Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  “So what. Just let me in. We’re a sisterhood. Remember?”

  “That’s not going to work on me. I want to refuse you to come back. But I know if I turn you away, the others will rebel against me.”

  “Such a drama queen. Look, I’m your best friend, remember? Four hundred years in the making. You won’t leave me out. Oh, here are Helen and Chloe. Never mind.”

  It was an insignificant effort for Helen to reverse the latch. Chloe, with a lazy wave of her paw, caused the screen door to swing open.

  Rebecca strolled in with her tail high in the air, an aura of entitlement emanating from her. She walked in front of Emily and allowed her tail to rub against her face as she passed, her nose lifted up.

  Emily swatted the intrusive tail away. “That is so disrespectful.”

  “What do you expect? I’m a cat.”

  Emily smoldered with anger. She sent out the communication to the sisterhood. “Get up. Everyone. Rebecca’s back and we need an emergency meeting in the basement. Now.”

  Emily led Rebecca, Chloe, and Helen into the kitchen where Bob was going over bills. Rebecca jumped up on the table and leisurely walked across his work. She stepped onto the keyboard of his laptop, shuffled documents with her paws, then jumped back on the floor.

  Bob did a double take. “What the heck?”

  The rest of the cats ran into the kitchen and mimicked Rebecca, jumping onto the table and trotting across Bob’s laptop and papers, then followed Emily as she ran toward the basement.

  “What’s wrong,” Debbie asked, looking over her shoulder as she unloaded three dishwashers from last night’s dinner.

  “It’s those frickin’ crazy cats again. Not sure what they’re all up to. But they’re all running through the kitchen and into the basement like they’re being herded. And hey—isn’t that Rebecca?”

  Debbie poured two cups of coffee. “It is. Awww. It looks like she missed her family and found her way back.”

  Bob scratched his head. “Incredible. But how?”

  Debbie laughed. “Just remember what Grandma said. They’re cats. They do what they want, when they want.”

  “Well, maybe that’ll explain why we found all those left shoes in the pantry this morning.” Bob looked at the small mountain of shoes, slippers, and sandals he’d piled in the center of the table, waiting for the guest to come down for breakfast and claim the footwear.

  “Or how those large cans of fruit cocktail end up on the floor every time I go down in the basement,” Debbie said. “Maybe we should do ourselves a favor, and try not to make sense of their actions.”

  Emily snickered at Debbie’s comment and passed through the animal door and down the stairs. She took her usual position on the shelf of canned foods overlooking the new handyman’s workbench. Once again, with a wave of her paw, the large cans of fruit cocktail pocked with dents from dozens of falls fell over and rolled off onto the cement floor in a clanking cacophony.

  She watched as the other eleven cats welcomed Rebecca back with squeals and hugs, as best they could inside cat bodies. She looked a mess, but the others helped groom and lick dirt off her.

  “Okay, listen up. Quiet everybody.”

  Rebecca emerged from the group hug. “No, Emily, You listen. I want to tell the sisterhood what happened. And I think they want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Rebecca. You’re my best friend. I love you. But you need to understand we can’t do this again. We’ll all die a horrible death. Just like our previous five lives. Then we’ll have to wait in the dark cold Netherworld for the right time to emerge into the next life. It’s near impossible to find a litter of thirteen healthy female cats. That can take years or decades. And after this life is over, we only have three more. Don’t screw it up for the rest of us.”

  Rebecca stood her ground. “This is what we do. It’s who we are. Try as you might, Emily, you can’t deny it.”

  “Stop it, Rebecca.”

  “No. You need to stop and reflect on our past. You can’t change who we are. Or what we do. We’re witches. And we’re trapped in the bodies of cats. That’s a double threat. We’ve taken on both personas. This doesn’t leave much room to do anything else now does it?”

  Emily looked for support, but found none. The other cats remained on the workbench with Rebecca.

  “Look, I understand how you feel. How all of you feel.”

  “But do you understand your own feelings?”

  “Rebecca’s right,” Annie said. “Emily, you’re having nightmares of that night in Boston. Your sister. Our sister. Sarah. She was our friend, too.”

  Emily’s shoulders drooped. “My mother trusted in me for Sarah’s care and protection. And I failed.”

  “But that’s just it,” Rebecca said. “We’ve all moved on. Except you. Now either you move on with us, or we’ll have to elect another leader.”

  “Listen to me,” Chloe said. “I’m your cousin. You can trust me when I say we’re not trying to usurp your authority. We respect your leadership. You saved us all that night back in Boston. You are the strongest, most gifted of us all. And we want to follow you. But we all have to be in agreement. Lead us as a democracy, where we get a vote; not a dictatorship where you make all the rules.”

  Emily paused to consider. What they were saying was not at all unreasonable. She sighed, shook her head. “I’m trying. But it’s so hard to get Sarah out of my head. Even after four hundred years. I’m not sure if I can do this.”

  Chloe jumped up on the shelf next to Emily. “Then change your strategy. Instead of guilt, funnel your energies through revenge.”

  “But that’s always been your tactics. Not mine.”

  “And it’s worked. That’s how we keep our sanity. We don’t have nightmares like you.”

  “Remember, Sarah,” Rebecca said. “Your blood sister, she gave her life so that you could live. I beg of you. Don’t let her die in vain. I’m your best friend. You can trust me. Avenge her death. The only way we can do this is by doing what comes natural. That’s why we had to kill DeShawn Hill and why I torched that couple from Battle Creek. And that’s why more people need to die.”

  “We’re witches—evil witches,” Chloe said. “Sure, we didn’t start out this way. We just wanted to be left alone. It’s not our fault we were born with these abilities and people want to kill us for it. But six lives over four centuries, and living inside the body of cats, this is what we’ve evolved into —and you can’t fight fate.”

  The other cats formed an arc behind Rebecca, their long tails swaying back and forth in synchronized rhythm to show support. Emily, now enraged with the thoughts of their harrowing escape centuries ago and her younger sister’s death, capitulated.

  She saw no other way to keep her sanity or to prevent an open rebellion from the other cats. This will certainly come to an ugly conclusion, Emily knew, and will eventually cost another of their precious few remaining lives. But damn it, her sisters were right.

  Emily sat up straight, jutted her chin, and struck the shelf with a slap of her tail. She puffed her chest like a general about to deliver the attack orders to his troops, and set the inevitable in motion.

  Her gathering nodded in approval.

  “Rachel, hide behind those boxes of cleaning supplies and prepare to teleport yourself,” Emily ordered. “Your body will be safe there. I want you to follow the guests. Gather any intelligence you can find. Ten rooms. Thirty three people including adults and children. There must be someone we can kill this weekend.”

  Chapter 23 Choking or Heart Attack

  One thing about being a cat, Emily thought, is that cats are patient. They can wait, stay cool until just the right moment to pounce. Strategizing, observing, and discerning the prey’s movements, habits, strengths and weaknesses.

  It’s all there to observe and use to their advantage if they have the patience of a true predator—and that’s what cats are. This was definitely one inherited feline attribute Emily appreciated.

&n
bsp; The cats lounged around the living room basking in the sunbeams. They studied each couple and family, looking for strengths and weaknesses to exploit. A full week had gone by as guests came and went. They had to wait for the perfect victim. And now, Rachel had finally found their target.

  “Paul Knudson,” the astral projectionist said. “Fifty-two years old. He’s large, intimidating, and a total jackass. His wife is Kathleen. Not sure why she married him. She’s beautiful and could have done a lot better.”

  “What else?”

  “He has high blood pressure and hardened arteries. A smoker and heavy drinker. Overweight. He’s one blow up from a heart attack. Oh, this is too easy.”

  “I can hear him shouting at the breakfast table,” Emily said. “He’s insulting everybody.”

  “Last night he completely humiliated his wife while eating dinner. I hid my body in the basement for protection, then followed him to the Roadhouse Blues.”

  “What is it with that room,” Emily asked. “Sure seems to attract the undesirables.”

  “Maybe it’s the theme,” Rachel said. “Anyway, he was drunk as a funky skunk. He roughed up his wife a bit. She’s wearing makeup to cover the bruises.”

  “Thank you, Rachel. You did great. We can do this right now in front of everyone.”

  Emily led the cats in a slow and confident stride closer to the kitchen.

  “Look at him eating like that,” Annie said. “What a pig. Talking with his mouth all full. Spittle-laden food spraying in every direction.” She shook all over. “Disgusting.”

  “This is one time I feel sorry for Bob,” Scarlett said. “He’s trying to keep the guy in check. But Knudson outweighs him by a hundred pounds and is as belligerent as an angry bull elephant. He looks extremely hung over, too.”

  “Hey Susan, can’t you do anything right,” Knudson bellowed to his wife.

  “Why don’t you take it easy,” Debbie said. “This is my house. And you never speak to a woman like that. Especially your wife.”

  Knudson finished wiping his hands with his cloth napkin and spread his hands wide. “And just what’n the hell’re you gonna to do about it? Wait, I know. Feed me more of your slop? I’d prob’ly choke on it. Or it’ll give me a damn heart attack.”

  “Hey—that’s a great idea,” Emily said, trying to snap her fingers, then realizing she didn’t have any. She looked to Helen. “He must have three breakfasts in his big fat belly. Do your thing.”

  Helen pranced into the kitchen, head held high. “Choking? Or heart attack?”

  “You choose,” Emily said.

  “With pleasure.”

  Helen, who caused solids, fluids, and energy to flow in reverse or stop altogether, pulled up short of the table and glared at the mountain of a man, just as Bob rose from his chair and growled at him.

  “That’s it. You don’t speak to my wife like that.”

  Scarlett nudged Emily with a wink. “Got to give it to Boring Bob. He does have guts.”

  Emily peeked through the archway. The other eleven jostled for a position alongside her to witness Helen and her craft.

  Knudson stood, sending his chair back across the kitchen floor. Six feet four inches and two hundred seventy pounds of mass and grizzle loomed over Bob, scrambled eggs still in his mouth, jabbering away. Knudson’s chair came flying back and hit him behind his knees, almost causing him to fall over backward.

  “Nice touch, Chloe.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said with a pleased purr.

  The other guests, gasped and shrieked at the sight of the chair slamming into Knudson as if it had a will of its own, darted from their chairs and dashed into the living room like a stampede of frightened rodents. Emily moved just in time from being trampled under a dozen feet. The exodus was filled with cats screeching as many had their tails stepped on.

  Convinced now only Bob, Debbie, Raymond, Maria, Paul Knudson and his wife were left inside the kitchen, Emily peeked back in, as did the other cats. Bob’s shirt was a ball of cloth in Knudson’s oversized fists, which held Bob’s feet dangling a foot off the ground. Debbie was on Knudson’s back, her legs wrapped around his chest, clawing and punching the hulk trying to break his grip off Bob.

  “Oh, this is just too rich,” Knudson said, his head in an appreciative sway, “I’m thoroughly enjoying this. What a great way to start the day. Now I’m going to …”

  Kundson’s eyes bulged in mid-sentence. They looked like they were about to explode out of his head. His face turned crimson. He dropped Bob, grabbed for his throat, and motioned with his hands something was terribly wrong.

  Debbie jumped off his back and Raymond and Maria pulled her and Bob out of harm’s way. Knudson flailed about in a panic, tossing dishes and water glasses around the kitchen, breaking them in a bizarre display of macabre, random futility.

  Bob and Debbie continued to back-step. Knudson dropped to his knees and grasped his hands like he was praying. He pointed to his neck, then stood and clutched his chest. Eyes enlarged to beyond the breaking point, with blood oozing out and down from their sockets.

  Face flushed beet red, he froze for a moment, then dropped onto the kitchen table, face first into a large bowl of oatmeal. He slid, inching backward, until he fell on his back, his head smacking against the wooden floor with a hideous thump.

  Emily laughed inside as Helen entered the living room.

  “Well, which one was it?” she said. “Choking? Or heart attack?”

  Helen purred as she turned and strutted for the best sitting spot in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. She hunched a shoulder, brought a paw to her mouth and blew on it like a gunslinger cooling off a six-shooter.

  “Both.”

  Chapter 24 Vacating Guests

  Bob could not think of a worse position to be in. All their guests were vacating Murcat Manor and demanding a refund—which he would have to give them. It was mid-June and news of a second death at the bed and breakfast could ruin reservations for the rest of the summer. The first of many bills, including the mortgage totaling twenty-five thousand dollars, would be due in less than two weeks.

  He sat next to Debbie at the kitchen table. She looked numb, staring out the kitchen bay window as she sipped a glass of ice water. He was worried for her. The violent death of DeShawn Hill still loomed over them.

  They’d been so busy preparing to open Murcat Manor and hosting the first wave of guests, they had not had time to properly mourn Hill’s passing. After talking with him almost every day for nine months, the general contractor had become like family.

  But this second death happened in her kitchen—Debbie’s domain. This was her home and the one place where she thrived. Everything she did originated from here. He could see her soul was damaged from the fight and death of Paul Knudson.

  But these weren’t the worse of their problems.

  Bob looked at the yellow police tape wrapped throughout the kitchen. A corpse lay on its back a few feet from him. The Battle Creek coroner was lifting the red and white checkered tablecloth Bob had tossed over the dead body to examine the head. Police officers took pictures of the kitchen. Broken plates and glasses littered the floor. Chairs were tipped over and strewn about.

  And things only got worse.

  Across the large oak table sat Detectives Darrowby and Kowalski. Staring. Waiting for Bob to say something. He looked to Debbie, who tried to formulate her thoughts, but could only manage a shrug.

  Darrowby, tapping his pen on the table, finally broke the ice. “Two deaths in Murcat Manor. One in May. One in June. You’re averaging one a month.”

  Bob squeezed his eyes shut and took a long deep breath to calm himself. Debbie rubbed between his shoulders for support. “Look. I know DeShawn Hill was a close friend of yours. And I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  “Are you?”

  Bob opened his eyes. All he could see was a pompous, misguided, arrogant twit whose mission was to make his and Debbie’s life miserable. Blood rushed to his head,
making him dizzy. Darrowby had only been inside a few minutes, and Bob was allowing the detective to get the upper hand.

  Time to take a few slow breaths. Calm down. The man’s a professional. A professional asshole, that is. Can’t let him to get the better of us.

  “Tell us once again. What exactly happened here?” Darrowby looked around. “There are shattered dishes and glasses everywhere. Looks like one helluva fight occurred.”

  Bob sighed. “It was self-defense. Knudson had serious anger management problems. I’m sure you can dig something up on him.”

  “Wrong,” Kowalski said, scrolling through his iPad. “Matter of fact, he had no police record. Looks like he paid his taxes on time. Awww, look here. He adopted a rescue puppy a few years ago.”

  “Now isn’t that special,” Darrowby said. “Looks like Paul Knudson was just a large misunderstood teddy bear. You ask me, I’d say he was an upstanding citizen.”

  Blood pressure rising. Shortness of breath. The urge to throw Darrowby out of his house. Bob needed to control his rage. He took another slow breath and stood.

  “Listen to me.” He pointed at Knudson, pausing to keep his emotions in check. “This guy was the most belligerent, obnoxious numbskull I’ve ever met.”

  Darrowby stood to meet him. “Last time I checked, being obnoxious isn’t against the law.”

  “You have to admit,” Kowalski added, his big, thick, flat head pivoting this way and that on his shoulders. “Things do look suspicious. That’s why we’re not closing the DeShawn Hill case.”

  Bob threw his arms in the air. “Oh, that’s just great. I suppose you’re not going to close this case, too.”

  “Not until we resolve what happened to Hill. As far as we're concerned, we see a pattern forming.”

  Bob couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Pattern? What pattern?”

  "A pattern of dead people on your property. And not just dead. These two men have died violently.”

  Bob pointed at Knudson. “And I suppose calling the coroner out here rather than paramedics and transporting the body to their office only makes your visit more dramatic.”