Hell Cat of the Holt

by Mark Cassell

  I didn’t know what was louder, my heartbeat or my breathing.

  The ghost’s lips parted, mist drifting across her face.

  “Help me,” she said, her mouth out of sync with her voice. It was like watching a badly dubbed movie.

  My hand tightened around the knife.

  Witch …

  I had no idea where that thought came from. Janice hadn’t spoken. Instead it was like a tiny voice at the back of my mind. Was it telling me this phantom woman was, or had been, a witch? Is this anything to do with Pippa’s impressive artwork?

  Blade.

  There it was again, that voice. The knife warmed in my grip, getting hotter, hotter …

  “You don’t need that,” Janice said. I assumed she meant the knife.

  “I …” I struggled to find words in a dry throat. “I’d rather keep it.”

  I was talking to a ghost, for bloody-hell’s sake.

  “Please,” she said, a sadness pulling at her eyes. “Please find Clive, he’s in danger.”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  My breath drifted through the apparition. Her transparent form wavered, swaying with her dress. Pools of shadow licked the carpet, the skirting, and traced her shoes that hovered above the floor.

  “You know where he is,” she assured me. “You’ve seen where it started.”

  “What?” I had no clue where she meant.

  Her eyes glazed over and her eyelids flickered.

  “You can save him, please.”

  “Where?”

  Her eyes flitted left and right. “You must!”

  I thought of the blackened copse I’d seen the day before. Perhaps that’s where it had started.

  “Yes.”

  I guessed this apparition could read my mind. Given all this insanity, who was to say she couldn’t?

  “Yes,” she said again and I didn’t know if she was repeating herself or confirming my suspicions.

  I should be running from the house right now, but I had something to do. I had to find Clive. Plus, it seemed I now needed to help his dead wife – I could not believe I was even entertaining such a crazy idea. My grip tightened around the knife. Besides, where the hell was Leo? Was he okay? He had fallen into the Fabric that I assumed took Clive – also Harriet for that matter. And that thing followed them all. Was it too late for them? Were they each now stitched together like that Frankenstein monstrosity?

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Your friend,” Janice said, “he is with Clive.”

  How did she even know this?

  “Find Clive, you will find your friend.”

  It made about as much sense as any of this did.

  The ghost’s eyes closed. “I cannot do anything from here, it has to …” Threads of darkness stitched her eyelids together. “… has to be …” More stitches wove through her lips, and her last words were muffled. “… be you.”

  The hallway light behind her dimmed. Her ghostly form stretched, blending with the fading light. My perception of the hallway behind warped as her form swirled with the churning fog.

  She vanished.

  I stepped back, still gripping the blade. My hand was hot, and I guessed it was because I held it so tight.

  Witchblade.

  Again, that voice inside my head.

  This ornate knife, the one I held … was called a Witchblade? Some of the artist’s paintings depicted witches. Mabley Holt was proving to be more than a village with Black Cat sightings. Pippa had somehow foreseen my involvement. Perhaps I should go talk to her before I went on some crazy rescue mission armed with a sacrificial blade.

  I ran.

  With the knife pointed to the floor so as not to stab myself, I ran downstairs and left the house. The chill mist dampened my skin when I staggered down the path.

  “What the fuck?” I shouted, my breath joining the mist. I didn’t know whether I should visit Pippa or head for the fields and to that blackened copse. Or indeed to leave the village. Just run. Get the hell out of this … this Hell.

  No time for the artist; I had to find Clive and Leo, and Harriet if it wasn’t too late for her.

  Guided by a silver moon, I ran through the fog and across the fields. To think, this past week I’d been looking for a missing cat.

  The damp air filled my lungs, my breath now rasping. I had no idea what the time was. Mud clumped my boots, and it wasn’t easy to run in them, even though I’d managed so far – I’d certainly have some blisters soon, if not already. Every inch of me was hot and sticky.

  I thought of the mud and the grass and the fog, and the sweat freezing my forehead as I ran … and thought nothing of what I was doing or what kind of Hell might be waiting for me. Odd how things can flash through your adrenaline-fuelled-scared-to-death mind when you’re running through a field in the middle of the night, holding a witch’s knife.

  Finally, there was the copse.

  Despite the blue-grey darkness beneath the cold moonlight, it looked different to how it had appeared earlier. Curls of mist draped around the jagged trunks and splintered branches that littered the ground. The trunks were smaller now. Shards of rock, much the same as the ones in my grandparents’ photograph, had erupted from the earth. Chunks of smaller rocks dotted the blackened ground. Shadows, too. Deep, dark. And sentient. In places, they churned with the broiling mist. Fungus had sprouted in places. Each with a quivering head, sweaty, in a tangle of what I assumed were vines. Those vines slithered as though they were still growing.

  The closer I got, the darker the mud at my feet became.

  Rocks speared the ground at all angles, having risen from beneath the field. This was not the result of an earthquake. I’d learnt these rocks were containment stones to mark a buried demon, and so if they’d risen of their own accord …

  Why the fuck wasn’t I running in the opposite direction? Was I really heading to this place armed with a little knife?

  The rocks had split into layers that reminded me of slate – I had no idea what type of rock they were – and a number of surfaces revealed coloured pictograms. At their base, the shadows moved. But … it was cats. Perhaps a dozen cats roamed the darkness between tufts of burnt grass.

  I jogged a little faster even though my stomach churned with fear. Hope. Murphy. Please God, let me find my little buddy.

  Where was Clive? Where was Leo?

  Some cats prowled, others were curled up against the rocks, some walked casually, while others stood alert with ears back; all seemed to give every stone attention. They had to be the domestic cats missing from around the village. More than a dozen. How were they all here?

  Murphy was there somewhere, I knew it.

  I wanted to call for him, yet my words didn’t come – realising it may not be a good idea to reveal my presence. I doubted I’d manage anything anyway, with my lungs on fire the way they were.

  There was Harriet. She crouched beside a shard of jutting rock with hands buried in the earth. Piles of dirt and broken stone heaped around her. There were no cats nearby; it was as though they deliberately kept clear of her. She continued to move her hands as though she rummaged beneath the surface in search of something.

  A mound of earth proved to be a good spot for me to calm myself and hide from – what, the cats? The shadows? I had no idea, but I didn’t want to get too close. Not yet. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  Harriet straightened up, her arms coming free of the dirt. Mud and black filth dripped from her fingers.

  My hand tightened around the hilt of the blade; somehow comforting. I moved out again, keeping close to the ground, slowing my approach and equally trying to slow my breathing.

  Her hands twitched. For a moment, I wondered if she was behind all this – could she be a witch? I knew in this age of mobile phones and space travel there were self-professed witches out there. The modern-day witch was so far removed from the 17th-century burn-at-the-stake witch hunts of that era, and that made me think of Pip
pa’s painting of the burning woman. In today’s society, we had mediums and such. I’d never believed in clairvoyance or tarot or any of that nonsense, but I guessed people could exercise witchcraft if they wanted to. It’s not all about the goat-sacrificing witchcraft from that horror movie I’d seen once with Grandad. I assumed modern-day witchcraft was much more … civilised? At least, there were a lot of people out there who believed in it. Me? I’d been a non-believer up until about twenty-four hours ago.

  Keeping low to the ground, I rustled through the tall grass and past another heap of earth and headed for a chunk of rock. This one sat in a trench, and it looked like it had somehow been propelled from the centre of the copse. Who’s to say it hadn’t done precisely that?

  Huddled in the shadows, I peered around its bulk.

  Harriet moved. Her arms and legs wobbled, her head flopping back, and the shadows swept her upwards. A spreading darkness webbed from the giant shards of stone. It reminded me of the vortex from Pippa’s canvas, the one she’d painted of the two men being pulled into the shadows.

  The remaining blackened tree trunks splintered amid snaps and cracks. It sounded like gunshots. Traces of fog twisted and churned with the darkness as Harriet’s body hovered overhead. Her arms and legs stretched back as coiling tendrils of shadow strung her up against the rock.

  Several of the prowling cats stopped, hackles raising, tails bristling. They watched Harriet as more wispy shadows slid around her limbs. Black filth dripped from her saturated clothes.

  Still she rose higher.

  All the cats now appeared as though they didn’t want to – or indeed, couldn’t – approach the shadows that rippled along the ground. Fungus heads had sprouted in places, and barbed vines slithered through the tall grass and heaped mud. It was like the cats lurked on the perimeter, unable to advance, being held back by the twisting vines.

  Something moved in the shadows beyond the perimeter of rocks.

  Leo.

  He had Clive with him, lugging the older man along with an arm draped over his shoulder. Black filth covered them both. Leo staggered, struggling to remain upright. A cat darted from beneath his feet as he lurched past one of the rocks. He looked up and his eyes widened as he saw Harriet in the air, those shadows stretched from stone to stone. He jerked sideways, trying to get further away, dragging Clive with him.

  I stood. Not wanting to, but I had to help. I looked past the men, making sure nothing was nearby. No cats or anything else for that matter. Especially no shadows around.

  Still, I kept low as I hurried forward approaching the huge stones, but staying on the perimeter.

  Harriet screamed; loud and shrill on the night.

  The poor woman had finally regained consciousness. She wrestled with the shadows as they tightened around her. Like a corkscrew of darkness, the shadows speared her hands and wound through her flesh, shredding her clothes. Flaps of skin swung from glistening bone as the darkness burrowed into her muscle and stripped it away.

  Leo had backed up, yet it looked like one of those vines had wrapped itself around Clive’s ankle. They both fell to the ground, their clothes slick with mud and muck. Leo kicked out at the vines and in retaliation they whipped and flailed, thumping and slapping the ground. He was on his knees, his head swaying; he looked ready to collapse.

  I ran towards them, almost tripping as I neared the last stone. A cat darted away.

  By now, overhead in a writhing mess of blood and shadow, Harriet’s body was nothing but ripped clothes and bone shards, wobbling flesh and torn organs. All the while the darkness roiled around the gruesome mess in a frenzy.

  Stitching.

  It was stitching it together, piece by piece, out of shape and awkwardly angled, defying human anatomy.

  I had to look away.

  “Leo!” I said, not wanting to shout, not wanting to bring attention to us. I came to crouch beside the two men.

  Blood soaked Clive’s trousers where the vine clamped his ankle, lacerating his flesh with dozens of barbs. The old man dribbled, mumbling.

  Gripping the Witchblade tighter, I hacked at the vines. Black muck sprayed, covering my hand and arm. It stung. Slick and sticky, the knife slipped in my grip, yet I held on. The stink filled my throat and I choked as I stabbed and slashed. Finally, the vine tore apart, wet and sinewy like a gutted fish, and it slithered away, retreating into the thicket of grass and fungus.

  Clive’s eyes rolled back in his sockets, his head swaying.

  “Stay with me,” I told him, wiping my hand on my trouser leg.

  Leo was on his hands and knees, coughing.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  His eyes were bloodshot, staring through a slick mask of filth. He nodded.

  The roar overhead diminished and we both turned to watch the shadows open up beneath the churned crimson mess that was once Harriet.

  A stitched limb speared up from the darkness. Fog and shadow dispersed. Another. And another. Four of them, clutching at the edges of the void to pull itself free. It was the Frankenstein monstrosity from earlier, somehow more refined, smoother, more agile though it jerked like some clambering insect. It was like a bloated sack of patchwork skin, stitched with clothes.

  “The Construct,” Leo said. “The Demon must be near.”

  That fleshy Construct, still headless, floated upwards as though swept along on a black sea. The rush of blood and muck that no longer was Harriet twisted in an insane tornado of fog and shadow, and spun around the Construct.

  In a blur, they stitched together.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here, Leo,” I said. “Now!”

  There was a rustle from behind.

  I turned.

  At the same time, the moon slid behind a stretch of cloud and the shadows pressed in on us. Normal shadows, I hoped. There, with its great paws out in front as though ready to pounce, stood the Black Cat. Although the darkness smothered me, smothered us, I saw its outline of bristling hair and those burning eyes. Its silhouette in the darkness was more formidable than the quivering hulk of flesh in the centre of the whirling mass of Shadow Fabric.

  It growled behind its stitched lips.

  Moonlight washed over us. Relief.

  So far, this beast hadn’t harmed me. But with the horrific scene that was unfolding in the burned-out copse, I didn’t fancy my chances. Slowly, I got up while Leo struggled to lift Clive.

  Dirt fell from my trousers as I straightened up.

  I glanced over at the stitched monster that had now sharpened, became more real. The shadows had thinned, too. Leo had Clive up on his knees, and the two men straightened into an awkward standing position.

  The Black Cat was no longer there.

  I stepped back, glancing left and right. All that remained of its presence was singed grass and drifting smoke.

  Further along on the edge of the copse, in a whirlwind of fog and shadow, of mud and debris, the Cat reappeared again. It paced back and forth as though it tested the perimeter. With purposeful strides, it headed back in our direction. Then stopped …

  Its eyes flared, it hunched, ready to pounce.

  I froze, and screamed.

  It darted towards us.

  “Anne!” Leo shouted, “duck!”

  I dropped to my knees, my hands slapping mud as the Cat bounded through the grass. Its paws hammered the ground, its breath steaming, and its eyes trailing a fire that spiralled in its wake. As it neared us, I waited for the impact, but it leapt overhead at the last moment, straight for the Construct. Hot wind rushed over us amid the heavy stink of animal and burning.

  By now, the shadows around the copse had dispersed and the wobbling mass spread itself out across the grass, clutching at the charred trunks of branches. Smoke rose from where the fleshy lump shifted its weight. Pus and ichor oozed from between the patchwork of stitches.

  Tiny fires licked the branches.

  The Cat slammed into the monster with a wet thump. Filth sprayed everywhere, splashing the g
round. Flames hissed.

  All of the domestic cats shot off in different directions, heading away. Apart from one. This cat’s movements, the shape, the way the tail swiped left and right as it moved, was unmistakable. I had no doubt who it was.

  I stood slowly.

  It was Murphy.

  And he headed towards me.

  Clamped in his mouth was what I guessed to be a mouse, or even a rat. It was large, that was for certain. In no hurry, with the Cat and Construct wrestling behind him, he strolled towards me. The closer he got, the more I realised it wasn’t a rodent he had clamped between his teeth.

  My stomach hollowed.

  In his mouth was a hand. A human hand, shrivelled, almost skeletal.

  Murphy dropped it by my boot and looked up at me.

  While the Black Cat and the monster writhed nearby amid heaps of earth, broken stones, and blackened branches, I watched Murphy dart off across the field. Smoke burned in my throat. The surrounding fires strengthened to cast an orange glow on the decayed hand. Repulsed, I staggered backwards. A ring on one of the fingers glinted, reflecting the flames.

  “Whose is that?” Leo asked as he came up alongside me, still struggling to keep Clive upright.

  My voice sounded far away as I said, “Gran.” I remembered learning of how she’d suffered serious wounds in the accident, but how had her hand ended up here? Why hadn’t Murphy stayed with me?

  Tears blurred my vision.

  The Black Cat wrestled with the quivering mass of flesh, its hair slick with filth. The thing’s lumpy appendages flopped as it fought off the attack. Loud, wet slaps echoed. The Cat only had its claws for weapons because of its mouth stitched the way it was, but it easily sliced through the disgusting patchwork flesh.

  Clive murmured something.

  With a surprising bout of sudden strength, as though from a hidden reserve, the old man shoved Leo aside.

  “What the—?” Caught off guard, Leo lost his grip.