American supernatural tales

by S. T. Joshi

  Called this to Poroths’ attention. They said, in effect, Yes, we know, she’s always been nasty to the kittens, probably because she never had any of her own. And besides, she’s getting older.

  When I turned back to the window, Bwada was gone. Asked the Poroths if they didn’t think she’d gotten worse lately. Realized that, in speaking, I’d unconsciously dropped my voice, as if someone might be listening through the chinks in the floor-boards.

  Deborah conceded that, yes, the cat is behaving worse these days toward the others. And not just toward the kittens, as before. Butch, the adult orange male, seems particularly afraid of her. . . .

  Am a little angry at the Poroths. Will have to tell them when I see them tomorrow morning. They claim they never come into these rooms, respect privacy of a tenant, etc. etc., but one of them must have been in here, because I’ve just noticed my can of insect spray is missing. I don’t mind their borrowing it, but I like to have it by my bed on nights like this. Went over room looking for spiders, just in case; had a fat copy of American Scholar in my hand to crush them (only thing it’s good for). But found nothing.

  Tried to read some Walden as a break from all the horror stuff, but found my eyes too irritated, watery. Keep scratching them as I write this. Nose pretty clogged, too—the damned allergy’s worse tonight. Probably because of the dampness. Expect I’ll have trouble getting to sleep.

  JUNE 24

  Slept very late this morning because the noise from the woods kept me up late last night. (Come to think of it, the Poroths’ praying was unusually loud as well, but that wasn’t what bothered me.) I’d been in the middle of writing in this journal—some thoughts on A. E. Coppard—when it came. I immediately stopped writing and shut off the light.

  At first it sounded like something in the woods near my room—an animal? a child? I couldn’t tell, but smaller than a man—shuffling through the dead leaves, kicking them around as if it didn’t care who heard it. There was a snapping of branches and, every so often, a silence and then a bump, as if it were hopping over fallen logs. I stood in the dark listening to it, then crept to the window and looked out. Thought I noticed some bushes moving, back there in the undergrowth, but it may have been the wind.

  The sound grew farther away. Whatever it was must have been walking directly out into the deepest part of the woods, where the ground gets swampy and treacherous, because, very faintly, I could hear the sucking sounds of feet slogging through the mud.

  I stood by the window for almost an hour, occasionally hearing what I thought were movements off there in the swamp, but finally all was quiet except for the crickets and the frogs. I had no intention of going out there with my flashlight in search of the intruder—that’s for guys in stories, I’m much too chicken—and I wondered if I should call Sarr. But by this time the noise had stopped and whatever it was had obviously moved on. Besides, I tend to think he’d have been angry if I’d awakened him and Deborah just because some stray dog had wandered near the farm. I recalled how annoyed he’d been earlier that day when—maybe not all that tactfully—I’d asked him what he’d done with my bug spray. (Must remember to walk into town tomorrow and pick up a can. Still can’t figure out where I misplaced mine.)

  I went over to the windows on the other side and watched the moonlight on the barn for a while; my nose probably looked crosshatched from pressing against the screen. In contrast to the woods, the grass looked peaceful under the full moon. Then I lay in bed, but had a hard time falling asleep. Just as I was getting relaxed the sounds started again. High-pitched wails and caterwauls, from deep within the woods. Even after thinking about it all today, I still don’t know whether the noise was human or animal. There were no actual words, of that I’m certain, but nevertheless there was the impression of singing. In a crazy, tuneless kind of way the sound seemed to carry the same solemn rhythm as the Poroths’ prayers earlier that night.

  The noise only lasted a minute or two, but I lay awake till the sky began to get lighter. Probably should have read a little more Coppard, but was reluctant to turn on the lamp.

  . . . Slept all morning and, in the afternoon, followed the road the opposite direction from Gilead, seeking anything of interest. But the road just gets muddier and muddier till it disappears altogether by the ruins of an old homestead—rocks and cement covered with moss—and it looked so much like poison ivy around there that I didn’t want to risk tramping through.

  At dinner (pork chops, home-grown stringbeans, and pudding—quite good), mentioned the noise of last night. Sarr acted very concerned and went to his room to look up something in one of his books; Deborah and I discussed the matter at some length and concluded that the shuffling sounds weren’t necessarily related to the wailing. The former were almost definitely those of a dog—dozens in the area, and they love to prowl around at night, exploring, hunting coons—and as for the wailing . . . well, it’s hard to say. She thinks it may have been an owl or whippoorwill, while I suspect it may have been that same stray dog. I’ve heard the howl of wolves and I’ve heard hounds baying at the moon, and both have the same element of, I suppose, worship in them that these did.

  Sarr came back downstairs and said he couldn’t find what he’d been looking for. Said that when he moved into this farm he’d had “a fit of piety” and had burned a lot of old books he’d found in the attic; now he wishes he hadn’t.

  Looked up something on my own after leaving the Poroths. Field Guide to Mammals lists both red and gray foxes and, believe it or not, coyotes as surviving here in New Jersey. No wolves left, though—but the guide might be wrong.

  Then, on a silly impulse, opened another reference book, Barbara Byfield’s Glass Harmonica. Sure enough, my hunch was right: looked up June twenty-third, and it said, “St. John’s Eve. Sabbats likely.”

  I’ll stick to the natural explanation. Still, I’m glad Mrs. Byfield lists nothing for tonight; I’d like to get some sleep. There is, of course, a beautiful full moon—werewolf weather, as Maria Ouspenskaya might have said. But then, there are no wolves left in New Jersey. . . .

  (Which reminds me, really must read some Marryat and Endore. But only after Northanger Abbey; my course always comes first.)

  JUNE 25

  . . . After returning from town, the farm looked very lonely. Wish they had a library in Gilead with more than religious tracts. Or a stand that sold the Times. (Though it’s strange how, after a week or two, you no longer miss it.)

  Overheated from walk—am I getting out of shape? Or is it just the hot weather? Took a cold shower. When I opened the bathroom door I accidentally let Bwada out—I’d wondered why the chair was propped against it. She raced into the kitchen, pushed open the screen door by herself, and I had no chance to catch her. (Wouldn’t have attempted to anyway; her claws are wicked.) I apologized later when Deborah came in from the fields. She said Bwada had become vicious toward the other cats and that Sarr had confined her to the bathroom as punishment. The first time he’d shut her in there, Deborah said, the cat had gotten out; apparently she’s smart enough to turn the doorknob by swatting at it a few times. Hence the chair.

  Sarr came in carrying Bwada, both obviously out of temper. He’d seen a streak of orange running through the field toward him, followed by a gray blur. Butch had stopped at his feet and Bwada had pounced on him, but before she could do any damage Sarr had grabbed her around the neck and carried her back here. He’d been bitten once and scratched a lot on his hands, but not badly; maybe the cat still likes him best. He threw her back in the bathroom and shoved the chair against the door, then sat down and asked Deborah to join him in some silent prayer. I thumbed uneasily through a religious magazine till they were done, and we sat down to dinner.

  I apologized again, but he said he wasn’t mad at me, that the Devil had gotten into his cat. It was obvious he meant that quite literally. During dinner (omelet—the hens have been laying well) we heard a grating sound from the bathroom, and Sarr ran in to find her almost out the window; som
ehow she must have been strong enough to slide the sash up partway. She seemed so placid, though, when Sarr pulled her down from the sill—he’d been expecting another fight—that he let her out into the kitchen. At this she simply curled up near the stove and went to sleep; I guess she’d worked off her rage for the day. The other cats gave her a wide berth, though.

  Watched a couple of hours of television with the Poroths. They may have gone to college, but the shows they find interesting . . . God! I’m ashamed of myself for sitting there like a cretin in front of that box. I won’t even mention what we watched, lest history record the true abysmality of my tastes.

  And yet I find that the TV draws us closer, as if we were having an adventure together. Shared experience, really. Like knowing the same people or going to the same school.

  But there’s a lot of duplicity in those Poroths—and I don’t mean just religious hypocrisy, either. Came out here after watching the news, and though I hate to accuse anyone of spying on me, there’s no doubt that Sarr or Deborah has been inside this room today. I began tonight’s entry with great irritation because I found my desk in disarray; this journal wasn’t even put back in the right drawer. I keep all my pens on one side, all my pencils on another, ink and erasers in the middle, etc., and when I sat down tonight I saw that everything was out of place. Thank God I haven’t included anything too personal in here. . . . What I assume happened was that Deborah came in to wash the mildew off the walls—she’s mentioned doing so several times, and she knew I’d be in town part of the day—and got sidetracked into reading this, thinking it must be some kind of secret diary. (I’m sure she was disappointed to find that it’s merely a literary journal, with nothing about her in it.)

  What bugs me is the difficulty of broaching the subject. I can’t just walk in and charge Deborah with being a sneak—Sarr is moody enough as it is—and even if I hint at “someone messing up my desk,” they’ll know what I mean and perhaps get angry. Whenever possible I prefer to avoid unpleasantness. I guess the best thing to do is simply hide this book under my mattress from now on and say nothing. If it happens again, though, I’ll definitely move out of here.

  . . . I’ve been reading some Northanger Abbey. Really quite witty, as all her stuff is, but it’s obvious the mock-Gothic bit isn’t central to the story. I’d thought it was going to be a real parody. . . . Love stories always tend to bore me, and normally I’d be asleep right now, but my damned nose is so clogged tonight that it’s hard to breathe when I lie back. Usually being out here clears it up. I’ve used this goddamned inhaler a dozen times in the past hour, but within a few minutes I sneeze and have to use it again. Wish Deborah’d gotten around to cleaning off the mildew instead of wasting her time looking in here for True Confessions and deep dark secrets. . . .

  Think I hear something moving outside. Best to shut off my light.

  JUNE 30

  Slept late. Read some Shirley Jackson stories over breakfast, but got so turned off at her view of humanity that I switched to old Aleister Crowley, who at least keeps a sunny disposition. For her, people in the country are callous and vicious, those in the city are callous and vicious, husbands are (of course) callous and vicious, and children are merely sadistic. The only ones with feelings are her put-upon middle-aged heroines, with whom she obviously identifies. I guess if she didn’t write so well the stories wouldn’t sting so.

  Inspired by Crowley, walked back to the pool in the woods. Had visions of climbing a tree, swinging on vines, anything to commemorate his exploits. . . . Saw something dead floating in the center of the pool and ran back to the farm. Copperhead? Caterpillar? It had somehow opened up. . . .

  Joined Sarr chopping stakes for tomatoes. Could hear his ax all over the farm. He told me Bwada hadn’t come home last night, and no sign of her this morning. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. Helped him chop some stakes while he was busy peeling off bark. That ax can get heavy fast! My arm hurt after three lousy stakes, and Sarr had already chopped fifteen or sixteen. Must start exercising. But I’ll wait till my arm’s less tired. . . .

  JULY 2

  Unpleasant day. Two a.m. now and still can’t relax.

  Sarr woke me up this morning—stood at my window calling “Jeremy . . . Jeremy . . .” over and over very quietly. He had something in his hand which, through the screen, I first took for a farm implement; then I saw it was a rifle. He said he wanted me to help him. With what? I asked.

  “A burial.”

  Last night, after he and Deborah had gone to bed, they’d heard the kitchen door open and someone enter the house. They both assumed it was me, come to use the bathroom—but then they heard the cats screaming. Sarr ran down and switched on the light in time to see Bwada on top of Butch, claws in his side, fangs buried in his neck. From the way he described it, sounds almost sexual in reverse. Butch had stopped struggling, and Minnie, the orange kitten, was already dead. The door was partly open, and when Bwada saw Sarr, she ran out.

  Sarr and Deborah hadn’t followed her; they’d spent the night praying over the bodies of Minnie and Butch. I thought I’d heard their voices late last night, but that’s all I heard, probably because I’d been playing my radio. (Something I rarely do—you can’t hear noises from the woods with it on.)

  Poroths took deaths the way they’d take the death of a child. Regular little funeral service over by the unused pasture. (Hard to say if Sarr and Deborah were dressed in mourning, since that’s the way they always dress.) Must admit I didn’t feel particularly involved—my allergy’s never permitted me to take much interest in the cats, though I’m fond of Felix—but I tried to act concerned: when Sarr asked, appropriately, “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?” (Jeremiah VIII:22), I nodded gravely. Read passages out of Deborah’s Bible (Sarr seemed to know them all by heart), said amen when they did, knelt when they knelt, and tried to comfort Deborah when she cried. Asked her if cats could go to heaven, received a tearful “Of course.” But Sarr added that Bwada would burn in hell.

  What concerned me, apparently a lot more than it did either of them, was how the damned thing could get into the house. Sarr gave me this stupid, earnest answer: “She was always a smart cat.” Like an outlaw’s mother, still proud of her baby. . . .

  Yet he and I looked all over the land for her so he could kill her. Barns, tool shed, old stables, garbage dump, etc. He called her and pleaded with her, swore to me she hadn’t always been like this.

  We could hardly check every tree on the farm—unfortunately—and the woods are a perfect hiding place, even for animals larger than a cat. So naturally we found no trace of her. We did try, though; we even walked up the road as far as the ruined homestead.

  But for all that, we could have stayed much closer to home.

  We returned for dinner, and I stopped at my room to change clothes. My door was open. Nothing inside was ruined, everything was in its place, everything as it should be—except the bed. The sheets were in tatters right down to the mattress, and the pillow had been ripped to shreds. Feathers were all over the floor. There were even claw marks on my blanket.

  At dinner the Poroths demanded they be allowed to pay for the damage—nonsense, I said, they have enough to worry about—and Sarr suggested I sleep downstairs in their living room. “No need for that,” I told him, “I’ve got lots more sheets.” But he said no, he didn’t mean that: he meant for my own protection. He believes the thing is particularly inimical, for some reason, toward me.

  It seemed so absurd at the time. . . . I mean, nothing but a big fat gray cat. But now, sitting out here, a few feathers still scattered on the floor around my bed, I wish I were back inside the house. I did give in to Sarr when he insisted I take his ax with me. . . . But what I’d rather have is simply a room without windows.

  I don’t think I want to go to sleep tonight, which is one reason I’m continuing to write this. Just sit up all night on my new bedsheets, my back against the Poroths’ pillow, leaning against the wall behind
me, the ax beside me on the bed, this journal on my lap. . . . The thing is, I’m rather tired out from all the walking I did today. Not used to that much exercise.

  I’m pathetically aware of every sound. At least once every five minutes some snapping of a branch or rustling of leaves makes me jump.

  “Thou art my hope in the day of evil.” At least that’s what the man said. . . .

  JULY 3

  Woke up this morning with the journal and the ax cradled in my arms. What awakened me was the trouble I had breathing—nose all clogged, gasping for breath. Down the center of one of my screens, facing the woods, was a huge slash. . . .

  JULY 15

  Pleasant day, St. Swithin’s Day—and yet, my birthday. Thirty years old, lordy lordy lordy. Today I am a man. First dull thoughts on waking: “Damnation. Thirty today.” But another voice inside me, smaller but more sensible, spat contemptuously at such an artificial way of charting time. “Ah, don’t give it another thought,” it said. “You’ve still got plenty of time to fool around.” Advice I took to heart.

  Weather today? Actually, somewhat nasty. And thus the weather for the next forty days, since “If rain on St. Swithin’s Day, forsooth, no summer drouthe,” or something like that. My birthday predicts the weather. It’s even mentioned in The Glass Harmonica.

  As one must, took a critical self-assessment. First area for improvement: flabby body. Second? Less bookish, perhaps? Nonsense—I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made. “And seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek them not.” (Jeremiah XLV:5) So I simply did what I remembered from the RCAF exercise series and got good and winded. Flexed my stringy muscles in the shower, certain I’ll be a Human Dynamo by the end of the summer. Simply a matter of willpower.