by Unknown
“So where’s your friend? The one you were talking to before?” he asked, looking around the shadow-filled basement.
Annabelle saw Marcy, hovering just out of reach, a mixture of horror and fear in her eyes.
“I d-don’t know w-what you’re t-talking about. I w-wasn’t t-talking to anyone.” Annabelle had her head down, mumbling the words in the direction of her shoes.
Scarface shook her, and put his face up close to hers. “Don’t lie…” he stopped, his eyes popping and his face turning deathly pale.
“It…it…can’t be! I…I… k-killed you!”
Annabelle grinned. He thinks I’m Marcy! She felt the grip on her arm loosen, and kicked Scarface in the balls as hard as she could. He doubled over in pain, and Annabelle ran for the stairs. She heard him grunting, and then his staggering footsteps as he came after her. She was looking wildly around for something to use as a weapon, when she heard a thunk behind her.
Marcy was sending everything she could find flying towards the confused Scarface. Random items were coming out of nowhere, bombarding him from every direction, as if there was an army hidden in the shadows.
He was looking toward where Annabelle stood, confusion etched into his pale face, when a hammer spun through the air and smacked him fair in the middle of his forehead. He went down like a lead balloon…out cold!
Marcy floated up in front of Annabelle and winked. “Now that’s what I call payback!”
The girls laughed as they headed up the basement stairs together to call the police.
Mummy, Leave the Light On
Toneye Eyenot
Mummy, leave the light on. There’s something in my room.
It’s pulling at my blankets, and telling me I’m doomed.
As soon as all the lights go out, the shadows in my room,
Begin to grow and move around, as if to deadly tunes.
Mummy, leave the light on. This happens every night.
Even when I get to sleep, I wake again in fright.
Icy breath brushes my cheek; the shadows fill my sight.
Oh Mummy please, I’m begging you.
Please don’t turn out the light.
Mummy, where are you going? Don’t leave me in the dark.
I can hear them coming, across the road and from the park.
Don’t you hear them at my window, making the dog bark?
Can I come to sleep in your room? I’ll feel safer in your arms.
I know you don’t believe me. No, not a word I’ve said.
I know you think I made this up, that it’s all in my head.
I know that it will start again, when you go back to bed.
But Mummy, what if you wake up tomorrow, and I’m dead?
The Good Mrs. Kats
Tabitha Baumander
Mrs. Kats had been a wife and a widow. A long time ago her much loved husband had owned a car dealership. At the modest age of fifty, the man dropped down stone dead in the middle of his office. He’d been trying to sell a middle aged man a very expensive sports car.
Their son was a doctor and her daughter a lawyer, and neither one was the slightest bit interested in taking on even such a very profitable business. Mrs. Kats therefore felt quite comfortable in selling the dealership. She traveled, she did things about the stock market her children and woman friends did not understand, and was, like her late husband, also very successful. She even kept company with a series of alarmingly young men.
In the natural course of time, she also got older. Gradually, as the years passed, she got tired of travel and playing the market. She even got tired of alarmingly young men.
Now in her very old age she lived in a large house at the end of a country lane. The house had a sign in front that called it The Cattery, which was exactly what it was. In her old age Mrs. Kats had taken to the job of giving the stray unwanted felines of her home county someplace to live. She did adopt cats out, but only to people with impeccable references.
To do the heavy physical work of caring for her charges, cleaning litter pans and moving about large bags of dry food, Mrs. Kats had a selection of young people from the neighboring high school. They volunteered at The Cattery in exchange for special public service credits, and often kept coming long past the time when their term of service was over.
These young people also spent hours brushing the long-haired cats till they floated along the floor like self-propelled clouds. They played with them. They talked to them and admired their wise eyes. But no matter how much attention they got from the daily visitors, there was no confusion in the matter of who was in charge as far as The Cattery cats were concerned.
Everywhere Mrs. Kats went, in this her little kingdom, yellow, blue, and green eyes followed her alertly. A weave of tails, long, thin, short, fluffy and feathery followed her around, curving into question marks as she filled water bowls or retrieved misbehaving toys from difficult places.
They listened as well. With wide-open eyes they listened as she told them everything that had happened to her in her very long life. Mrs. Kats never failed to smile at this attention. They seemed to find it all so very interesting.
The Cattery was a large old farmhouse with a small barn that was used as a garage. The ground floor was given over to the cats. During the day they could enter or exit at will through cat doors in front and rear. The fenced in yard surrounding the house, kept them and the neighboring bird life very safe.
The second floor, off limits to all but the most select and civilized of visitors, was where Mrs. Kats actually lived. Her very satisfactory ninetieth birthday, celebrated that afternoon, marked the tenth year in which The Cattery had been in existence. In this dark midnight hour she sat in a lounge chair smiling and dozing. In her lap was the cat who had brought her to this quiet useful retirement.
When she'd found him he was a puff of black fur, wet, cold, and sick. Now he was a mature tom, the sleek muscled commander of the entire cattery. Where he walked hissing stopped and combatants walked their separate ways. His shorthaired coat was thick, black, and without the slightest hint of white.
"You know Mrs. Kats," the vet had said on that first visit. "This is rather odd. I don't think I've ever seen a completely black cat. There’s always at least one or two white hairs. Supposedly the all-black ones were killed off in the European witch hunts."
"They can't have, it’s here isn't it?" She told him. "Come to think of it, there's a lot of these poor little things about."
"There are Mrs. Kats. Folks around here don't spade their cats near as often as they should. The pound puts them down by the dozen every week. The kittens like this little fellow find homes, but the older ones almost never have any luck."
Mrs. Kats began the process that afternoon, picking up information in the vet’s waiting room on shelters and licensing. As with everything she put her hand to, Mrs. Kats did the job quickly and completely. Within a few weeks her home was converted into a licensed cattery, the ground floor was a wonderland for felines, and a fence designed to keep its residents safe at home surrounded the house.
She then called the pound. She could not take them all, but if they had mature healthy cats she was to be called. If she had space she would come.
Mrs. Kats named the little black puffball Twilight, Twy for short. Now a full ten years old, there was nothing small about him. He was long and strong and fearless. His place was next to Mrs. Kats, by her side all day, on her lap in the evenings, and under her blankets warming her thin old body at night. Day after day he kept to his place like a soldier on guard.
A sound caused Twy's head to perk up. His yellow eyes narrowed, sensitive ears swiveled. He stayed very still, not disturbing the delicate hand that rested on his back.
Twy's ears caught the voices of two men drawing near, and he knew the sound that had woken him was the front door opening.
"Who the hell puts carpet on the walls?"
"I told you dummy it’s a cat shelter."
"Jeez look at 'em all!"
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Twy knew the second voice. He had been doing community service at the shelter by court order, as opposed to the usual high school credit. Twy didn't understand community service. He did understand the man he heard smelled wrong.
The hand on Twy's back moved. His woman was awake and afraid. Twy jumped to the floor. He fluffed his fur, wanting to look big, impressive and threatening, then slunk into the shadows.
Mrs. Kats walked to the open bedroom door.
"What on earth is happening? Why are you here? No! Get out now!"
Her hand went to the alert button she wore on a string around her neck. A male hand reached out and pulled the string hard! It broke and Mrs. Kats fell. The box that had hung on the string flew across the room to land beside Twy, who crouched between a dresser and television stand.
"Aw shit man! She's dead! You broke her neck man - you killed her! You said she'd be asleep!"
"She's a million years old you idiot, should have been dead years ago."
The one with the bad smell walked into the room, and grabbed the box on the dresser that Twy knew better than to touch; the jewelry box. The one Twy did not know knelt by his woman's still form for a long moment radiating emotion. As his companion left the room he jumped up and grabbed the big box which made sounds and pictures. This one took a long look back at the still old woman then left.
Twy crept forward as the men went. His woman was gone. His world had collapsed. He didn't know that besides leaving money and property to her son and daughter in her will, Mrs. Kats had also set up a trust for The Cattery. He didn't know his home and the home of all the cats here was secure. He only knew that before the woman was hunger and fear. Now the woman was gone.
Twy looked up. The four other cats who were permitted into the woman's apartment stood in the doorway. They sniffed at Mrs. Kats and learned the truth. They looked to Twy. Eyes narrowing to slits, ears flat, he led the way out.
The men in the yard were loading the television into the back of a battered hatchback. They did not see the two small cats jump up into the engine compartment from underneath the car. They did not see the dozens of eyes following them out into the night through the doors in both the house and the gate they had left wide open. The two engine cats jumped down sneezing softly at the smells of oil and gas.
The man who smelled bad and his companion got into the car. The car ran no more than ten feet when a strange fluid began to leak out of the engine.
"What the hell?"
With the engine still running, both men got out of the car.
"You couldn't boost one that worked half decent could you?"
"You said get one nobody would notice!"
The engine burst into flames. Both men turned to run. They got less than a hand full of steps away from the car before it exploded.
Twy saw blood. He saw it on the man who had been upset at what had happened to his woman. Twy understood upset. It meant you were sorry something had happened. He bypassed this man and began to follow the other.
Chad Thomas was limping down the lane. He was pretty sure he had a couple of cracked ribs from being tossed by the explosion. His left knee felt like hell. But that was nothing compared to what he'd feel like if they found him here.
Looking back he saw the fire from the car. It had died down, but it was still bright enough to attract attention. That meant he had to get off the road.
He started up a path that led into a wooded area. He knew where this led to. He had friends who kept a hunting shack far on the other side. A hard two hours walk, maybe three hours in his condition, but he'd be out of sight and would be able to rest along the way.
A movement rustled the dry leaves. Chad stopped. There was just enough moonlight to see the path he walked on but nothing else. There was no way of telling what had caused the movement, but this was the woods, it could be anything from a rat to a raccoon. Either way it wouldn’t bother him.
Chad moved on. The path continued into a small open space. He was half way through this relatively well-lit spot before he saw it. A cat, another cat, as if he hadn’t seen enough cats in the two weeks since he started serving his sentence. This one was black with glowing yellow eyes. Its ears were folded back and its fluffed up tail lashed in an attitude of total concentration.
"Scat! Scram! Stupid animal, if I had a gun you'd be......"
Shiny eyes looked out at him from the shadows. Ten, twenty, thirty, more than he could count; young cats, old cats, very angry cats.
* * *
"Yes, detective everything is back to normal. A few of them were missing for a day or two. Twy was gone for a whole week. Grieving I expect, animals do that you know. They’re all home now. There's an alarm on the doors and windows so I feel quite safe. Really detective, I have told you, and the vet has told you, these are domestic cats. They might be capable of giving you a bad bite or a scratch, and I wouldn't trust them with a canary, but domestic cats just don't do what you want to accuse them of doing. Certainly if enough domestic cats got together it might technically be possible, but domestic cats aren't pack hunters."
Twy made thin eyes and licked the end of his tail. This new woman had a softer lap than his woman. Twy liked it. She scratched him in just the right spot and he started to purr.
"Yes, Mrs. Kats picked me to take over about two years ago. I started helping out almost right away so I know the cats and they know me. She wanted everything to be prepared for when the good Lord caught up with her. Though goodness knows she didn't expect to go like that. She knew I was retired and not well off. She also knew I would value this place as a haven, and run things just as she did. That way the cats would have the smallest possible upset. You'd be surprised what can upset a cat. They like things just so, you know. Yes, come by any time, good-night."
The new resident manager of The Cattery hung up the phone and turned her attention to the animal in her lap.
"Poor Twy, do you miss your Mrs. Kats? Imagine that silly detective thinking you and your friends could do something that evil. Why there was hardly anything left of that boy. Shall we watch some television before we go to bed?"
The woman picked up the television converter and turned on the set. Absentmindedly she stroked the big cat in her lap. Feeling satisfied with this new life Twy purred, made pointy paws, and drifted off to sleep.
Blakulla Hjalte
Kerry E.B. Black
Greta hopped after the children but could not keep up. She held collected sticks tight against her body with her curled left hand, but a small one slipped through. She sighed and looked at it twitching on the ground. The delay sent the other kids far from her. Today they cavorted, and even at a regular pace, Greta’s limp prevented her from keeping up with them.
She wobbled in a stoop and, with great care, retrieved the twig. She heard the others’ laughter echo through the woods, but she could not catch up.
Darnit.
A small black cat crept from the underbrush, purring. Greta smiled at it.
“Ah, Trolleri, will you walk with me to the bonfire, my friend?”
The cat bumped its soft head against her leg brace and continued to purr.
The two progressed after the others, Greta with purpose, her furry friend distractible company. Snowdrifts melted into silver rivulets. Jewel-bright wildflowers and hearty crocus bulbs decorated with fragrance. Greta chatted to Trolleri, who regarded her with bright, unblinking golden eyes.
“Tonight we set the bonfires to scare the witches away from their Blakulla. Will you come with me when I dress up, please? Momma made the best costume! I will have rosy cheeks and a shawl! I made pictures for everyone, so maybe I can get lots of candy. Do you like candy?”
The cat meowed, teeth flashing like a glimpse of a pearl within an oyster.
“Oh, you prefer the herring and salmon. I can get some for you, my friend! I bet you will love the anchovies in Jannson’s Temptation! They are covered with cream.”
When she reached Mr. Eriksson’s farmyard, she deposited h
er collection of sticks with the pile before the laid bonfire. Mr. Eriksson nodded thanks and Mrs. Eriksson offered her some warm cider.
“Thank you for your help, Greta! Please give my regards to your momma, and I will be happy to see you tonight.”
Greta smiled her thanks.
“It is going to be such fun!” she said.
Trolleri hid in the angelica bushes during the exchange, then joined the girl when she left for home. The cat capered about the girls’ irregular gate, snaking between her strides. Greta waved to neighbors sweeping out their homes, and shyly smiled at the city families opening their country dwellings for the season.
Wagtails twittered and hopped, attempting to attract mates. Squirrels chased each other’s bushy tails. Her cottage hid among elderflower and loganberry bushes. Momma hung sheets to air on a wire stretched between two trees. The white flapped like sails in the chilly spring breeze, ruffling momma’s golden hair.
“Greta girl, there you are! Let’s get you into your witch costume.” She wrapped her long, wiry arms around her daughter. Greta breathed in her lemongrass scent. They held hands, making their way inside. Trolleri followed along, purring, and was rewarded with a saucer of cream while the two tow heads prepared for the night’s festivities.
Rosy circles accented Greta’s cheeks. Her hair hid beneath a bright headscarf, a lacy shawl about her thin shoulders, and she carried a straw broom. Roasting lamb, parsnips, carrots, and onions fragranced the cabin with promises of an evening’s delicious smorgasbord.
“If you grow weary from the walk, lean on the broom stick. It is sturdy, like a crutch.”
The cat batted a painted boiled egg from the table with an insolent swipe of a padded front
paw.
“Trolleri, bad kitty!”
