A little ambiance while you read. Songs curated by the authors.
Whiskers of Dread
by Garnett Starr
In the heart of Brookstone, where Rushing Brook whispered secrets to those who dared to listen, stood the Hollowstone Residences. This old sandstone building, steeped in history and mystery, had seen many tenants over the years. Among them was Oliver, a quiet historian who moved there for its charm and its history.
One chilly October evening, Oliver returned home from the local library with an armful of books. As he approached the entrance of Hollowstone, he noticed a sleek black cat sitting on the steps, its emerald eyes fixed on him. It seemed almost expectant.
“Hey there, little one,” Oliver said, bending down to stroke its fur. The cat purred and nuzzled against his hand. “You look like you belong here,” he added and opened the door. The cat slipped inside without hesitation.
He named the cat Whisper, a fitting name for a creature that moved so silently. Whisper quickly made herself at home, curling up on the armchair in Oliver’s small living room or perching on his desk as he worked.
One night, as Oliver was poring over an old map of Brookstone, Whisper started to behave oddly. She sat up, her ears perked, and stared at a corner of the room. Then, she let out a low growl and darted off into the hallway.
Curious and a bit unnerved, Oliver followed. Whisper led him through the dimly lit corridors of Hollowstone, stopping at a door he had never noticed before. The cat scratched at the door, then looked back at him with those intense green eyes.
“Alright, I guess we’re going in,” Oliver muttered, more to himself than to the cat. He turned the handle and stepped inside.
The room was a forgotten storage space, filled with dust-covered furniture and old boxes. At the far end of the room, an antique mirror stood against the wall. Whisper sat in front of it, her reflection stark against the grimy glass.
Oliver approached the mirror, drawn to it. As he stood before it, he noticed something strange: his reflection seemed… off. The room in the mirror was not the room he was in. It was brighter and cleaner, and there were people—shadowy figures moving about.
He blinks and takes a step back, but the figures remain. Whisper meowed softly, almost as if urging him to look closer. Against his better judgment, Oliver leaned in, touching the surface of the mirror.
Instantly, he was pulled through, stumbling into a room that was identical yet different. It was like stepping into the past. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and something else—something metallic.
He turned around to find Whisper beside him, her eyes gleaming with an eerie light. The shadowy figures became clearer, resolving into people dressed in old-fashioned clothes. They moved around the room, oblivious to his presence.
“Hello?” Oliver called out, but his voice seemed to be swallowed by the room. One of the figures, a woman, turned towards him. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale. She opened her mouth to speak, but only a whisper came out.
“The cat… the guardian… beware the forgotten.”
Oliver’s heart pounded in his chest. The figures began to converge on him, their whispers growing louder, filling his mind with fragments of the past—dark secrets and unfinished business.
Panicking, he tried to retreat, but the figures blocked his way. Whisper stood her ground, her fur bristling, her eyes glowing fiercely. With a sudden, powerful yowl, she leaped at the figures. They recoiled, hissing and dissipating like mist.
Oliver seized the moment and lunged back through the mirror, landing hard on the floor of the storage room. He scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. Whisper emerged from the mirror, seemingly unfazed, and rubbed against his leg.
The cat blinked slowly, her eyes returning to their usual, inscrutable green. Oliver took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. But as he did, a sharp pain shot through his body, and he doubled over, clutching his chest.
Whisper watched him intently, her eyes glowing once more. Oliver felt a cold, creeping sensation spread from his heart to his limbs. His skin tingled, and his vision blurred. He stumbled to the mirror, horrified to see his reflection changing—his eyes turning a vivid, unnatural green, his features becoming sharper, more feline.
“No,” he whispered, terror rising in his throat. “What… what’s happening to me?”
The whispers grew louder, echoing in his mind. “You are the guardian now. Protect the forgotten. Beware the shadows.”
Oliver’s body convulsed, and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath. Whisper sat beside him, her purring now a haunting, resonant sound. The transformation was complete. Oliver could feel the ancient power coursing through his veins, the knowledge of centuries filling his mind.
He stood, unsteady but resolute. His senses were heightened, his vision sharp even in the dim light. Whisper rubbed against his leg, and he understood her now. They were bound together, protectors of Hollowstone.
Whisper looked up at him with a mix of sadness and relief, her task now complete. The shadows in the room began to move again, coalescing into familiar figures. Oliver felt a surge of instinctual aggression and let out a low growl, the sound echoing through the storage room. The shadows hesitated, then retreated, melting back into the darkness.
Whisper purred softly, her eyes closing as she began to fade, her form becoming more ethereal. Oliver reached out to touch her, but his hand passed through.
“Thank you,” Oliver whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Rest now.”
Whisper gave one last purr, a sound of contentment and peace before she vanished completely. The room was silent, save for the echoes of the past.
The next morning, Hollowstone was eerily quiet. Oliver’s apartment remained, but he was forever changed. The mirror stood silently in the corner, its surface smooth and still.
New tenants moved into Hollowstone, unaware of the transformation that had taken place. The black cat prowled the halls, its new companion never far behind, both watching and waiting.
And somewhere in the shadows, Oliver’s voice joined the chorus of whispers, a reminder that in Brookstone, even the most ordinary things could hold extraordinary horrors.
Garnett Starr spends their days in Brookstone, a town filled with hidden stories. When not writing eerie tales, Starr enjoys sipping cold brew coffee, exploring shadowy hallways, and listening to the whispers of old buildings. Believing every town has its secrets, Starr invites you into a world where the ordinary hides the extraordinary. https://linktr.ee/ToryHart
The Seventh Kitten: A Descent into Madness
by Arla Jones
When a curious kitten wanders away from his family on a stormy night, he falls into the clutches of a sinister madman. Forced to drink a dark magic tea, the kitten’s body begins to vanish, but his terror remains.
On a tempestuous night, a mother cat and her litter of seven kittens huddled beneath a bush, seeking refuge from the torrential rain. But one kitten, the seventh, was different – curious and restless.
As the storm raged on, the seventh kitten became entranced by the flashes of lightning, his eyes fixed on the dark sky. He strayed from his family, drawn to an ancient oak tree, where a blinding flash revealed a tiny figure – a white rabbit!
A white rabbit? A fluffy toy!
He jumped on him overjoyed to find something to play with only to find out that the rabbit disappeared into a large hole. Entranced, the kitten pounced, only to find himself tumbling into an abyss. Everything swirled around him.
The kitten’s panicked meows were swallowed by the void as he fell, fell, fell…
When he finally landed, dazed and disoriented, only to see the rabbit hopping away.
All the scents are different. What is this place? He wondered and walked slowly toward the direction where the rabbit disappeared.
However, he didn’t take more than a few steps when a sinister figure loomed over him – a man with a twisted grin and a large colorful hat and he grabbed the kitten by the neck fur before he could do anything.
The man lifted him to his head level and stared at him. “What a funny creature are you?”
The seventh cat meowed again, trying to paw the man with his tiny claws.
“No, no. I need help. You need to test something for me,” the man with the funny hat said and carried the cat away to his cottage.
“Try this tea. I hope it’s not too hot and not too cold.” He poured some tea onto a plate and placed it on a table. Next, he lowered the kitten in front of it. “There, drink some.”
The seventh kitten looked suspiciously at the plate.
“Do you need some milk in it? I can pour you some,” the man said reaching out to grab a milk jug, and then he added a few drops of milk onto the liquid on the plate.
Now, that smelled more familiar to the kitten, who decided to try it.
The tea was laced with dark magic and its taste was both familiar and yet, utterly wrong.
“Let’s wait for a few moments. It shouldn’t take long,” the man said corralling the kitten on the table and watching him keenly.
And then the tickling sensation started from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. What is this? What was in that drink? What’s happening?
As the liquid coursed through his veins, the kitten’s body began to vanish, his screams echoing through the cottage.
The man cackled with glee. “Yes!” The weird man danced around the table throwing his hat in the air. “I did it. I made the cat vanish!”
The kitten glimpsed down and could not see his paws. His scared meow echoed in the room.
“Ah, but you have not fully vanished. My cocktail was not effective. I can see your teeth!” The man looked horrified. “I almost discovered the vanishing potion. Almost, except the mouth…”
He pulled his greyish hair and looked desperate.
The kitten’s body flickered, appearing and disappearing, as the man’s madness consumed him.
And so, the seventh kitten became Cheshire, a monstrous creation, forever bound to the whims of the twisted mad hatmaker. His fate was sealed, trapped in a living nightmare, forever vanishing, yet never truly gone… his new home was Wonderland – the place where everyone was mad.
Whispers of the Shadow Cat
by Jen Sequel
The house was a lonely silhouette set against a bruised sky, its sagging roof and cracked windows more invitation than deterrent. Alice stood at the gate, clutching her keys in one hand while her eyes traced the outlines of her new home. The realtor had been eager to sell it—almost too eager. Still, the price had been irresistible, and in her need to escape the immensity of city life, she had ignored the warnings buried deep beneath the seller’s nervous smiles.
She stepped forward, the iron gate creaking in protest, as if the house itself was reluctant to let her in. Gravel crunched underfoot, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the overgrown garden. As she pushed open the heavy wooden door, it groaned as though waking from a long slumber. The smell of old wood and dust filled her nostrils causing her to sneeze upon entry. As she rubbed the bottom of her nose, she couldn’t help but wonder at this portent.
Inside, the house was dark and still, the only light coming from the dim glow of twilight filtering through grime-covered windows. Shadows clung to the corners like cobwebs. Alice took a deep breath and flicked the light switch up, but the bulb sputtered and died, leaving her in semi-darkness. She made a mental note to replace it, though something told her that the darkness was not a problem electricity could solve.
Setting her bag down in the entryway, she explored her new home. The floors creaked beneath her steps, and the air was thick with the weight of forgotten memories. It was then that she heard it—a soft rustling sound, like fur brushing against fabric, followed by the faintest whisper of a meow.
She froze, her actions mirroring those of a department store mannequin, and listened. The sound came again, closer this time. She turned, scanning the shadowed room, but saw nothing. “Probably a stray,” she murmured to herself, but the excuse rang hollow even in her own ears. Something about the sound felt… deliberate, as if it had been meant for her alone.
Alice shook off the unease and continued exploring. The house had potential, she told herself. With some work, it could even be classified as cozy. Yet, as she ascended the stairs, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced back once, expecting to see someone—or something—at the bottom of the stairs. But there was only emptiness.
When she reached the second floor, the air grew colder. A single room at the end of the hallway caught her attention. Its door was slightly ajar, revealing a crack of darkness within. Drawn by a mix of curiosity and dread, Alice approached.
The room was sparsely furnished—a bed frame, a dresser, and a chair. Dust covered everything, disturbed only by faint paw prints leading from the window to the closet. Her heart thudded in her chest. Could an animal have gotten inside? She crossed the room and knelt by the prints, but they were odd—no texture, just outlines, as if they were more shadow than substance.
A whisper of movement behind her made her whip around. The closet door shuddered, just a faint tremble, then stilled. The room’s temperature seemed to drop even further, and for the briefest moment, she swore she saw two gleaming eyes peering from the darkness within.
And then it was gone. The silence in the house seemed heavier, as if it were holding its breath.
Alice forced a shaky laugh. “Get it together, Alice,” she muttered, backing out of the room. But as she turned to leave, she felt it—that soft brush of fur against her ankle. She yelped and jumped back, but when she looked down, there was nothing there—only the faint scent of something musky and old, like wet earth.
Alice fled the room and hurried downstairs, heart pounding. She tried to shake the feeling of being watched, but it clung to her like a shadow. As she set about unpacking, the whispers of that ghostly meow haunted her thoughts, growing more insistent as the evening wore on.
By nightfall, the house had settled into an uneasy quiet. Alice had tried to brush off her unease with a glass of wine and a distraction from her phone, but the sense of being watched persisted. Just as she was about to head to bed, the meow came again—clearer this time, tinged with something mournful, almost pleading.
Alice set down her glass. The sound was coming from the hallway. She stepped out, peering into the darkness. “Here, kitty?” she called softly, though she didn’t know if she wanted an answer.
She heard the pitter-patter of tiny paws moving along the creaky floorboards. A shadow darted past the base of the stairs, just out of sight. Her pulse quickened as she followed, barely noticing the chill that gnawed at her skin. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the shadow was waiting—no longer flitting but still, a dark, feline shape sitting at the foot of the stairs.
It was unmistakably a cat—its outline was clear, but there was no fur to catch the glow of the lamp behind her. It was a thing of pure shadow, and it watched her with hollow, glowing eyes that gleamed with unnatural intelligence.
The cat blinked slowly, deliberately, then turned and padded into the darkness toward the back of the house. Alice’s feet moved on their own, following the specter down the hallway and into the kitchen. As she approached, the ghost cat stopped in front of a dusty cellar door and sat patiently, tail curled neatly around its paws.
Alice hesitated, staring at the cat that wasn’t there, then reached out with trembling fingers to pull the cellar door open.
The cellar door creaked open, releasing a gust of icy air that carried with it the scent of mold and decay. Alice hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribcage. The ghost cat remained still, its glowing eyes fixed on her, as if waiting for her to descend. Against every instinct screaming at her to stay away, Alice grabbed a flashlight and stepped onto the first creaky stair.
Each step felt heavier than the last as she descended into the darkness. The cellar walls were damp, slick with condensation. The beam of her flashlight sliced through the gloom, revealing nothing more than cobwebs and stacked boxes covered in decades of dust. But the cat’s presence was unmistakable, a shadow in the corner of her vision that seemed to move with her.
She heard it again—soft, mournful, the sound of a cat crying from somewhere deeper within the cellar. But this time, there was another noise beneath it: a low, almost inaudible scratching, like claws dragging across stone.
Alice’s breath quickened. She swung the flashlight beam toward the far wall, where an old, rotting wooden door stood ajar. The cat’s shadow slipped through the crack, vanishing into the darkness beyond. Swallowing her fear, Alice pushed the door open.
Beyond it lay a small, hidden chamber. The walls were lined with ancient shelves, cluttered with bottles and jars filled with unidentifiable substances. But it was the center of the room that drew her attention—a crumbling altar draped in tattered cloth. On it lay an old, weathered photo of a man and his black cat, faded by time but still recognizable. Beside the photo was a dusty collar, the kind worn by pets, but the name engraved on the tag sent a chill down Alice’s spine: Shadow.
The air grew thick, pressing down on her, and suddenly the crying cat’s voice echoed through the room, more insistent, more pained. The scratching grew louder, coming from beneath the altar.
Alice’s hand shook as she knelt and shone her light at the base of the altar. To her horror, she saw deep claw marks gouged into the stone floor, as if something had been trying to claw its way out. Her mind raced with the possibilities—had the original owner tried to trap something here? Had the cat, in life, been buried alive?
Before she could react, the temperature in the room plummeted. The light from her flashlight flickered and then went dark plunging her into darkness. Alice stumbled back, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she tapped the end of the flashlight in the palm of her opposite hand. Finding no success, she dropped the light and took another step backward. In the pitch-black, she felt it again—that faint brush against her leg, the unmistakable feel of fur that wasn’t there. The ghost cat was circling her now, its presence almost suffocating.
“Please…” she whispered, not even sure what she was pleading for.
The meow came again, but this time, it was accompanied by a low, growling hiss—a sound full of rage and despair. It grew louder, filling the room, until it became a sound of fury. The air seemed to pulse with energy, and through the dark, she saw those glowing eyes again—no longer mournful but filled with hatred.
Alice clutched the collar on the altar, her only connection to whatever tragic past had cursed this house. “I’m sorry!” she cried out, hoping to reach whatever spirit remained trapped here. “I can help you! You can rest now, Shadow. You don’t have to suffer anymore!”
Tears fell from her eyes to fall on the collar pressed against her chest. The roaring ceased, replaced by silence so heavy it pressed on her ears. The ghost cat stood before her, its eyes no longer glowing, but filled with an emotion that almost resembled longing. Slowly, it padded back to the altar, sat down, and gazed up at her.
For a moment, the darkness seemed to lift, and in that instant, Alice understood: the cat hadn’t been seeking revenge—it had been seeking release from its torment, yearning for the one who had bound it to this place to finally let it go.
Trembling, Alice placed the collar back on the altar, positioning it gently beside the faded photo. She whispered a few words—of forgiveness, of peace, of letting go. The ghost cat blinked slowly, as if in thanks, then faded into the shadows, leaving only a faint wisp of mist where it had been.
The room grew warmer, the oppressive weight lifting as the atmosphere lightened. When Alice finally managed to turn the flashlight on her cellphone on, the cellar seemed… different. The claw marks were still there, but the sense of malevolence was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt almost serene.
Alice climbed back up the stairs, her legs weak but her heart oddly light. She felt the change in the home’s atmosphere. That night, she slept undisturbed, with no eerie cries, no ghostly brushes against her skin.
In the morning, she awoke to sunlight streaming through the windows. She almost believed it had all been a bad dream—until she found a single cat’s paw print on the floor by her bed.
Award-winning artist, author, & entertainment junkie. Join the chaos here: https://www.jensequel.com/
Val’s Unnamed
by Dom Sabasti
The texture of the cat’s tongue was well beyond sandpaper. In slow swaths, a slab of flesh lined with spikes reminiscent of small compact rows of rose thorns scraped along Val’s exposed wrist. But, much like the faculties of a cat’s claw, the thorns were partially retracted so as not to snag and rip. It was simply an affectionate scraping.
“You are just the most beautiful creature I have ever seen or made. And you still need a name. Hmm?”
The fingers of the unoccupied hand kept stroking deeply through the incredible fur of the magnificent creature. Both entities purred and moaned, creating a song that filled the place that was not the chamber Val knew. In the search through the tunnels, Val had gotten lost.
“Shall we see what’s about, little one?” The two rose as one, Val cradling the mass of muscle and spikes, the cat never missing a beat, licking and scraping, purring and kneading.
Val stood and turned and surveyed, then the cat jumped from his arms and started trotting down a presumably random tunnel. Val shrugged and followed after.
“What’s down this way, kitty?”
mrowr pdpdpdpd
The cat thing glanced back, keeping sight of its new master and companion. And then it smiled, showing its rows of needle-teeth.
“”I’m coming, little one. I won’t lose sight of you ever again.”
To answer the presumption, the cat stopped, turned, and sat. Val stopped and stared. In a blink, the cat was gone.
“That’s not fair. I can’t see you when you phase out like that.”
MROWR
The sound filled all his senses, twanging layers of resonance. Val gasped, then shuddered.
morowr
The layers of sound energy converged somewhere inside Val’s arcane mind. He blinked several times, and with each successive flutter a new sight became attuned until the world around him was a sea of misty colors. And moving among the purples and blues, the aura of the cat creature played and swatted at the swirls and shadows. In another red-eyed blink it was gone, the entire vision, leaving Val hunched over, blood dripping from his facial orbs.
“Woo, that was intense. So that’s where you go when you blink out?”
mowr
The cat, on the material plane, sauntered over to the small puddles directly under Vals face and began lapping at the sanguine fluid. Val descended to a squat and began scritching the kitty’s ears. As Val watched, from his slumped position, the essence of the cat seemed to solidify.
“I’m thinking you need a new diet, one not so dependent on me. Time to start experimenting.”
The ancient emo vampire stood, once again, and proceeded down a random tunnel. Along the way experiments were made. First, a cockroach, crunchy but not very satisfying. A spider egg-sac offered a novelty which quickly turned slightly horrific. It took a moment to subdue the tiny swarm of tiny white legs that danced around the confused kitty’s face.
“Yeah. I’m thinking you need something bigger, more mammalian.”
Several turns toward absolute darkness found the duo in a chamber that was not made by humans. Val sensed an immense depth, and a pressure to keep going. So, they descended further, adjusting their arcane senses to accommodate the overwhelming claustrophobia.
“You good, kitty?” A nervous laugh accompanied the inquiry.
Fear of the unknown is a real thing, and Val was beyond any experience he could remember, and yet he felt a familiarity, even a fondness. The fear mutated into an anxiety that quickly melted into a kind of giddy glee.
“Where are we? How long have we been walking?”
The cat did not answer directly. Its own enthusiasm for the adventure was more than evident in its insistent trotting, staccatoed by a primal chirping that sounded like a demon parakeet. Val wondered if such an absurd thing could exist. He made a mental note to find a parakeet on his next city visit.
“Keep going. I’ll follow you anywhere.”
Time began to pass in abstract thrusts as the darkness twisted and split. In a dangling instant, Val realized he was no longer touching the ground and the cat was jumping from one stalagmite to another, oblivious to the oddness.
“Wow.” A simple, yet all encompassing emotive.
A blast of energy pulsed through them from the depths with the force of a mountain orc fart. Fortunately, it did not carry the same level of stench. And then another pulse, nearly equal to the first, blasted through them, shaking their auras, and dislodging Val’s attuned sight. He was now blind, and annoyed.
An excerpt from the “Frusta Fabulis” Vella serial: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0CGVL7X8J
The Ghost of Mister Whiskers
by Dr. D
“Cats are the lap dancers of the animal world. As soon as you stop shelling out, they move on and find another lap. Pretty and thick – in love with themselves. When was the last time you saw a seeing-eye cat? ~ Andrew Vachss.
From the author:
This story is my explanation for those aliens that live amongst us. The house cat.
Mister Whiskers:
Humans are such a strange and alien breed! And- the male human, John, is the weirdest of them all. He is hilarious, in a pathetic sort of way. Not very intelligent, of course. In a battle of the wits, he always comes up short. But- in his simple way, John is basically a hysterical sociopath.
The human female, Sarah, is a sweet soul and extremely empathetic (for a human). I believe that it would be best if she didn’t have to deal with John’s destructive personality. John is definitely blocking her opportunity for spiritual growth and pursuit of enlightenment.
Humans are fortunate that we cats are here to help mentor. and train them. What would these primitive humans do without us?
John:
John Cattery thought, “That’s it. The final straw. If I were a camel, my back would be snapped in two!” His wife Sarah cared more about her stupid cat, Mister Whiskers, than she did for him. When she brought home the tiny demon seed, Sarah knew he was allergic to cats. Her justification was that the little kitten was too cute.
Cute? There was nothing cute about Mister Whiskers. Was taking a dump or leaving hairballs in his Italian loafers cute? Was being awoken from a well-deserved nap to discover a cat squatting on his face cute? John still had nightmares about the taste of the cat’s ass rubbing all over his sleeping mouth and nose.
John Cattery had made up his mind. The furball had ruined his life; therefore, Mister Whiskers must die. The only question remaining in John’s mind was how to do the dirty deed.
How could he eliminate the hateful Mister Whiskers and ensure it would look like an accident? John Cattery chuckled evilly and thought, “You better have nine lives, Mister Whiskers, because you will need every one of them!”
John fell asleep with a smile plastered on his sour face. He dreamed of a series of delicious multiple ‘accident scenarios’ for Sarah’s furry pet.
Mister Whiskers: (MW)
MW: John! Can you hear me, John? I’m sorry for interrupting your little cat-killing fantasy. We must speak now!
John: Hmmpff… Please leave me alone, you loathsome tabby. Get out of my dreams!
MW: Really, John? Running me over in the driveway and pretending that it’s an accident. That’s the best you could dream up? If we had the time, I would attempt to explain astrophysics to you. If you tried to run me over, I would shift into another of the ten dimensions.
John: You are a stupid feline. There aren’t ten dimensions. You’re nothing but a dumb animal. Get out of my dreams and stay out!
MW: John, haven’t you heard of the String Theory? There ARE ten known dimensions, you have the three spatial ones, one for time, and six others. Think of those others as curled up in themselves, in submicroscopic scales. Those six others are my home dimensions. It is where we (cats), my race, come from. Never mind. I don’t have the time to waste on you.
John: You’re the one wasting my time, you hateful furball!
MW: Sigh…. Listen carefully to me, John. You did it. You killed me. Your masterful plan worked. I was squashed like a bug, and you disposed of my dead carcass.
John: My beautiful plan worked?
MW: Yep. Everything went like clockwork. I’m dead. But- I have come back to haunt you. You are the only one who can see me. I will haunt you until you confess to Sarah about what you did. You can go back to sleep now, John!
Week Two of the Hauntings:
Poor Sarah is distraught. Mister Whiskers is nowhere to be found. She must admit she has become convinced that John is behind the mysterious disappearance. Sarah’s grief and suspicion grow more intense daily!
Mister Whiskers travels between the ten dimensions as a spirit to haunt John Cattery. The demon cat torments John daily with disturbing and violent scenarios. The furious feline is determined to extract a confession from John and permanently free sweet Sarah from John’s clutches!
John is starting to question his own sanity. All day long, the Ghost Cat plays cruel tricks on him. Mister Whiskers’ malevolent and vengeful spirit interrupts John’s sleep every night. The damn feline is pumping his mind full of abnormal psychology.
John can’t remember killing the beast. Mister Whiskers has convinced him that he has repressed the horrific memories. According to his nightly visitor, the only way for this to end cleanly- is for John to commit suicide.
Sarah Cattery, widow:
Is it wrong for me to feel relieved that John is gone? I was lonely after his death. But- the most wonderful thing has happened. Mister Whiskers is back! Oh, how I love that cat. He has been such a comfort to me.
When Mister Whiskers visited me in my dreams last month and told me about his plan to get rid of John. Well, I thought I dreamed the whole thing. But- everything that he told me would happen came to pass. Happy days!
END
Cat Gasp Fever
by J. Louise Powell
“Get ready! We’re almost there.”
My niece clutched my arm tighter as we neared the house.
“Big breath in, and hold!”
We had to pass this way if we went to the coffee shop. She had no idea how lucky she was that we could walk safely on our streets, dogs or no dogs in tow. Sidewalks were rare in the newer neighborhoods. I understood it from a developer point of view, but who wanted to live someplace you could only drive. The experience of passing the cat lady’s house wouldn’t be the same.
She danced ahead of me, and I saw her release her breath at the corner. I chuckled. I’d only started the game when she’d whined about the smell so much.
“Aunt Beth, why does she have so many? I don’t see them anywhere.”
“Look, there’s one at the corner of the yard, peaking out.”
“Oh, what a cutie! I wish you weren’t allergic. When I’m older I’m going to have 10!”
“Do you want the kids to hold their breath going by your house?”
“No, of course not! Why would they? 10 isn’t a big number. Cindy is 10 next year. I just have 3 years left. 10 is the best number.”
“10 is a great number, I agree. But not for certain things. The amount of household cats is one of those things. You should never have more than 1 cat for 3 rooms of your house, or they start to get territorial, that’s what I’ve always heard. Once they feel like they don’t have enough space, they start marking. When one cat marks, another cat marks, and another, and …. You get the picture.”
Lily smooshed her face in concentration. “So, I would have to have a lot of rooms for 10 cats, huh? Maybe I could live in a school. I bet my school has enough rooms.”
“I bet your school does have 30 rooms” I replied. I wasn’t sure if it did though. “Why would you want to live at school?”
“Madeline lived at her school,” she answered. “She had a lot of friends.”
“Madeline was an orphan. And a fictional character.”
“Whatever, she had a lot of rooms at her school.”
“But they all slept in one room, so maybe it wasn’t enough rooms,” I responded.
“Aunt Beth, why are you so worried about me having 10 cats? That’s a long time away, and you’re so old, you probably won’t know me anymore anyhow.”
I shuddered. “People will call you a crazy cat lady,” I said. It was all I could come up with on the fly.
“I think you need your coffee. Maybe then you will be nicer. Remember, you said it doesn’t matter what people think of me, just what I do and how true my actions are,” she answered.
The kid had me. Throwing my own words at me logically. Since when did I lose to a 7 year old in a battle of wits. I knew the cats were throwing me off.
I hadn’t thought about that day in years. Now, here I was, back on the street, standing outside the cat house, wondering why I was there. The wind blew stronger, stirring up some fallen leaves. I shivered, wishing I had a hat. It was that time of year it could be bright and sunny and you’d sweat in pants and a shirt, or you’d want 3 layers and wind protection. Today had started as the first and seemed determined to turn to the latter.
Lily had called me, Lily had called us all. Her youngest had gone missing. He was 3. How do you misplace a 3 yr old, I thought, not for the first time. I’d never had my own children, so I wasn’t allowed to judge, I’d heard that often enough. ‘Just help find him.’
I’d been gone for years, but when everyone spoke, they said he was just like his mother. The most like his mother of any of the kids. Bright, curious, logical, inquisitive, the list went on. So here I stood, looking at the house she had always been drawn to. She didn’t live far from here. Hers wasn’t a mansion by any means, but it did have many more rooms than the one she grew up in. Unfortunately for her, the oldest 3 kids were all allergic to cats. Like, one had been hospitalized when they visited me. Ironically, I now had 1 of my own. Everyone says cats need companions but I disagree. My cat was perfectly fine by herself. She didn’t mind when I was gone for long periods of time, because she had my husband and the dog. We didn’t live in this neighborhood anymore, but we weren’t far away. Or, he wasn’t. I had just returned from overseas. He had visited a few times, but my work was intensive. Now I was home to play and think about the next assignment.
The words of Ani DiFranco echoed through my mind, “Isn’t there a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere?” Instinctively I looked up. That’s when I saw the light. And the curtain move. Someone was inside! I knew it. Instinct had led me here.
‘It’s been abandoned. The village put up with the smell so long, but no one wanted to displace her. Can you believe that old woman was actually a millionaire?’
I’d heard the stories. Some said she went to a nursing home and died within days. Others said some relative in Florida moved her to live with them. Of course some said she’d never left. But no one saw her, and no one delivered mail or groceries anymore, the condemned signs were obvious. No one supposedly fed any cats, yet at night, especially on full moons, neighbors said cat fights could be heard for blocks. We lived in the age of shunning others for allowing house pets outside, so I guessed those were just cats that were inside numerous homes during the day, socializing at night. But now I wasn’t sure. Someone was here.
I pulled out my phone. Should I call the police? Lily? Her mother, my sister? My husband? No one believed anyone lived here, they’d ignore me. A sharp pain in my temple stopped my contemplation. I looked down, where the walnut lay splattered on the sidewalk.
“Ouch!” I yelled. I realized I was talking to a squirrel. It chattered angrily at me, as if claiming the sidewalk, or telling me to get away. A low chuckle surprised me. It was coming from the porch. I shivered again as the wind whipped up more leaves, a branch coming down too.
As I stared, the door opened. I didn’t really have a choice, did I? My great-nephew was missing, and no one was coming here to find him but me. Slowly, I inhaled. As I walked up the sidewalk towards the porch, I exhaled slowly, remembering our game from days long ago. As I stepped on the first step I heard the sound of a child. I couldn’t tell if it was a happy sound or not. Charlie was here! Right? I raced up the rest of the stairs and into the house.
“You really shouldn’t have started breathing near here, Beth.”
J. Louise Powell is one of (too?) many pseudonyms used by Jen Aicher. Jen is a former oceanographer, now a home-schooling mom. J. Louise Powell is usually reserved for cozy mysteries, Kris Peterson for action/thrillers, Jefferson Archer and Susan de Lais for gothic, fantasy and YA, her own name for many children’s books. If it isn’t obvious, she shies away from horror writing most of the time. https://linktr.ee/booksbywaterchemist
Dead Dogs Don’t Bite
by Karen A. Koenig/Scarywriter64
“Do you, have it? You know, the thing?”
“It’s not a thing.”
“How will I be sure this is going to work?”
“You take that risk.”
“So, what happens now? Do I tell it what to do?”
“It knows.”
“How in the hell am I supposed to believe you?”
“I said, it knows!”
“Okay! Okay! When this is over, what happens? I mean, when the job is done.”
“You bring it back to me.”
“What if it doesn’t complete the job?”
“It will.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It always does.”
“Fair enough. Do I pay now or after the job is complete?”
“If you want to live, you pay now.”
48 HOURS AGO…
Curtis heard the growl before he felt the bite. It all played out in slow motion, like it was happening to someone else. If only he had stopped for gas on the way home from work, he would not be walking alone at one-thirty in the morning. After working a double shift at the refinery, Curtis was too tired to realize something crept up on him. A low snarl hummed behind him like an angry wasp. The sound of it vibrated across his skin. Curtis whipped around in a half circle, extending his arms outward thanks to a primal startle reflex that has never done him any good. The thing making all the racket latched on to the thumb side of his left hand. Its teeth sank into tissue, pulling tendons away from the intricate bones in his hand. The abruptness of the attack kept Curtis from reacting or jerking his hand out of the animal’s mouth. But it did not keep him from screaming. His high-pitched shrieks grabbed the attention of a homeowner still awake at the late hour. He bolted out of his house running toward the shoulder of the highway like it was one motion. The homeowner’s target was a large dog pulling at a man’s body with hard tugs.
The dog planned to drag Curtis toward a wooded area next to the road. Curtis struggled to stay on his feet. Fighting it turned out to be useless and only caused more damage to his hand. Relief flooded over Curtis when he heard rescue had arrived through a penetrating voice yelling, “Git outta here dawg,” in a thick southern drawl. The dog or whatever had Curtis, at this point he was unsure, jerked him off his feet with one snap of its head. He landed hard on his back under the glare of a streetlight, where he got a good look at the thing. This was no dog. Its eyes looked more human than canine and its build resembled that of a man.
For a moment, the animal stopped shaking its head back and forth, contemplating the interruption of its attack. Curtis could tell by its posture the thing had to decide if it wanted to take on one man or two. The dog violently turned its head to the side in frustration and removed the thumb from Curtis’ left hand. He felt bone and skin easily slide away, as if it were barely attached. The last thing he heard before shock turned the lights out came from the animal crunching his thumb to a pulp as it disappeared into the night.
***
Bright lights closed his eyes. Curtis struggled to open them again, using his left hand to shield his vision from the glare. Unbelievable pain radiated from his fingertips to his shoulder. A gentle touch grasped his arm and pulled it back down.
“You’re safe Mr. Black. You are in the hospital. Try not to move.”
Curtis tried to respond but the attack came back to him in one rush, keeping him from speaking. The nurse left him, but Curtis was not alone. The outline of a thin man standing near the window turned and faced Curtis. He moved toward Curtis and handed him a card. Curtis took it with his good hand.
“You have twenty-nine days before you turn. The beast will likely kill you before then. Call the number on the card if you want to survive.”
Curtis took the card without taking his eyes off the man. His features were shadowed, but he could make out the blood running through the artery in his neck. Curtis studied the flow of it. He wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth into the stranger’s throat.
“What the hell?” Curtis did not realize he verbalized his question.
The man slowly nodded his head. “The change has started. Call the number.”
24 HOURS AGO…
Curtis sensed his every movement watched by unseen eyes. He stayed indoors after being released and hid behind shuttered windows and deadbolts. He awoke in the morning to find deep scratches cut into the front door. It was meant as a threat. He needed help.
Curtis called the number on the card. The line opened.
“Hello. My name is…”
“Your name is unimportant. The insatiable desires are only going to get worse. Meet me at the abandoned industrial park tomorrow at eight. I have a solution if you want to live. The item I possess is your only hope. The cost for its use is $200.”
“I don’t have $200.”
“Figure it out. Either way, this ends tomorrow night.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Curtis had more questions, but a soft click told him the conversation was over. How did he know of the desires Curtis developed in the last twenty-four hours? Hunger and lust created a wanting like he never experienced. He craved all of it. Still, something instinctual told Curtis his days were numbered.
8:00 PRESENT DAY…
Curtis put his right hand in his pocket. The thin man’s body stiffened, waiting for a weapon to appear. Curtis held up his bandaged hand in a show of peace. He retrieved a wad of cash and offered the $200. The man took it and disappeared. For a moment Curtis thought he had been tricked. But the man reappeared, almost as if he never left. He held a small crate by its handle. Inside, something moved. The man placed it at Curtis’ feet. A soft purr floated upward and found him.
“A cat? That’s your solution?”
“Take her home, Mr. Black. Release her and lock yourself in a room. Do not interfere, no matter what you hear. You will know when it’s over.”
***
The drive home held the musical tone of the cat’s purr. It did not relax Curtis. Once he reached his house, Curtis did as instructed and released the cat. Her beauty surprised him. She appeared much larger than most cats, with silver fur covering her from head to tail. Slanted eyes of the same color adorned her face. The cat jumped on his couch and settled down. He tried to understand her purpose and even thought about taking the cat back when a violent blow slammed against his front door. The threat snatched all thoughts but one from his brain. Curtis did as the man suggested and darted to his bedroom and slammed the door, locking it.
One more hard blow and the door crashed against the wall. The familiar growl bounced around, turning Curtis’ insides to ice. A quick, sharp sound followed and echoed down the hallway. It reverberated as feline, making Curtis believe the cat didn’t make it. He knew he was next.
The notion this was all a con held a short life span. Something outside the door changed all that. A woman’s voice, soft but fierce, had a lot to say.
“Your territorial impulses made you easy to find.”
“This town only needs one werewolf. Let me kill him before the next full moon. You and I will never cross paths again.”
Silence hung in the air. Curtis knew the two adversaries weighed their options. Finally, the werewolf spoke again. Its voice possessed a more menacing tone, shredding any hope Curtis held onto.
“Your efforts will fail, cat. I plan to kill you slowly and then go after the human.”
“I’m not worried. Dead dogs don’t bite.”
A sudden rushing sound like a destructive gust of wind exploded throughout the house, sending Curtis scrambling for somewhere to hide. Strangled growls cut off by the clamor of flesh and bones pulled apart ended abruptly. Curtis held his breath, waiting for his turn to die. A faint scratching at his door and a soft meow pushed away his fear. He cautiously opened the door. The cat walked inside and slithered around his ankles. She stepped into the hallway and waited. Curtis followed the cat and found a bloody mess. A man’s nude body lay ripped and broken on the living room floor like something tore through him. The cat looked up at Curtis and then over its work indifferently, with eyes that mimicked the color of a silver bullet.
I am Karen A. Koenig, known as the sweetest horror writer on the block. Check out these links on the Dread Nosh menu. I hope you enjoy the dish. https://Amazon.com/dp/B0BY5V4Q2N https://Amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0B3TZXSBQ https://Amazon.com/dp/B0CKWQNP29
Nine Lives
by Valerie Claussen
A black kitten, illuminated by the amber glow of a gas streetlamp and perched on a weathered ledge, locked its gaze on me through the remote café’s window with intense focus.
Elmer, a gangly man with pepper-colored hair and deep-set eyes hollered from a darkened corner, “Ignore it. Don’t go out there. Let the creature pass.”
I smoothed the wrinkles in my ankle-length skirt as I stood. “The poor thing’s cold and hungry.”
“Let it be someone else’s problem.”
“Cold-hearted people like you are why I work remotely and only venture out late at night.”
He rolled his eyes and slurped his soup. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Lydia.”
I stepped outside, scooped the furry creature into my oversized purse, and returned inside, shielding him from the biting cold. As the kitten’s tiny, razor-sharp teeth nibbled on scraps of turkey from my sandwich, I remained oblivious to something unsettling that flickered behind those adoring green eyes.
Though I had found contentment in my reclusive existence, Rascal became my constant companion after that night. The owner allowed me to bring my little monster to the café during its quietest hours to write.
For ten years, our routine never changed, but as Rascal weakened with age, I planned to leave him home to rest. Yet, when I reached for the doorknob, he meowed and wove between my ankles, pleading to come.
The wind shrieked, and lightning split the sky as I pushed open the café’s creaking door, unsettling Rascal. Absorbed in refining my final draft, I missed the moment Rascal crawled out from my purse.
The staff and I scoured every corner of the building, but Rascal had vanished without a trace. Someone suggested he might have slipped out when a patron opened the door. I plunged into the darkness, frantically calling his name, but the night wind swallowed my voice—and he remained lost.
I returned the following night, hoping to find my cat searching for me. While I ate my dinner, a faint meow echoed through the silence as the café door creaked open. A black kitten, eerily identical to Rascal, sat on the sidewalk. Its glowing green eyes bore into mine, and it spun around three times, just as Rascal would when he greeted me—but there was something sinister in its movements.
My heart pounded. No. It can’t be my Rascal. You’re just a kitten.
“Don’t.” Elmer shook his head. “Ignore it, Lydia.”
I hurried outside and lifted the kitten. It bore the same gray, crescent-shaped mark on its belly.
“Rascal?”
He purred and climbed into my purse, his sandpaper-like tongue leaving a crimson smear on my hand as he licked it. The stench of old blood made my stomach churn.
“Eww. What did you eat?”
I went into the bathroom to wash off my hand and glanced at the kitten as he purred. I put the impossible rejuvenation out of my mind and welcomed more time with my furry son.
Life marched on, and every decade, Rascal vanished, only to return with an unnerving youthfulness. On September 30th, I slipped a tracker into his collar, anticipating his pre-midnight departure. Distracted by a rowdy group of twenty-somethings, I left my purse open and hurried to finish my last article before retiring from the magazine. Rascal seized the moment to escape through the open door and disappear into the night.
I chuckled. I’m finally going to know what you’ve been doing.
I switched on the pet tracker app on my cell phone. A map appeared on the screen with a tiny cat-shaped icon that moved to a narrow alley behind the café before it stopped.
Found you.
I gathered my things, but kept my phone in hand, in case Rascal moved.
I shuffled with aching, aged knees until I stepped behind the putrid dumpster beside the café’s back door.
Rascal stood on an unconscious, white-haired man’s chest, tearing into his neck and lapping up the blood with his long, pink tongue.
Oh, God. What have you done?
Unable to scream, my knees gave way at the revelation of my naughty furry son’s secret. I dropped to the pavement—shaking.
The man’s breaths seized, and Rascal’s blazing eyes locked on mine as he transformed back into a kitten.
I heaved, spilling my stomach’s contents onto the sticky black pavement as the stench of rotting garbage intensified around me.
Rascal strutted over and dove back into my purse with a piece of flesh still clamped between his teeth.
This isn’t your first kill. Is it? How many lives have you taken?
He swallowed.
I have to put you to sleep, my adorable little monster. That’s the right thing to do.
Rascal purred loudly.
But how can I? You’re just a kitten. There’s no rush. Unless old age claims me first, we have almost ten years together before I must decide.
I stammered over my words, “If we stay home, far from the café when your time runs out again, I won’t have to put you down.”
He raked his claws across my arm.
“Ouch.”
Bright red blood bubbled to the surface.
“Three more times,” Rascal whispered.
I gasped; an icy chill ran down my spine.
It can speak.
“Nine lives—not six. Bring me back here when I need to feed again.” He licked the blood from my arm. “But you’ll do in a pinch.”
Valerie Claussen, a California native, crafts character-driven stories spanning fantasy, science fiction, dystopian, suspense, and general fiction. When she’s not creating new worlds, Valerie enjoys traveling, watching movies, attending live performances, going to the beach, rivers, and lakes, and visiting theme parks. Website: https://valerieclaussen.com/ Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/MsValerieClaussen
The Runt of the Litter
by Michel Croteau
They said that you Bunny Blue were a runt of the litter and therefore destined to die. I didn’t believe it, and I threw you my beloved creature in a hellfire of too many jealous of your beauty. She will not survive… she is fated to die… was the “populi vox”.
Who was Bunny Blue… who is Bunny Blue and what happened to her in her life and her afterlife is a mystery. Did she really live, or she is a hologram of my imagination? I am not sure anymore. Could my memory be a false memory? My mind creates creatures that when they are gone, I ask myself ‘’were they real?”
All my creatures lived a healthy and happy life and now they rest in peace in the backyard… is Bunny Blue there too or once again has she escaped the realm of reality? But did she really was alive that ethereal creature? And is she now a ghost or a zombie that at night torments my soul? and who could blame her for doing so?
As soon the nightlight goes out here you are white fathered angelic vision ‘once upon rag doll princesses’ on the edge of bed… your alpine-blue eyes glowing into the dark.
“Come my darling… come… let me hug you like I used to do in the morning when you came to say good morning or when on my lap in the evening you looked at me with those adoring alpine blue eyes. No… no… don’t go away… I will try not to touch you again… I know you don’t trust and love me anymore. Don’t look at me like this… although I know that now you are just a dream… it terrorizes me with fear and guilt. Oh, the guilt! The guilt is so real, so you were real once.
I remember seeing your picture online. This woman in a town one hour away put your pic on her page saying that you were last one and nobody was interested in you. That is all I needed to know… I fell in love with you… I wanted you… still she was asking what I didn’t have. I tried to bargain for weeks without success until I got you with my bloody sweat money… why wouldn’t I treasure you? instead I condemned you to a fatal destiny… come… come my angel… give a sign that you forgive me. Do not stare at me like that.
When you finally came into my arms, I felt happy like a new mama. I didn’t know that I was putting you at mercy of a psychopathic creature. It is still a mystery to me how this other creature murdered you because I know that he must have done it even if everybody else says that can’t be true. She was frail – they say – she was the runt of the litter. No… It was the beast.
Come Bunny Blue… come here at night… it is cold… cuddle with me. I’ll keep you warm. You can’t come during the day you’re trapped in your coffin. Don’t you like it? I gave you a fancy one and when winter is over, we will put it in the backyard with all the others… you will not be alone anymore.
No… don’t go away… come back every night to remind me of your death… I don’t care if you are a ghost or a zombie… I’ll give you the blood of that creature that took you from me… OH that horrific scream… he broke you… he broke me. Come back Bunny Blue… obsess me… hunt me but come back…. come close… closer… scratch me…. drink my blood… revive.
Michel Croteau got a master’s in literature and taught languages abroad and in the Us. She has been writing para-normal stories for Amazon KU and KV. Although her stories are mostly fiction, they are always inspired by something that touched her deeply. For more of her stuff see her FB page and https://linktr.ee/michelau
Familiar with it…
by Amy Hodges-Laurenzo
Towns and cities, cities and towns, it mattered little where humans decided to live.
In one such town that was off on a coast line, a house over looked the beach below and with the sundown for the past few hours, a work pony had come home to do little and then fell asleep.
In the bed that the woman laid, her crimson hair was sprawled out over a pillow. If her eyes were open, they would be a luscious forest green. She was a C perhaps in the chest size and she did have a small tummy and the standard child bearing hips. Her height was five feet and five inches, her legs were muscular as she was athletic and she also had some muscle tone to her arms. Her skin was pale, a bit that seemed normal for the hair type. She lay upon her left side in an emerald green knee length silk chemise. Her right knee was bent. Her arms lay around the pillow that her head lay upon.
The door to her bedroom was open.
The window moved by itself.
It opened slowly but the woman did not react.
Spiritual energy floated around and slid over the open window and into the room. It swirled and took form into a skeletal being that was clad in a long white cloak, it reached for the woman.
HISSSSSSSSSS
The spirit froze and turned in the direction of the sound.
A black cat with glowing green eyes appeared in the door way. It bound across the room and landed on the bed without disturbing the sleeping red head and placed itself between the woman and the spirit.
HISSSSSSSSSS
The spirit took about a step back as the atmosphere of the room became energetic suddenly.
As the cat began to yowl, the lady moved slightly but did not awake.
The mouth of the cat began to glow along with the eyes and energy surged forward.
The spirit cried out in silent pain as it was pulled apart by mystical energy and then shattered like glass.
When the energy dissipated and calmed down, the cat chirped what could only be translated as humph.
The cat looked to the window and his fluffy tail flipped in a cue before energy pulsed at the end of the tail.
The window closed backup tight and locked up tight. Then he looked to his sleeping mistress a moment as if to make sure she was fine.
‘Poor tired mistress. She slept through it all. Its OK, my sleeper, I will guard you well.’
The cat extended his paws and kneaded the bed a moment. Then he spun and lay down against the side of the sleeping red haired woman. He closed his eyes all contented that she was safe because of him once again.
Familiars come when a castor sleeps as they would soon need their guide and protection as they came into their powers. This cat actually acted as a shield and hid this young woman from prying eyes when she was most vulnerable.
On the dark green collar that the black cat wore was a name in Rhinestones.
He was special.
He was Malachite…the Familiar of the Dark One.
The woman…she was the sleeping Dark One
This is an incert from the Urban Legend’s Series Book 1: Rogue Moon. You will find it here… https://www.amazon.com/Urban-Legend-Rogue-Moon-Legends-ebook/dp/B09Y72GBDT