by Mark Cassell
Copyright © Mark Cassell 2017
Published by Herbs House
The right of Mark Cassell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All digital artwork, photography and cover design © Mark Cassell 2017
ASIN: B06XK6C15Y
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CONTENTS
HELL CAT OF THE HOLT
A BONUS STORY
NEW MYTHOS STORIES
HELL CAT OF THE HOLT
A Shadow Fabric mythos novella
holt – noun, dialect, archaic
A wood or wooded hill.
Origin: Old English, of Germanic origin; related to Middle Dutch hout and German Holz, from an Indo-European root shared by Greek klados ‘twig’.
A STORY I HEARD
From sunlight to darkness in mere seconds. Squealing tyres, shrieking metal. And silence …
Alfred opened his eyes but only blurred light greeted him, jagged and confusing. The stench of burnt rubber and damp foliage clogged his nostrils. He coughed and an ache raced through his brain. Seconds dragged as his vision sharpened the sunset. The sound of tinkling glass lanced his eardrums, and he tried to move. His seat belt restricted him.
Then he remembered: Martha hadn’t worn her seat belt.
Thank the Lord she was still with him, wide-eyed and pretty as always – her senior years had been so very kind. Regardless of not wearing her restraint, she looked fine if a little dazed.
Somewhere above them, birds chirped. Those shrill cries drilled into his head. He winced.
Often, he would tell Martha – remind her – to fasten her seat belt, and she would always respond that she never found them comfortable. This went back to the mid-70s when a Road Traffic Bill was put forward in the House of Commons, coinciding with those ‘Clunk Click Every Trip’ TV commercials. He remembered the fuss she made when they became compulsory to wear if the car had them fitted.
“What a silly idea!” she had said at the time. “Strapped in like children.”
The right side of his head hurt like hell. He rubbed his face and his hand came away wet, and red. The rest of his body felt fine other than a few familiar aches; for the past decade, his body had woken up to all sorts of discomfort. Yet he could not complain, he was more able-bodied than the majority of his peers and, moreover, his mind remained sharp.
The windscreen was a patchwork of cracks. His door window, however, was unbroken, beyond which he saw the cat – again. Not your average domestic cat, but much larger. It now crouched in the darkness of thorny bushes, blending with the shadows. Could it be a panther? Dear God, really? He had heard of black cat sightings in the area, although shrugged them off as ridiculous urban legends.
The bloody thing was the reason why he’d crashed. He had been the one driving, Martha beside him, when the large cat had bounded across the road: black hair glistening, eyes reflecting the sunset like cooling embers; a sudden dark streak across the tarmac. Alfred had swerved.
And here they were: his car a wreck, mangled bonnet around the trunk of a looming oak.
With rubber fingers, he released his seat belt. The metal clasp smacked the central pillar. Shifting sideways, still aware of the cat’s presence, he looked at his wife. Being such a law-abiding English gentleman, he had soon given seat belts little thought and found himself clunking and clicking. They were not in any way uncomfortable as Martha had protested. Several years ago, he read somewhere that on the 40th anniversary of Clunk-Click, over one-hundred thousand lives had been saved. He wondered what the tally was now, himself and Martha included in those numbers.
“It’s okay,” he whispered and took Martha’s hand.
It was relatively easy to clamber from the wreckage, and even when they were both clear he didn’t once lose his grip on her. They stood looking at the Toyota’s crumpled bonnet and mashed grill. Steam hissed. Wispy phantoms crawled up the bark.
The cat – the panther, whatever it was – was no longer nearby. A quick scan of the surrounding trees and shrubs and tangle of brambles, revealed nothing. Still that warmth filled him. Fear of the cat or anger at crashing, he could not tell.
Martha wasn’t saying much, nor could he blame her. It was he who had been driving; he was to blame, taking a shortcut through country lanes at a time of day where the low sun bleached the world, pale and bright. Martha had been talking about their plans for after they’d returned home.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she was saying, “I’ve truly enjoyed our weekend, it’s just I miss having time away from home. I’d like us to book another break, further away and for longer. Not just one week but perhaps two. We need to make the most of these years, Alfred, while we’re still in good health.”
He saw her point; if only she could see his when it came to wearing that seat belt. Sometimes he annoyed himself and he doubted that he would ever give up thinking of her safety.
Now he was walking with her, away from the car wreck. And that cat. The sunset blinked through the branches of the autumnal canopy and they eventually came to a stream cut between the immense oaks. Without pause, they stepped into the water. Coldness soaked through to his toes, and he and Martha cleared the stream in two strides. His shoe slipped on the embankment. Martha found it no trouble and remained silent as he composed himself on the other side.
The air damp, the ground swampy, their trek through the woodland became more a zigzag path, avoiding lichen-coated rock and ivy-clad boulders. Some of the boulders were broken, gaping like jagged yawns. Years of forest growth covered each one, and although some were as large as houses, they were dwarfed by the surrounding oak trees.
Over the last few years, Alfred had taken to each day with appreciation. Life was for living. Enjoying. It was sad there were those who took it upon themselves to end their own lives. What of the driver heading towards the cliff without any intention of braking? Did they, from home to final destination, bother to wear a seat belt? Were they at such an emotional low they clicked the belt into place out of simple habit as opposed to an ironic view of their safety during the oncoming journey? Maybe they wished to avoid any entanglements with the law, and if they considered such things with apparent lucidity then was it not possible to bring themselves out from their most desperate hour?
If only things were as simple as the pleasant stroll he and Martha were now taking.
Parallel to them, the cat broke the shadows between a scattering of smaller rocks. Its eyes again reflecting the sunset. Not at all urban legend but real, as sure as his own heartbeat. Incredible. Crisp leaves whispered beneath its paws as it kept pace with them.
A small part of him knew he should be afraid, but …
Thinking back to the accident, Alfred squeezed Martha’s hand. Still she said nothing, nor did she return his small sign of affection. Was it affection? Guilt, most likely. The sun had been low in the sky and he had reduced his speed accordingly, but he should have seen the cat sooner. The next moments were lost to darkness … and now he was walking with Martha, walking away from that darkness.
Just as it had then, the bea
st leapt across their path. Hair glistened, muscles rippled. It bounded in front and froze between tree trunks on the edge of deepening shadows. A flurry of leaves swirled. The impressive beast huddled in a place where rays of red sunshine failed to penetrate.
The air seemed to shrink in Alfred's throat, and he and Martha jerked to a standstill. He must run, return to the car wreck. He had to call the police, an ambulance … Run, run away …
Those red eyes, not reflecting the sun at all but glowing from an inner fire, locked on to his own. A heat surged through his body, similar to that which filled him earlier in the day on the south-east coast; a rare warmth which arrived with a strange October, the two of them appreciating both the weather and the other’s company. He was lucky. They were lucky.
From behind them, leaves rustled. Getting louder. Voices too.
Alfred turned.
Two police officers approached between the trees, twigs snapping.
“Sir,” one of them shouted. “Stop there!”
Alfred looked back towards the cat. Its eyes burned, blinked once, and it tilted its great head. Then it darted off. Nothing more than a dark streak in shadowy folds, it vanished. A chill rushed through him. His fingers and toes numbed and his breath plumed before him in a lazy cloud. He dragged his eyes from the swaying foliage, from what looked like quivering shadow, and peered over his shoulder. His head throbbed.
All he could do was let go of Martha’s hand.
One policeman already stood a short distance from Alfred, while the other staggered to a halt further away.
A silence deepened the gloom.
The officer closest to Alfred opened his mouth to say something, but his colleague’s strangled words stopped him. Alfred frowned and wondered what they were both staring at. He followed their gazes, looking down at his feet.
Blood peppered his shoe and soaked into the earth. Next to that was Martha’s hand.
“Martha,” he said, “you should have worn your seat belt.”
MY NAME IS ANNE
I'd heard the stories and read the articles, but despite growing up under my grandparents’ care in the village, I had never once seen the Black Cat of Mabley Holt myself. And that had been frustrating. After all with its population of little more than one hundred, you would have thought I’d get at least one glimpse. As I grew older, even though the sightings were mostly reported by adults, I resigned myself to the idea it was something that happened only to little girls – if at all.
Kind of like seeing fairies.
Grandad claimed he’d seen the Black Cat, and that was all he spoke about after the accident. Three days later he’d died of a broken heart.
That had all happened last year.
A little piece of me had also died when I lost first Gran in that car crash, then Grandad. I took a modicum of comfort from the fact that I’d lived back home with them, in the room I’d had as a kid, for about a year before the accident, providing me with recent memories to cherish.
Orphaned at birth and an only grandchild, a failed marriage and unashamed cat lover, my life had seen its share of ups and downs. I’d meant to have been living there again only temporarily, but now they’d both gone, I guessed it was a good enough place to start a new chapter in my life.
So here I was, stepping out of my family home …
I zipped up my coat. The fresh morning rushed into my lungs, and I squeezed a pocket; I had a habit of forgetting my purse. It was in there. The front door clunked shut and I gave it a push to make certain it was locked. I walked down the short path that led to the road. No pavement, just the cracked tarmac of the country lane beyond an iron gate, which had remained open since the 1980s, rusted and tangled with brambles.
A blue Ford sped up the road.
“Speed bumps,” Gran always used to say. “The road needs speed bumps.”
Since the funeral, it seemed both their voices echoed a little too often. Especially over Christmas; how that house had echoed memories. Now spring approached, I still heard them.
Back in the autumn I’d lost them both, then five months later I’d lost Murphy, my own black cat, my little buddy.
I walked past the houses of my only two neighbours – each hemmed in by overgrown leylandii hedgerows – and headed up the road. It was a ten-minute walk to the local shop, along a winding lane with too many potholes. I needed some milk but figured I’d grab it on the way back from my walk.
I wanted to look for Murphy for the umpteenth time in less than a week.
My stroll followed a roadside ditch filled with the mulch of leaves and rain. Eventually, I rounded the last bend that led to a row of terraced cottages, beyond which was the shop.
The elderly lady who lived in one of the large houses further along the road stood in front of a telegraph pole, pinning something to it. Her name was Rose, one among a handful of residents who’d remained in Mabley Holt throughout my twenty-year absence. She stepped back from the poster of another missing cat.
My pace slowed.
She’d fixed her laminate below my own.
It had been six days since Murphy had left through the cat flap, having licked clean his bowl and not returned. My stomach churned a now-familiar sadness.
Rose’s down-turned mouth twisted into a weak smile when she saw me approach. I knew my mouth mirrored hers.
“Yours too, huh?” I said.
She nodded, her jowls wobbling slightly. “Helix has been gone four days now.”
“Almost a week for my Murphy.” I eyed his photo. It was the one I’d taken of him in front of a roaring fire the previous Christmas back when I’d lived up in Birmingham. My photo was in colour whereas Rose’s was in black and white, of her black and white cat.
“I still put fresh food out for him,” Rose said, “near the cat flap, just in case.”
“Me too.” I wondered how old Helix was.
“And biscuits.”
I wondered if I’d ever see Murphy again.
“And water,” she added.
Another car shot up the road. Again, too fast. When they finally completed the bypass, it should reduce the number of vehicles using the village as a cut-through. Too many times since Murphy’s disappearance I’d considered the possibility of his fate beneath speeding wheels.
“We can only hope,” I told her. “Keep looking, keep hoping.”
As I continued along the road towards where the pavement finally began, I of course scanned the last ditch, the last hedge, and the fields beyond, just looking for a tiny furry body. What I’d do should I actually find him there, I had no idea.
I shivered and made fists in my pockets; I should’ve worn gloves.
A black 4x4 was parked with two shiny alloy wheels over the pavement — probably the only off-roading the vehicle ever saw. Some of the smaller cottages didn’t have front gardens let alone a driveway or garage, and several had large vehicles which didn’t help the parking situation. Often, I’d overhear neighbours complain. I usually kept my car on the driveway, however it was currently gaining the attention it deserved after I’d ignored the Engine Management System warning light for too long. Having it breakdown on me a few days ago had brought on more tears than it deserved, but it just topped everything off.
The last twelve or so months had been incredibly sad: leaving Birmingham, a beautiful home and an incompatible husband, to return to my grandparents’ house all the way down in the south-east. The life I thought I wanted was just not for me so I had come back to the room I had as a little girl, welcomed with as much love as ever. Gran had made extra fuss, and she never tried to hide her joy at having me once again under their roof.
I reached the shop and paused, wondering if I should go in; I wanted to head up the road, wanted to look for Murphy near the church. Voices drifted from the gaping door beside me. A stack of bread crates had been left just inside the threshold: Hovis, Kingsmill, all household names that reminded me I should add bread to the list. I’d write a shopping list in my head and later forget
most of it when I was actually in the shop. I suspected that would happen again now.
“… stuff is everywhere …” It sounded like one of my neighbours, Harriet. Her voice carried like gunshots to chase me as I headed up the road. I could not be arsed with her right then. I wasn’t in the mood.
At the junction, the familiar smell of oil clung to the air – Mabley Holt residents had oil tanks in the garden because British Gas had never got around to connecting pipes to the village. To the left was the kiddie’s playground, and beyond that a rusted National Speed Limit sign gave way to another lane that wound towards the main road for Sevenoaks. Off to the right sat the church with its spire lancing into the overcast sky.
I rounded a ragstone wall that began at ankle level and soon towered above me, leading into the graveyard. By now it had to be 7.30 a.m. This had always been my favourite walk – there was something about treading the crooked and often overgrown path between moss-coated headstones and broken grave markers ... just something.
When I first returned to Mabley Holt I'd considered getting a dog for a walking companion, extra company alongside Murphy, but I preferred cats. Not only that, I didn’t think Grandad would have much liked the idea. Both he and Gran were cat lovers too, and had been more than happy when I’d come home with Murphy. There’s a strange kind of knowledge behind the sneaky intelligence of a cat, and that’s something I’d always admired and respected.
Murphy, where are you?
The air turned colder as I stepped into the shade of the church itself. White moss peppered the stonework, the walls chipped with years of abuse from the elements. This particular wall, I’d always noted, was battered more than the others and I assumed it was because it faced the open fields. From its place atop the hill, the church overlooked the valley that at this time of year was a mix of browns and greens. Today, patches of fog drifted at the edge of the far woodland. Soon there’d be a hint of rapeseed yellow to prove that spring was here, but not quite yet.