Salem's Daughters

by Stephen Tremp

  Debbie tried to make sense why Midnight was in plain sight. The jet black feline stayed in place and breathed heavily. Debbie fished in her satchel and handed Bob more shells. He turned the safety on, pointed the barrel away from them, chambered a shell, then loaded the rest into the magazine.

  “She looks scared and stressed,” Debbie said. “Did the others desert her because she can’t keep up?”

  “Maybe she’s a decoy,” Bob replied. “A diversion to trick us.”

  Debbie leaned into Bob. “I’m thinking the same thing. The other cats can attack in a way we’re not prepared for.”

  Bob took a deep breath, still feeling the effects of his battle with Emily and Scarlett. “But we don’t have time to debate this.” Another deep breath. “I’m taking Midnight out.”

  Debbie bobbed her head. “Shoot her.”

  Bob aimed the shotgun and fired. But Midnight vanished just before he pulled trigger.

  A small smoky hole appeared in the wall six inches above the wooden fireplace mantle. Chunks of drywall and dust littered the mantle and the tile floor. Debbie stepped forward and squatted down twelve inches, looking into their bedroom. She could see their headboard, sprayed with hundreds of small pellets spread out over a much larger two foot radius.

  “Holy shit. Did you see that? Midnight disappeared.” Bob placed his hand through the hole, then pulled back and ran his fingers across the wall. “There should be splattered remains of cat on the wall.”

  “Shhhh,” Debbie said. “Less talking, more hunting.”

  Bob turned and walked backward, shotgun at the ready, Debbie close in tow looking for cats to blast. Now that there was a lull in the action and the momentum had swung their way, she was able to get a good look at the expansive living room.

  What was once a place of socializing among the guests and their kids now looked like a war zone. Two large sofas, a love seat, four chairs, six ottomans, a coffee table, and four end tables were overturned. Shotgun blasts tore holes in the floor, ceiling, and walls. The chandelier was destroyed. Broken glass littered the travertine tile. And Scarlett lay dead in the center of the room.

  “No more rogues in here,” Bob said. “Next up, the kitchen. Let’s go.”

  Debbie hesitated. “Wait. I need to do something.”

  She locked the front door, then secured the living room windows. “We can’t allow them to escape. If I have to, I’ll torch this place myself to kill them.”

  Debbie grasped Bob’s hand and pulled him into the kitchen. She made a quick pass around the kitchen table, opening pantry doors and looking in cupboards and under the sinks.

  “They’re not in the living room,” Bob said. “We don’t see any in the kitchen.” He took a deep breath and pointed the shotgun at the basement door. “Down there. That’s the next obvious place to look.”

  Bob stepped in front of Debbie and took the lead. “Turn around and don’t look. I need to pull your Grandmother out from the pet door.”

  Debbie turned her back and closed her eyes. Bob grunted and wheezed as he tried to pull her out. “She’s really stuck. I can’t get her out.”

  “I’m so sorry, Grandma,” Debbie said, bending down and gripping Erma by her arm. “Bob, I’ll pull while you open the door.”

  Bob opened the door as Erma’s body was scrunched into the adjoining wall head first. The sight and sound was disturbing, but they could now get through.

  “I definitely smell gas,” Bob said as the descended the stairs.

  “I smell it now,” Debbie said. “Let’s make this quick.”

  Once in the basement, Bob surveyed the mess. “Looks like a small war took place here. Everything’s knocked over. There’re boxes thrown about everywhere. And look over there. Two more dead cats.”

  “It’s Isabella and Madelyn,” Debbie said, adding the names to the list of Annie, Jacqueline, Rachel, Angel, and Scarlet. “That makes seven dead cats, five live ones, and Rebecca still missing.”

  She leaned over and picked up a dagger. “I recognize this. It belongs to Grandma. At least she got a couple of the she-devils.”

  Bob pointed. “On the other side of those boxes is a mangled can of pepper spray. Looks like it exploded.”

  “Chloe. Emily said she could make things explode. That would explain Grandma’s burnt skin on her face and hand. These cats are some sick psychopaths.”

  “They’re people,” Bob said. “Just like us. Only now they’re living in a cat’s body. And it looks like Erma was onto them and came here with a plan. She sure did put up one hell of a fight. She tore this place apart.” Bob gave a brief salute. “God bless your grandmother.”

  Debbie performed the four way sign of the cross over her chest. “I’m not Catholic, at least in the traditional sense. But Grandma deserves this. I’m glad she took out two of those witches. Way to go, Grandma. You’re amazing, as always, in life and in death.”

  Debbie placed Erma’s dagger in her belt. “Be ready. I’m going to start throwing aside anything a cat can hide behind. If we see one, I’ll step back and you blast it.”

  Bob set the shotgun against the wall and picked up a sawed off two-by-four piece of wood. “I don’t want to shoot down here. The pellets could ricochet off the walls and hit us. That, and the gas leak.”

  Debbie nodded in agreement, then grabbed the work bench and gave it a heave. It tumbled to the floor as the tools spilled over in a loud crash of metal on concrete. She covered her ears at the sound.

  “No cats under there,” Bob said.

  Debbie moved swiftly and efficiently through the basement, walking up one aisle of cleaning supplies, then down another with stacks of cloth linens, table clothes, and napkins for the kitchen. She knocked over four foot stacks of boxes of laundry detergent and stepped out of the way.

  No cats.

  She moved on to clear plastic bins filled with blankets and sheets piled four feet high. She used her shoulder and pushed with her legs to knock them over.

  Still no cats.

  “I don’t think we’ll find any down here,” Bob said. “Let’s go back upstairs. We need to check the bedrooms one at a time.”

  Debbie snared Bob by his pants waistline and pulled him back. “Wait. I’m not convinced. This was one of their favorite places to hang out.”

  Debbie let go of Bob and looked up at the ceiling. She had a hunch.

  “Where’s the fireplace in the living room? Right about there, wouldn’t you say?” Debbie pointed up ten feet away from them.

  Bob’s eyes followed Debbie’s finger. “Yeah. Okay. Why?”

  “In the process of Emily and Scarlett trying to control your mind, you became exhausted fighting them.”

  “Sure. It took all my strength. I’m only now catching my breath.”

  “And that’s what I’m thinking happened to them. They’re exhausted too. I bet they have to expend much of their stamina to do what they do.”

  Bob smiled wide. “And you think Midnight teleporting off the mantle used up much of the strength she had.”

  “My guess is it takes a lot of energy to teleport. Or perform anything they do. While I was waiting for you to come home, Midnight was playing tricks, appearing and disappearing in my peripheral vision. Then she was showing off in the living room, and Emily told her to save energy for later.

  “I think Midnight tried to teleport off the couch and out of the living room as Emily and the rest of the cats ran for cover. But the fireplace mantle is as far as she got. Each of her successive attempts will probably be a shorter distance.”

  Bob pointed to the ceiling where the fireplace would be, then dropped his arm to three large storage bins. As Debbie reached out she heard a rustling. She grabbed the bottom container and jerked it out.

  Midnight was there.

  Debbie stepped back. Bob jumped in and took a swing. The cat disappeared.

  “Damned thing teleported again.”

  Debbie continued knocking over what remained of the any boxes and crates stacked
more than two high. “There. Right there. She’s behind those folded chairs.”

  Debbie swept them aside with a mighty sweep of her left arm. The metal chairs skidded and scattered across the cement floor.

  The silky black cat disappeared again, only to reappear ten feet away. She jumped over the toppled chairs and tried to run up the stairs.

  But she moved lethargically and stumbled. Midnight looked wearied. Bob ran to her and took an exaggerated swing, catching the pitch black feline and smashing it flat to the stair tread. He snatched the cat by the neck, tossed it in the air like a softball and swung again, sending the cat flying across the basement. She hit the cinder wall hard and flopped to the floor.

  “I think she’s dead.” Bob was smiling wide. “That, my dear, was a home run swing.”

  “Just to be sure,” Debbie said, stepping over strewn boxes and picking up the limp cat. She twisted its head. A snap resonated through the basement.

  “That’s for Grandma and Grandpa, you bitch from hell.”

  Debbie felt the tug on her sleeve. “Get back to the kitchen,” Bob said. “I’ll get the shotgun and try to stop that gas leak before this place goes up in flames.”

  Debbie stumbled over more boxes as she ran up the stairs. She had to step over Erma’s bottom half then step through the doorway.

  “Sorry again, Grandma.” Debbie kissed her fingers then touched Erma’s forehead. “Nice job taking out Isabella and Madelyn. We got Scarlett and Midnight. We’d make a great team if you were still here.”

  Debbie reached down and pulled out Old Faithful from Erma’s handbag. She unscrewed the cap and took three long drinks. “Thanks again, Grandma. Here’s to you. You did great.” She gulped what was left, then slid the flask in her back pocket.

  Debbie closed her eyes and shuddered, letting the burning from the aged Scotch subside as it made its way down the hatch. She kept her eyes closed, allowing the alcohol to penetrate her stomach and make its way to her coursing veins. She already missed her time with Grandma. For a brief moment, she forgot about Bob and was with her grandparents once again.

  A scraping sound on the kitchen floor and Debbie was right back in the present. She looked down as Erma’s burned and boiled arm slid over her feet. She turned to see the basement door shutting by itself.

  No. Freaking. Way. She planted one foot on Erma’s chest and the other on the floor, reached for the knob, and pulled back with all her might.

  “Bob, get up here now. They’re trying to lock you down there.”

  Debbie couldn’t look through what opening was left without losing her grip. She leaned her weight back and heaved. She could hear Bob’s feet jumping many stairs at a time.

  “Hurry. I can’t hold the door back.”

  Bob’s right arm, holding the shotgun, was all that made it through as the door continued to close. A loud crack echoed through the kitchen as Bob screamed a hideous cry. The shotgun fell to the floor and Bob’s arm retreated.

  Debbie gripped the edge of the door and tried to wedge her arm between it and the casing, sacrifice her own body. Anything for her soul mate.

  The door latch was closing. Her efforts were puny compared to the force she was trying to counter. Her fingers slipped out. The door shut and the lock turned.

  “My arm. It’s broken.” Bob’s voice penetrated through the solid oak barrier, but it was a vapid echo of itself by the time it reached Debbie.

  Debbie turned, pulled, and rattled the knob. “The door. It’s locked. I can’t open it.”

  Three more hard tugs and Debbie knew it was useless from her side. She was wasting precious energy. “I can’t open it. Ram the door with your shoulder.”

  After a few loud thuds and the door not budging, Bob said, “No luck. The door’s solid hard oak. So is the jamb. It’s not giving an inch.”

  Debbie stepped off Erma, grabbed the shotgun, and looked around the kitchen. “Damn it. Emily, open this door now.”

  Again, Emily’s laughter rang inside Debbie’s head. She blocked it out and slammed her boot to the ground.

  “That’s it,” Debbie shouted. “No more. This is my house. I’m in control. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re on the losing side. Let’s take an inventory and see how many of you died in the last twenty-four hours. In the basement are the carcasses of Isabella and Madelyn my grandma killed. God rest her soul. And Bob and I just killed Midnight.”

  Silence.

  “Last night Annie, Jacqueline, Rachel, and Angel died during the taping of American Ghost Stories.”

  “For the record, it was Indian Joe who killed them,” Emily said. “I also died. So did Chloe. I won’t bore you with details your feeble mind cannot comprehend. But long story short, Chloe and I were able to come back.”

  Debbie fired back. “Don’t forget about Scarlett. I just gutted her in the living room. And since I don’t see Rebecca, I’m assuming she’s dead. That’s nine cats down. Four to go.”

  Debbie stepped into the living room, shotgun at the ready, and looked behind the overturned furniture. “There’s nowhere to go. You can’t hide. I know you have to be close to me if you want to do your dirty work. That’ll make it easy to hunt you down one by one and blast the living hell out of you.”

  “Sheeesh, Chill out. We don’t want to escape. We could, though. Helen, do your thing.”

  Clicking noises came from the front door. Debbie watched as the locks turned by themselves. The door swung open, then slammed shut, locking again.

  “Let’s be clear. It’s you who can’t leave.”

  Debbie ran around the living room, looking for any trace of the remaining cats. “Show yourselves, you cowards. Nine of you are dead. That leaves Chloe, Helen, Esther and you.”

  “We’re all here. Except Rebecca. And that makes five of us still alive.”

  Debbie stopped to recalibrate. “Rebecca. Is she dead?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s busy.”

  “Stop playing games.”

  “Rebecca got bored so she stepped out for a little adventure. Look out the window toward your neighbor’s house. Now that I think of it, we should have burned that place down along with the Turner home. The Brady family has always been a bunch of pompous assholes who think they’re better than everyone else.”

  Debbie backed toward the window on the west side of the room and peered over her shoulder, all the while swinging the shotgun back and forth, ready for an attack from the cats.

  In the grass at her property’s edge, four volleys of fire arced a hundred feet up in the air, then descended on Eddie and Alison Brady’s house. In moments, the wood shingled roof was engulfed in flames.

  “Rebecca will be back in a few minutes. She’ll want to burn this place to ashes. It’s her thing. It’s what she does. Might as well raise the white flag and accept the inevitable. You’re going to die. My remaining sisters and I, we’ll live on in this life, then join our fallen comrades in our seventh life sometime in the future.”

  Debbie backed up toward the front door, stumbling over her feet, and reached for the knob.

  “I’m sorry. But we can’t let you leave.”

  Debbie tried door. It wouldn’t open. She tried turning the three locks, only to see them lock again.

  “What the hell?”

  “There are three locks on the front door. Having only two hands, you’ll never be able to unlock all three at the same time and escape. You can thank Helen for her expertise in locking and unlocking things.”

  Debbie looked through the living room into the kitchen to the basement door.

  “Forget about Bob. Only Helen can unlock what she’s locked. Helen, do you want to let Boring Bob out?”

  Debbie could hear Bob still pounding away with one fist. Her heart felt like it was squashed flat and all vital fluids were leaking out. Her soul mate’s voice was cracked and weak. She could hear the indescribable pain from his crushed arm in his voice.

  “So sorry. Helen
said no.”

  Debbie tried a few windows. She couldn’t open any. She picked up a candy bowl and reared back to throw and break the glass. It exploded in her hand, burning her fingers. Shards of crystalline glass hit her face.

  Debbie couldn’t lose her mind. It was her against Emily. No time to show weakness, to the cats or herself. She cocked a grin and picked out embedded pieces from her cheek and hair, flicking them in the air. There was some blood, but not a lot.

  “By the way, that was Esther. She can make inanimate objects explode by converting some of its mass into energy. Much more efficient than a shotgun, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You listen to me,” Debbie said, shaking her wounded hand. “I know you don’t want to die. If Bob and I go, then so do you.”

  “We’ve been through this before. And make no mistake we’re in control. Although this is the first time some of us have been killed before the grand finale. We usually all go up in flames together. Oh, speaking of going up in flames, Rebecca’s back.”

  The locks on the front door clicked in unison and the door opened. Rebecca proudly strutted in, her tail wagging in the air. The door slammed shut behind her and the locks clicked to the locked position.

  Debbie had an idea. It’s now or never. She took one more glance out the window at the Brady’s house, now completely consumed in flames. The fire department would be arriving any minute. Instead of blasting Rebecca, she had to get her to start a fire. That would bring emergency vehicles to Murcat Manor.

  “Go ahead. Set this cursed place on fire. I think you’re bluffing. You’re too much of a coward to give the order.”

  “We’ll do that. But first, let’s play a game of hide and seek. We’re already hiding. I’ll give you a hint. We’re all here in the living room. Find us and kill us, and you live. Fail, and you die.”

  Debbie needed to be brave. But she was terrified for Bob. She needed his help. He needed hers. Bob’s pounding and thumps became more desperate.

  “Bob, talk to me,” Debbie shouted. “It’s just a door.”

  She could hear his voice but not make out what he said. She pulled out her cell phone and called him.