needs and all.”
It was busy, all right. Workmen came into the café in a steady march. They came in staggered shifts from a road-building crew. The man behind the counter couldn’t keep up. Arnie curled up in the last booth, his feet stuck out in front of the gas heater. The cat sat on the Formica tabletop and watched the crowd.
Pam carried plates and bowls of food from the kitchen to the counter and out to the booths. Customers ordered by saying out loud what they wanted, then found a seat. Somehow, the man in the paper hat and stained apron got all the orders right. The café was packed. Pam carried empty dishes back to the kitchen. The men left change for her on the tables and the counter.
“Never seen a pregnant waitress in socks before and no shoes,” one of them said.
“Never seen a man eat horse-meat chili before and like it,” Pam said back to him. “You going to want hay after you finish that?”
The whole place laughed. Someone started the jukebox. Pam sang along as she worked.
The jukebox played old songs, ones you heard a hundred times growing up as a kid. The records hadn’t been changed in years.
Arnie felt better, listening to the old songs. And he felt much better than that after two bowls of chicken soup. He got up eventually and wandered into the kitchen and started doing dishes.
He and Pam stayed through Christmas. The man who lent them the gasoline and let them stay in the little farmhouse was a regular customer. They settled up the rent at the end of the week, and every week thereafter. Friday and Saturday nights, Pam and Arnie played live music. Soon, the Yellow Cat Diner was as busy at suppertime as it was at lunch.
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