Hell Cat of the Holt

by Mark Cassell

  I continued walking towards a rusted fence that marked the edge of the holy grounds. Dry leaves crunched beneath my shoes as I slowed my approach to the fence. I stopped beneath the drooping limbs of an oak whose roots had devastated what perhaps were the first graves to have been laid. The wind bit my cheeks as I curled fingers around the cold and rusted iron. It gave a little beneath my grip and made a grinding sound in the ruined paving. My breath plumed as I squinted across the expanse of churned earth, out towards a copse. Little more than a collection of perhaps a dozen sizable trees, the copse stood in the centre of the nearest field.

  Where those trees once stood proud, their trunks and branches were now shrivelled, blackened. Burnt.

  The ground surrounding the trees was barren, typical for the time of year, but in places scorched. The trunks and branches were black from what I guessed must have been a fire. Strange thing was it hadn’t been like that the day before when I’d walked up here. Of that, I was certain.

  Maybe there’d been a lightning strike last night – even though I’d not heard a storm. Maybe it had been some pyromaniac youths. Using that word, youths, reminded me of Gran.

  The jagged trunks of several trees reached up to the sky like black claws. Whatever the cause, the fire had only burned long enough to take out the copse and spread no further. Aside from the scorch marks, there were deep cracks and rifts that splayed out from the blackened tree line. It reminded me of those pictures of the barren ground in Ethiopia where, as a kid, I'd first witnessed sun-baked earth and famine, sad eyes and pot-bellies.

  A rustle above made me jerk upright, my neck clicking. I stared into the gloomy thatch of branches. Something dark, fleeting, teased my peripheral vision. I tried to follow whatever it was and saw only twigs and branches quivering. Perhaps it was a squirrel, or … or something larger than a squirrel.

  Murphy?

  I moved and my shoe caught on a cracked paving slab. As I went to step away, my coat snagged on the fence and ripped.

  Whatever had been in the branches had gone.

  Nothing. No Murphy.

  When I went home, I forgot to go in the shop.

  Typical me.

  I knew at some point I’d seriously have to get on with my contracted work, and it was already way past midday. Freelance accountancy had been my thing since leaving Uni, but recently I hadn’t been getting much done. It seemed I allowed myself far too many tea breaks where I’d not actually make any tea, and instead wander off into the village and the surrounding fields in search of Murphy. Procrastination was always an issue, and right then I was hungry and had little in the cupboards in the way of lunch.

  I was just considering going back out to get that shopping, when a screech of tyres and a crash put a stop to my intentions.

  I rushed to the window and bumped the sideboard, knocking off a photo frame. It cracked when it landed by my foot. Such a clumsy arse. Ignoring it, I pulled aside the net curtain to look out.

  Just past my neighbour’s house, a red van sat crooked in the ditch atop flattened bushes with its crumpled bonnet against the telegraph pole. Steam poured from the front grill. The driver, a good-looking guy with one tattooed arm, clambered out. His eyes were wide. He didn’t immediately inspect the damage, instead he paid more attention to the field beyond the trees and bushes past the wreck.

  I wedged my feet into my shoes, stomping them in for a few steps to properly get them on.

  Clive, my elderly neighbour, was already out of his house by the time I made it onto the road. I wrapped my cardigan around my chest, hugging myself and wishing I’d grabbed a coat. After the funeral, Clive had been there for me. Indeed, he and his wife, before she’d passed away, had been good friends with my grandparents. Today, it was no surprise that he wore his mustard-yellow jumper. I’d never once seen him without it. When I lived here as a kid, I’d always see him wearing it – I honestly wondered if it was the same one. Even in summer, he’d wear it without rolling up the sleeves, and in winter, he’d not wear a coat.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” the driver was saying to him as he ran a hand over his vehicle’s roof. “Van’s not.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Clive held an empty shopping bag in one hand and his house keys in the other.

  The driver again glanced over the hedges. A mist crept along the far edge of the field, curling through tufts of grass down where a stream wound into the expansive woodland.

  “Damn thing came from nowhere,” the man said.

  “What?” Clive demanded. “What did you see?”

  “The thing darted from the bushes.”

  “Yes, but what?”

  I believed I knew what the man was about to say.

  “A big black cat.”

  I wasn’t surprised and immediately thought of Grandad. As a kid, a number of long-living residents of the village often spoke of how they’d seen the Black Cat skulking through the fields. One old lady once claimed her late husband fired his shotgun at it. Point-blank range, apparently. No harm befell the cat.

  “Look at my van!” the man said.

  “Anne,” Clive said, his eyes narrow, “are you okay?”

  I nodded, knowing I held my mouth open, and quickly closed it.

  The man looked at me, then eyed his van. “Had an accident.”

  I wanted to say, “I can see that”, but that would made me sound like an arse. That wasn’t my style. My throat was dry.

  The man walked round the front of the vehicle and stroked the bonnet. “Still haven’t finished paying it off.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

  “Shopping?” I said to Clive, pointing at the bag. It was an obvious question, I realised that, and I had no idea why I asked. Perhaps it was to distract myself; I was still thinking of Grandad in hospital, adamant he’d seen a black cat. The Black Cat.

  “Yes, I need a few things,” he said and glanced up the road. “Have you found little Murphy yet?”

  I hated that question. A friend from Birmingham had phoned that morning asking precisely that. I gave them both the same answer: “No, not yet.”

  My neighbour’s gaze drifted over my shoulder, and I turned to watch the van man lean against his side door. He was speaking on his mobile. Clive and I walked a short distance away to allow the man some privacy.

  I wanted to talk about the Black Cat, my Grandad. Everything.

  Eventually, Clive murmured, “Said he saw the Cat.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I saw it, too.”

  “You did?”

  “About a minute before the crash.” With his shopping bag, he motioned across the fields. “Over there, down near the stream.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t believe there was a Black Cat, or the ‘Black Cat of the Holt’ as Grandad said just before his heart finally broke. I couldn’t believe such a beast roamed the local countryside. In truth, the idea scared me. Imagine if … if the Cat had got Murphy. Perhaps the Cat had eaten him.

  My stomach churned at the thought.

  “That fog is heavy,” he said, “and it’s coming in fast.”

  It clawed along the edge of the woodland, drifting in layers.

  “I need to get to the shop,” Clive said and started walking. “See you.”

  Me too, I thought, but I didn’t go with him. I went back indoors, grabbed my coat and eyed the cracked photo of Gran and Grandad. I still didn’t bother picking it up.

  Before Clive had even made it a dozen steps up the road I was outside again, such was his slow plod. By now, the van man sat in the driver’s seat. I wondered if I should at least offer to make him a tea or a coffee. Then I saw him pop open a can of drink, a Coke or Dr Pepper maybe.

  He looked fine.

  Off I went in the opposite direction to Clive, heading down towards the stream.

  At this time of year, the stream would be
deep enough to be a river. The sound of tumbling water intensified as I walked off the field into the woodland, following the slope that led down to the stream. The river. The damp air, earthy and salty, filled my lungs. Around these parts of the village, mossy rocks and ivy-clad boulders dotted the landscape, some as small as a shoebox, whereas others, without exaggeration, could be compared to the size of a house.

  A large portion of rock had broken away and slid into the deeper part of the river to form a kind of waterfall. Gnarly roots pushed out from the muddy slope, growing up and over several large rocks. Overhanging branches dangled into the water, creating ripples. Layers of mist teased the water bank, not as thick as I’d suspected.

  The cross-hatching of overhead branches creaked. For a moment, I expected to see whatever it was that had spooked me earlier. Nothing there. Just gloom.

  No Murphy.

  Not that I expected to see him up a tree. I’d never known him in a tree, but then again, I’d never known him to go missing. I was there for a different kind of cat. What was I even doing? This could be dangerous.

  Something behind me rustled in the leaves, I turned and—

  My leg shot sideways. I slid, landed in the mud, and slipped further down the embankment.

  A coldness soaked through my jeans, to my skin. My hands raked the mud … down I went … and cold water rushed over me. Freezing. I choked and coughed and sputtered, my arms flapped, my hands slapping the surface. The back of my head went under, my ears bubbling. Luckily my face didn’t go under. Rocks bit into my back and my bum. My legs kicked the tangle of reeds. It was like a dozen hands wrapped around my ankles, keeping me under. Cold water rushed down my throat and again I choked and coughed. I scrambled, desperate to grab something, anything.

  Finally, my slick hands gripped a branch. Only just. I lurched and fell back as though a tide swept me beneath its surface.

  My wet hand lost its grip.

  I turned over, still kicking, still flapping my arms. My head smacked a rock. Light and colour and darkness blinded me and I went under; my whole head this time. Chunks of broken rock lined the bottom of the river, and as I tried to get my feet beneath me, I saw what looked like cave paintings. Reds, yellows and blues painted on the rocks. No time to make any sense of it.

  I lurched upright, desperate to grab the branch again. It was as though the water was deeper than it really was.

  The branch. Got it. Tight.

  Water rushed over me. I swallowed some and choked. Cold and bitter.

  Beside me, up the bank, there was movement. A blurry image of someone running from the fields, then sliding in the mud, nearer and nearer the river. An arm reached out and for an absurd moment all I saw were those rock paintings again. I kicked and thrashed and grabbed the arm. Strong, hairy.

  The man yanked me up. His fingers pinched my skin as I jerked upwards. All I saw was his woolly hat and a firm jaw. He slipped, and embarrassingly I landed on top of him. Coughing, I glared at the churning water, expecting to see something reaching for me. My breath came in gasps and I pushed myself away from him. My cheeks warmed despite my cold skin; I’d landed on top of the poor man.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  “But, I saw …”

  He glanced at me as we both stood. I guessed he was a hiker.

  “I saw something down there,” I told him. My legs felt like jelly.

  “What?” He snatched off his black coat and draped it over my shoulders. He looked at the landslide, watching the water tumble over and around the rocks. “What did you see?”

  His coat smelled of clean laundry and I felt guilty as I wrapped it tight around my shoulders, hugging myself. My teeth chattered and all I could taste was that bitter water. “I … I don’t know.”

  He raked his stubble. His brown eyes were as dark as the muddy water. They were sad, though.

  “Lucky I was nearby.” His voice was soft. “You okay?”

  I nodded, feeling as dumb, as they say, as mud. My hands were slick with the stuff. Plus, I’d broken a nail; like I cared about that. The murky mix of bubbles and debris made lapping noises against the bank of tree roots and rock. How I even managed to see the rocks at the bottom and those markings I had no idea.

  “Recently,” he said, “people around here have been seeing a lot of weird stuff.”

  Again, I nodded. I was such an idiot; I couldn’t believe I’d fallen into the river. My teeth felt furry, gritty, and like the true lady I was, I turned my head aside and spat. It didn’t do much for getting rid of that awful taste. “Excuse me.”

  “S’okay.” He laughed. “Can’t imagine it tastes nice.”

  “Nope.”

  “Mucky.”

  “Yeah.” I rubbed my hands together. It made little difference to the chill, but I kind of felt better. I had to get home.

  “You local?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too.”

  Again, I looked at him. I didn’t recognise him.

  “Come on,” he added, “let’s get you home. Is it far?”

  “Not at all.” I jerked my head in the direction of the field behind us. “On the edge of the village. You’ll see my house once we get away from the river.”

  He wiped his muddy hands down his trousers. He wore combats and big boots.

  “I reckon,” he said, “you’ll be taking plenty of that water with you.”

  I looked at his wet trousers. “You too. And your coat’s gonna be soaked.”

  He waved a hand. “Nah, it’s cool.”

  I went to move away from the embankment and staggered like I was drunk.

  He reached out and gripped my upper arm. Firm. “You good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah.” His smile warmed his face, but failed to warm me. “Yeah, I do. I’m Leo, by the way.”

  “Anne,” I said and wiped my face with his sleeve. “I’ll wash this coat for you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  We stepped up the bank and headed for the edge of the field, the barren ground slick with mud.

  “I’ve not long moved into the village,” he told me. “Been here since last summer. Gone by fast.”

  My shoes squelched around freezing toes as we headed for the main road and my house. “I kind of keep myself to myself, to be honest,” I told him.

  “Me too.” Again, I thought how troubled he looked.

  I glanced behind us, back down towards the river. “Have you seen the Cat, too?”

  He took a moment to answer. “I’ve seen a lot of things.”

  “A big Black Cat? Some guy earlier claimed he saw a panther.”

  Leo shot me a curious look.

  “I’ve also heard that pet cats have been disappearing,” he said.

  “My Murphy.”

  “I’ve seen your posters.”

  “I miss him.”

  “Of course you do.” He dropped his gaze to his feet. “You went down there to look for it, didn’t you? The big Cat, right? The panther?”

  “Stupid, huh?”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “Curiosity.” For the first time, I thought how terrible it would be if Murphy had been killed by this so-called panther. I hoped to hell that wasn’t the case.

  “I’m sure Murphy’s okay,” he assured me. “Maybe stuck in someone’s shed.”

  “It’s been almost a week.”

  The rest of the way, which wasn’t too far, was in silence. The closer we got to my house, the more embarrassed I felt. I was such a clumsy idiot. By the time we reached it, I noticed the crashed van was empty. The driver had most likely gone up to the shop. Or, knowing Clive, he was bending the man’s ear about the hiking trails around the local countryside. He and his wife, Janice, used to hike a lot with my grandparents.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Leo said, gesturing at the wreck
.

  “Nope.” Given my clumsiness down at the river and meeting Leo, I’d forgotten all about the accident. “It happened earlier. The driver said he swerved out of the way of the Black Cat.”

  The muscles along his jaw rippled. His head rocked forward and back, slowly. He didn’t say a word.

  “Thanks for walking me.”

  “No problem,” he said without looking at me. Instead, he focused back on where we’d come.

  “And thanks for the coat,” I added, “I’ll wash it.”

  “It’s okay,” he said and held out his hand, “I’ll do it.”

  I slipped it from my shoulders and handed it to him, feeling so pathetic it annoyed me.

  He rolled it up and mud dripped on one of his boots. “See you around, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah.” I almost added, I’d like that, but managed to catch myself. I dug in my soaking pocket for my house key.

  Leo turned and started walking down the lane.

  “Do you think we should call the police?” I asked.

  He stopped and looked back. “No.”

  “Why not? We should tell them about the Black Cat.” It was the kind of thing Harriet would have done by now. If not, perhaps even Clive.

  “I don’t think that’ll help matters,” Leo said, and pulled his hat down tighter on his head. “The police can’t do anything.”

  Before I could protest, he turned and strolled off. Water dripped from him and his big boots left mud in his wake.

  I unlocked my door, thinking of his last words.

  Harriet shuffled aside as I slid the bottle of milk across the counter. How was it she seemed to be in the shop every time I was? And I didn’t go in often. Her presence made me feel tiny – especially her great bosom. What was it with older ladies like this? Even her voice was massive.

  “And,” she was saying, “that’s when I noticed the black stuff all over the back steps.”

  Hadn’t she been talking about the black stuff earlier? Even though it was late in the afternoon, absurdly I wondered if she’d been in the shop all day. The shop assistant, a young girl with a nose stud and whose name always escaped me, threw me a quick smile. She looked apologetic and bored.