by Chad Lutzke
As though the cats themselves somehow spoke to me, I gained an understanding of both their dilemma and the resolution. I cursed the madman and ran through the house, downstairs, and into the back room. As I entered the room, the howling grew louder and more desperate. I quickly opened each crate, letting the cats out—even the one I planned to hold onto for another week. His ears were bandaged but his health was no longer at risk. Twelve cats I counted. The poor creatures. I led them to the backdoor and watched as they sprinted across my lawn and toward the cul-de-sac. I quickly ran upstairs and out onto the balcony. The man still stood where he’d committed the atrocity, toying with his necklace as though adding the new trophy to his collection right then and there.
I watched the dozen cats as they ran in varying speeds down the hill and toward the man; even the two-legged one dragged himself behind the others at an impressive pace. As the cats charged, they made no sound. Their howling had stopped. Their opportunity had come, and they would not announce their raid ahead of time.
The man continued to add to his necklace there under the beam of the patio light, oblivious to the impending attack. Three cats leapt and attached themselves to the man simultaneously. I watched cheerfully through the binoculars as claws and teeth ripped through the man’s flesh, tearing at his face and throat. They were relentless. I could hear the screams of the man as he ran, as though on fire with feline flames. The flames grew, as more approached and secured themselves to his body. He ran toward the line of trees. And though my line of sight was obscured, his shrieks could still be heard, resonating throughout the neighborhood until at last they wound down into a throaty gurgle.
And then silence fell.
Since that night, I have yet to see the maniac that terrorized the poor souls, nor do I expect to. I suspect his remains lay in the wooded area for the surrounding creatures to feed off and play with—their own trophy that was paid for by their flesh, bone, and blood. My doorstep no longer acts as a sanctuary for them, as I am not needed; though on clear, wet nights I do see at least a few of them sitting near my lawn watching me, as though guarding my well being or perhaps paying their respects. I suspect if I were closer I’d even hear the grateful purring of a cat once frightened.
Notes on Collecting Cats
My family and I have a three-legged cat. We rescued her from one of those Facebook sites when she still had her staples in. Though nobody is sure what happened to her, it’s been speculated her injury was sustained from a brawl with a dog. The plan is to have her fixed, but for now she goes in heat for about one week out of every month, howling intermittently throughout the day. My wife wanted to rescue another cat from the same Facebook page months later. That cat had missing ears, though we didn’t end up taking it. Late one night I was looking out across my backyard, which is partially lit from outdoor lights. Our privacy fence butts up against an alley, and I pictured a homeless man roaming around back there while the maimed cats sat perched on my fence howling under the light. It all kind of came together from there. Disclaimer: No cats were harmed in the writing of this fictional tale.
Mama’s Wooden Babies
It was the vibrant color of the dolls that caught the attention of the two girls.
“Those, Daddy! We want those!” The two girls pointed at the antique shop window, pulling their father toward the door.
Curiosities and oddities from distant lands and long-passed eras lined each wall. A full suit of 16th century armor stood greeting the customers—its hands holding tight to a partially rusted halberd. In the far corner stood a life-sized black bear; the dry-rotted nose adding to its already frightening appearance. On a shelf, the skeletal remains of a primate, and even the head of an old woman sat preserved in a jar of formaldehyde; hoop rings still through her lobes, and long white hair matted to her glass-pressed face. Antlers and mounted animals loomed high above the heads of customers, while countless antique tools and devices, furniture, paintings and other décor filled the remainder of the store. The eyes of the girls widened at the sights.
“Over here, Daddy. These!” One of the girls snapped out of her store-induced trance and steered her father toward four wooden dolls that sat together on a low, dusty shelf.
“We want these, Daddy! We want these!” Said the girls, nearly in unison. Their chant stirred awake the shop owner, who shuffled over and gave service to his new customers.
“Those are one of a kind, they are. Carved and hand painted over one century ago. ‘Longed to Mama Blissens, they did,”
“We want ‘em, Daddy.” Both girls clung to the legs of their father, tugging hard on his pants, making sure they were heard.
Their father looked down with a smile and patted each of them on the head. “Okay, I’ll take two of them.”
“Oh no, sir. Mama Blissens’ dolls be sold all together. You wouldn’t separate your little girls now, would ya?”
"I'm sorry. I don't quite follow you."
“Mama Blissens’ doll’s once ‘longed to her childrens. They was freaks in a circus show. People all about would gaze in wonder at her legless twins. They say one day Mama Blissens burned the circus down and had the wooden tent poles made into legs for her babies. No more ‘sploitin her childrens.”
The man held his daughters tight to his legs, attempting to cover their ears discreetly.
“One day, the childrens came up missin' but they legs was left behind. Mama Blissens kept those legs like they was her childrens. When her babies never came back, she carved ‘dem legs into these here dolls. Painted ‘em up real nice. Pretended they was her babies.” The old man then looked behind him and lowered his voice, as though being careful not to be heard by anyone other than the customers. “She done went crazy, she did.”
The man gave a chuckle to make light of anything his daughters may have heard. “That’s quite a story. But I think we’ll pass on these and grab something from the toy store.”
“We want those, Daddy!” Both girls pleaded, jumping and tugging.
After much coercing from the young girls, their father happily paid for the dolls.
The old man bent slightly and held the shoulder of each girl. “Take good care of these babies, now.”
“We will.”
“I knews you would. Mama Blissens would be very happy that two such fine little girls like you would be the new mama. You enjoy now.” He gently pushed them toward the exit where their father waited.
Once his customers were gone, the old shop owner turned to the head in the jar. “There you go, Mama. Some fine new girls to take care of your babies. Not to worry, now. Not to worry.”
Notes on Mama’s Wooden Babies
A story prompted by a picture. This time it was an image of four Hanoi water puppets. At the time, I was unfamiliar with them, which helped me create the idea that I did. Mama’s Wooden Babies reminds me of something you may see on Tales from the Crypt or read in an old horror comic from the 70s. I can just see Mama’s floating head there in the formaldehyde, her clay-like face mashed against the glass; eyes stuck open, forever watching each customer.
Moving Made Easy
Teleportation: The process in which a person, or object, gets from point A to point B through a molecular breakdown, or deconstruction of sorts, and then reconstructed at the point of destination.
I bring up the subject because of a friend I was once acquainted with for the short period of approximately four years. The first two years I knew the man, he seemed almost obsessed with gaining knowledge of all things scientific, and spent an unhealthy amount of hours dabbling in countless experiments. The obsession led to dissatisfaction. He grew to a point of boredom, where even the most advanced experiments could no longer arouse his yearning mind. It was then that he began to dabble in a fictional side of science, such as time travel and teleportation.
When my dear friend’s fascination with the fantastic sprouted and he began his investigations, he—like you or I—knew full well the possibility of time travel, teleportation, or any othe
r tribute to a pseudo-science, was nil. But with the technologies so occupying his mind, his curiosities grew to a deep lust for knowledge and discovery, and he began new research with experiments involving the very fantasies he once laughed at.
My friend’s primary focus was that of teleportation. I think perhaps even he knew time travel would ultimately produce no results and prove to be time ill spent. When he first approached me on the subject of teleportation, I thought him a madman. But his insistence persuaded me to listen with a skeptic’s mind, at the very least. Science is not my field, nor do I entertain any thought of it either way. But I must tell you. As he spoke of his passion and the progressions recently made, I did become quite intrigued with the thought of this advanced form of transportation.
As my friend progressed in his findings, I progressed in my debts. I had become something of a gambler. The period of my habit was short lived but enough to put me into a position of debt beyond what I could handle. My habit consisted of foolishly trusting my gut during baseball season.
Often my friend and I would joke to each other about our obsessions. Him with his dark chamber filled with tubes, beakers, electrodes, and wires casting the image of a genuine mad scientist; where as to him, with my gambling, I was perceived as an injured dog chasing after parked automobiles. Many laughs were shared at the expense of our separate attractions.
In the third year of our friendship, my friend moved to the desert. Why he had chosen such a barren location, I did not know. He did not share why, nor give me details of any kind, other than simply stating his scientific findings had led him there and that his work would fail if he did not move—as he needed the vast space.
The next eight months I saw him rarely, yet when I did, he seemed less inclined to speak of his work and more out of his mind. I received a call from him one day, and I remember it clearly, because I had just lost a very large sum of money on a game. The conversation was short, but strange indeed. He told me he was phoning me from his lab in the desert, but that I would see him in less than half an hour. That, of course, had been the curious part. His laboratory was a few thousand miles away from my place of residence. It would be days before I saw him had he truly called from his new lab. But the fool spoke of mere minutes. I took this as more jesting and was relieved to hear my friend back to his old humorous self.
After the phone call, I continued on with my daily regimen, when not twenty minutes later I felt a harsh chill through my bones. My windows turned a deep black for only a moment, followed by an intense brightness. Through my front window I could see a hazy figure gradually coming into focus. It was my friend. And as I clearly observed, his experiments had proven to be successful. I no longer thought him insane, but a genius. Teleportation, now belonging to my friend, had become a reality.
Throughout the course of the next few months, secondary to the convenience brought on by his new invention, I saw my friend quite frequently. He would often come without notice, startling me in the process. I gained a newfound admiration and respect for the man. I took sudden interest in the world of science and one day asked my friend of his discoveries. He told me of the mechanics of the operation and recited equations I could not comprehend. He spoke of quantum physics and theories foreign to most. He also stated that I would not see him again for quite some time—if ever—because of other experiments that he stated were of even greater value. I could hardly imagine that possible.
I questioned him once more before he left, asking him what it had felt like to teleport from place to place. I was ill-prepared for the response given.
“My dear friend,” he said. “You tell me. For it is not I who teleports, but you. You and your surroundings. Myself, I have not yet learned. For I must remain here in the desert to operate the controls. I have not left since I arrived. It is you, who I have teleported to me.”
The statement overwhelmed me, leaving me quite awestruck. Before he left—or I rather—he made one last declaration that would change my life forever.
“By the way, my friend. It is the Tigers who win the series this year.”
Notes on Moving Made Easy
A story I wrote nearly twenty years ago. I'll admit it's not exactly horror, but I felt with the Twilight Zonish ending that people would enjoy it within these pages regardless. As it's been so long since the story was written, I honestly can't remember the genesis, other than thinking what if teleportation didn't work the way it's always been portrayed.
Coming Undone
The little girl had sat crying in the holding cell without sleep the entire night. She would soon be under the care of a more adequate parent, while her mother was tried for murder. Everyone in the town was more than familiar with Mrs. Burns and quite often referred to her as a witch, mostly in jest, although the more conservative—albeit paranoid—citizens carried a more serious tone when using the word.
Mrs. Burns had confessed that the bludgeoning was in self defense, claiming both herself and her daughter were the victims of her husband's abuse. However, the man had been asleep, and pages of a journal had been found, wherein entries freshly inked, premeditated the gruesome use of the hammer.
I admit to having little-to-no mercy for the daughter of the murderer. She had snarled at me when I had first put her in the cell, confirming my suspicion of the demons she held within her. The look in the little one's eye spoke of generational curses and a family history of atrocities that I had doubted would end with her. Who was to know what kind of wickedness the child had witnessed, or even learned, from her mother.
While being separated from one another, the mother had scratched, bit, and kicked all four of the guards that struggled to transport her. The lid of my left eye and onto my cheek stung from a laceration left behind by the woman's dirty, jagged nails. Her attack was that of a wild cat upon a dog, clawing and biting with a relentless, violent desperation.
Later, a small, makeshift doll had been found in the woman's cell. When taken from her, she pleaded that it be given to her daughter for comfort. Call it mercy or an unbearable temptation from the devil-child herself, but finally I succumbed to the constant cry of the young one and decided that if it would give my ears a rest during the shift, I would gladly give her the hideous thing.
Checking over the doll, I squeezed and prodded it, searching for perhaps hidden objects that could aid in the further harm of the guards or even the child herself. Save for the button eyes, it all seemed to be made of hair and twine that reeked of cloves and fire.
Mere moments after I handed over the doll to the girl, a scream bounced off the walls of the jail. I quickly looked in the direction of the cry and saw a guard standing against the wall; his right arm struggling to hold his left as it dangled at his side much longer than it should have. I stood in shock as two other guards ran to his assistance. One had barely arrived when his leg gave out from underneath him and bent unnaturally behind him as though his foot were attached to a puppeteer from above. The sound of bone and muscle breaking free from its God-given position echoed down the hall.
The high-pitched chuckle of the child behind the bars drew my attention away from the surreal sight. She held the small doll in her hands, but a leg and arm had been removed. She let out another laugh as she begin to pull at the raveled twine making up the torso of the figure. Another scream pulled me back toward my coworkers. One was now bent over holding his mid section. The seat of his pants bulged with a wet explosion as entrails and blood spilled over his beltline, up his back, and onto the floor.
The girl's laugh grew louder and more fanatical. I turned once more to her, as she tugged at the dolls button eye.
Notes on Coming Undone
This story came from a picture prompt. The picture was a small figure made from black and red string. The figure looked so much like a voodoo doll that it’s all I could come up with. Not exactly groundbreaking or unpredictable. However, I chose to finish the story and ended up being rather satisfied with the result; in particular concerning the anticipa
tion of the storyteller who is about to lose an eye.
Birthday Suit
"Finally, after three long years of wishing we could stay the night up here, your parents give," Shawn Stelton said as he tapped the inside wall of the large tree house.
"Ahh, yes! The joys of turning thirteen," Kyler Tessal replied. "This will be the best birthday ever."
"Did you remember the batteries?"
Kyler smacked the backpack that leaned against one of the plywood walls. "Right here."
"Good. And don't worry. My mom filled mine with enough granola, carrots, and bottled water to last a month." Shawn's announcement reeked of sarcasm.