Ghost Cats of the South

by Randy Russell

  “You’re not going to believe this, Bruce. Sugar is eating. Right now. She got me out of bed, pawing my face like she used to, ran straight to the kitchen, and begged for breakfast! She begged, Bruce. She begged.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  She wasn’t kidding. Sugar ate and was marching around the kitchen, waiting for Cheryl to settle down with a cup of coffee and pay some attention to her.

  Bruce beamed inside. He told Cheryl everything was okay on his end. He yawned. He told his wife he couldn’t wait to be home. He’d leave as soon as the contracts were signed. He would tell her about the cat in the well later. Sugar was the news of the morning.

  Bruce closed and pocketed his phone. The sun was burning now. It was hot. Bruce felt himself begin to sweat. Welcome to Charleston, he thought.

  The sand-and-cream tabby from the well stretched out in the sun, then curled on her side, feet over the edge of the brick wall. She closed her eyes. Bruce walked over to retrieve his shirt. His sports jacket was heavy and hot. He folded his shirt over his arm. He picked up the coffee cup and put its lid back on. He’d find a proper place to dispose of it. The cat opened her copper eyes and meowed again.

  “I wish I were in Bermuda shorts and a tank top,” Bruce said.

  It was his third wish, and with that the cat from the well was gone.

  Bruce walked to the Maison Du Pré wearing a bright yellow sleeveless T-shirt over a pair of green-and-maroon Bermuda shorts. He still had his shoes and socks, but his dress shirt, his tie, his slacks, and his sports jacket were gone.

  Charleston looked prettier this time around. He strolled under the welcoming shade of the grand old oaks. The palmetto palms leaned this way and that, as if to wave hello. The houses seemed to nod in agreement with the weather. Cars moved by at reasonable speeds, demonstrating perfect Southern etiquette. The ocean rested in the comfort of a brand-new day. A church bell rang.

  He emptied his pockets in his room at the Du Pré. Everything was there. Wallet, checkbook, cell phone, car keys. He meant to call Cheryl, but he fell asleep instead. He slept through the meeting. He slept through the phone’s ringing. He slept through the polite knocks on his door. It was the first time he’d slept for more than an hour or two since Hannah’s death.

  Bruce Bagzis dreamed he’d found Aladdin’s lamp, and was awake in time for supper.

  AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD

  If you would like to share your ghost experiences, I may be reached by email at randyrussell@aol.com. You are also invited to visit my website at GhostFolk.com.

  I regularly present ghost-lore programs for groups both large and small across the South. These presentations often include hours of first-person ghost encounters from my oral library of never-to-be-published true ghost stories. I am an annual presenter of the week-long Ghost Seminar at the North Carolina Center for the Advancement of Teaching.