I love Halloween. I get giddy with excitement in October. For me, Halloween represents a time where imagination runs rampant. We watch scary movies, read creepy stories, and visit monster mazes. We dress up in crazy costumes. We enjoy playing pretend because we know that none of it is real.
But I dare say there is a creepy crawly thought in the back of my mind, that thinks, or perhaps knows, reality may be more devious than it seems.
The following short story dabbles with that very improbable possibility.
I love cats, especially black ones with bright green eyes, which happens to be exactly the way I would describe Mr. Whiskers. He’s a stray cat, and like many stray cats, he has a knack for finding kind souls, like Thelma, to feed him.
This story happened not long ago, a few days before Halloween. How did I hear about it? Rumors, of course, the way all bad news travels fast and wide in a small town. And since there are so many small towns in this world, it may have even happened in your neck of the woods. But I digress. The story goes something like this, as seen through the eyes of Thelma herself…
“No, no, no! Don’t go in there!” I watch helplessly as the black cat enters the Anderson house.
With an open can of cat food in my left hand and a spoon in my right, I stare at the empty residence, the infamous, neighborhood haunted house. Dread, pure dread, drizzles down from my brain to my feet. I don’t want to go in there.
I wish I could rewind time.
It all happened so fast! Mr. Whiskers (my name for the black cat) was frightened by a husky running loose on the street. The cat and I were in the midst of our nightly routine. Mr. Whiskers meowing at my door for his second can of cat food for the day. I dutifully opened my door with dinner in hand, when the husky came out of nowhere.
There was a flurry of a chase, a crazy lady screaming at the top of her lungs (me), and the chaos ended with Mr. Whiskers jumping into the Anderson house through a broken window.
I feel like crying. I’ve really come to love that cat.
Damn, Edgar! I’ve begged him to let me keep Mr. Whiskers. More than anything, I want to bring him inside to live with us. We don’t have children of our own. Edgar refuses to, says he likes his peace and quiet when he comes home. We’ve been married for ten years. Ten very long, dog years.
Edgar wasn’t always a jerk. When we first met, he was very romantic. He’d buy me flowers every Sunday just to make me smile. Edgar was the one who first talked of having children. In fact, that’s how he proposed. He said he wanted to have a long, beautiful life together in a house filled with the laughter of children.
Now, he won’t even let me adopt a cat.
But Edgar isn’t home tonight. He’s out of town on business. I planned to bring Mr. Whiskers inside the house for the weekend. On Monday, I’m taking him to live with Mrs. Wilson. She’s a sweet woman in her late seventies, who has agreed to let Mr. Whiskers live with her until we can find him a forever home.
I only wish his forever home would be with me.
Why did Mr. Whiskers have to go inside that house?
The Anderson house is legendary for its bad luck. I’m not one for superstitions. But I do believe in statistics. Numbers are pretty straightforward, unlike people.
This creepy, old Victorian home has been abandoned for the past five years with good reason. As far as anyone remembers, no couple has remained together longer than six months after moving in. Sometimes, they split up right away, within the first twenty-four hours. Other times, all seems to be going well until unexpected tragedy strikes. But no one makes it a day after six months.
It doesn’t always end in death, although small town gossip claims it has quite often. Edgar and I witnessed what you could say was an attempted murder with the last owners, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter. When Mrs. Baxter found out about Mr. Baxter having another secret family on the other side of town, she chased him around the house in her bathrobe, taking swings at him with a meat cleaver.
Edgar called the cops. Mrs. Baxter got in a few good chops before the police arrived. After they were hauled away by ambulance and police car, we never saw the Baxters again.
Like I said, it’s not always as dramatic as the Baxters. Many times, the couples simply get divorced and go their separate ways.
But here’s the kicker. No one ever comes back to get their stuff. They refuse to ever enter the house again. Rumors say that many claim to have seen things that shouldn’t have been there. Haunted. Most say the house is haunted, riddled with vengeful ghosts.
The universal truth is that all are frightened by whatever they saw. They leave everything behind. Someone else, a hired junk removal service, usually does the unwanted job of clearing out the place for the new owner. No one ever came to take away the Baxter’s belongings, so as far as I know, all their stuff is still there.
Oh, why did Mr. Whiskers have to run in there! I hope the Anderson house makes an exception for a middle-aged woman trying to save a cat. Maybe it will let the curse slide just this once?
Edgar would snicker at me if he was here. He certainly wouldn’t help. No, he’d definitely make fun of me and call me stupid.
Lately, he’s been working out at the gym, losing weight, buying fancy clothes, and criticizing the extra twenty pounds I’ve packed on since our wedding day. He’s been working late hours and coming home in the middle of the night. He barely talks to me, except to wake me up to heat up his dinner.
I take a deep breath. Armed with my can of cat food, I approach the front door. It’s probably locked, especially since I haven’t seen anyone enter for years. But still, I try my luck and turn the doorknob.
To my surprise, and frank horror, it opens easily.
My courage abandons me. I don’t care if the rumors about this house are just an urban legend. Numbers don’t lie.
“Meow,” Mr. Whiskers calls out to me.
Without thinking, I step inside. Think Dracula’s lair and you’ll be able to envision the foyer and cascading staircase I see before me. I would have never guessed that the interior would be so dramatic. Yes, it’s a large, two-story Victorian home on the outside, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it could house such a grand entrance. But still, given this modern era and the modest homes on the rest of the street, I’m taken back. I can see why the Baxters were willing to buy this house, even despite its tainted past.
The furniture is modern and not as elaborate as the bones of the house. My hands are shaking badly, but I manage to use my cell phone light so I can look around. There is a living room off to one side with couches and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. On the other side of the foyer is the entrance to the kitchen.
I have a terrible feeling that I’m trespassing where I shouldn’t be and consider that perhaps it might be best to leave Mr. Whiskers here for the night. I can search for him in the morning when I can see better. As if reading my thoughts and answering with a resounding no, I hear the front door slam shut behind me.
Electrified with fear, I turn around, fully expecting to see an ax murderer or gruesome ghost. But no one is there, which makes me feel better in one way and worse in another. I race to the door and try to open it. But it won’t budge. The doorknob won’t turn. I pull on it, hit it, curse at it, but nothing works.
I’m tempted to break a window. I don’t care if someone discovers I’ve trespassed or accuses me of breaking in. I just want out! Before I can grab a heavy object, Mr. Whiskers meows and rubs my pant leg.
I look down. His big green eyes look up at me. Tears stream down my face. I’m trapped. I don’t believe in ghosts or things that go bump in the night, but my gut tells me something is terribly wrong with this house.
“Mr. Whiskers, what should I do?” I ask him in desperation. “I’m so scared,” I confess to the cat.
It’s silly, talking to a cat. I’m pathetic. If Edgar was here, he’d tell me I was a damn fool.
“You should be afraid,” I hear a male voice answer back, as I watch Mr. Whiskers stretch and grow. I am both horrified and mesmerized. His shape contorts and changes from a black cat into a man dressed in an expensive black suit.
So, this is what insanity feels like, I tell myself. I’ve lost my freaking mind! I drop the can of cat food and hear it clang on the floor.
“Now, that’s unfortunate,” the man laments as he looks at the splattered cat food. He shakes his head, “I love that flavor. What a pity!”
“You’re not real!” I shout at him, taking a step backward.
“Oh no, I’m very real, Thelma. But I understand your confusion,” he tilts his head to the side and smiles in an effort to communicate empathy. His green eyes are stunning. They are no longer catlike but are gorgeous and spellbinding contrasted with his dark hair and black suit. He begins to slowly move about the foyer and continues on, “I rarely reveal myself to anyone. Most find the revelation a bit unsettling. But for you, my dearest Thelma, I’ve decided to make an exception.”
I’m trembling with fear. But at the same time, I can’t stop myself from looking at him. He’s so handsome! His dark silky black hair, athletic build, and the way he moves with grace and confidence. He smiles at me in a way that makes me think he finds me attractive too.
Fear has short-circuited my brain. I’ve lost my marbles and created some kind of weird fantasy where Mr. Whiskers becomes the sexiest man alive.
“As I was saying, you’re right to be afraid,” the man reiterates. His words reflexively cause me to take a step backward. “Oh, no, you are in no danger from me. In fact, I’m the only thing here you should not be afraid of. But you can feel it, can’t you? There is danger all around you. That unsettling feeling that nothing is as it should be, and that although you’re not sure what it is, you can feel something sinister closing in,” his words freeze me where I stand. I should back away, given that he is moving towards me.
“What should I be afraid of?” I ask, feeling both frightened and curious of what answer Mr. Whiskers might give.
“This house collects secrets, as all haunted places do. It attracts those who have something to hide, something terrible that must be revealed. Secrecy feeds on shame, fear, and other things of the shadow world. And this house has been gathering such things for centuries. So much so, that the hair on the arms raise the minute you walk through the door, although most would deny it. But trust my words, many bad things have been collected here,” Mr. Whiskers warns.
“What are you?” I ask.
Mr. Whiskers moves in even closer, his face close enough so that his breath warms mine. He looks at me with his bright green eyes, “A friend who is afraid for you.” He smiles to show his sincerity, and although I should be terrified, who could resist such a handsome face?
“What should I be afraid of?” I probe further.
“Not trusting me. If you suspend your disbelief and do exactly as I say when I tell you to, then you might leave this place alive. But if you don’t, well, I shudder to think of the consequences,” he shakes his head to exaggerate his sentiment.
I nod to give my consent. Mr. Whiskers smiles back and gently takes my hand into his. He holds it so tenderly that I almost tear up. When was the last time Edgar held my hand like this? Did he ever treat me this way? I can’t even remember.
“Follow me,” Mr. Whiskers says as he leads me through the kitchen and stops in front of a closed door.
My guess is this door will lead us to the basement.
It’s never good to go into a basement. If I’ve learned anything from watching scary movies, whatever you find in a creepy basement, you later wish you hadn’t.
Mr. Whiskers opens the door, and still holding my hand, leads me down the steps. I start to hear things moving upstairs, heavy footsteps, loud shrieks, and furniture moving about. I gasp. My body freezes.
Mr. Whiskers leans in close and whispers into my ear, “Never mind the noises upstairs. Those ghosts are not relevant to you. They are playing out past secrets, such is the nightly routine in a haunted house. They have nothing to do with us. What you need to pay attention to are the things down here, my dearest Thelma.”
Terror, complete terror, would be the correct feeling right now, the only logical feeling. But hearing him say “dearest Thelma” starts my heart racing in a different way. That’s how love starved I am after ten years with Edgar! A cat who turns into a man in a haunted house, where I will most likely die as I go down into the basement, says “dearest” and my heart goes pitter patter.
Then again, those green eyes, that smile, and a perfect body! Most women would be tempted to follow him anywhere.
We reach the bottom of the steps, and the lights come on. Frightened, I grab onto Mr. Whiskers. He puts his arm around me, “I’m here. Whatever you see, it will not hurt you as long as you follow my lead. I’ve brought you down here to show you something. Something the house inhabitants want you to see.”
“How do you know what the ghosts want?” I ask, pushing myself away from him.
“Cats and ghosts communicate regularly. We often do it to protect the ones we love. The ones who feed us,” he laughs as he playfully taps my nose with his fingertip. “I came across these ghosts because I was following someone. Let me show you what I found.”
Even as a man, Mr. Whiskers moves in a manner that is smooth and graceful. He lifts a couple of loose tiles from the floor and motions for me to look at what is hidden underneath.
I walk through the basement. It appears to be a handyman’s workshop with a work bench and shelves. But there are so many unfinished projects, such as a chair with three legs, a broken mirror, and a doll house that is half finished. I’m guessing no one stays here long enough to complete whatever they’ve started.
“Don’t touch anything,” Mr. Whiskers warns. “Leave nothing of yourself behind, not even your fingerprints. I, myself, have no fingerprints, so I have nothing to fear.”
After reciting his strict instructions, Mr. Whiskers shows me what was carefully hidden away.
Driver’s licenses. There are so many of them! I see the face of one woman after another, as Mr. Whiskers displays each picture in the pile.
“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Serial killers like to keep souvenirs,” Mr. Whiskers answers.
“Serial killer?” I echo back.
“Yep, look Thelma! See how many there are! This represents decades of work,” he shows me picture after picture. “There are over a hundred. It’s unbelievable!” Mr. Whisker’s voice is full of sorrow. He feels the same way I do. How could anyone do something so horrible!
“Are you sure they’re dead? Couldn’t the licenses just be stolen?” I ask.
Mr. Whiskers shakes his head, “This house attracts secrets, those who keep secrets, and those who wish to expose what is hidden. The Anderson house has attracted many liars over the years, some who are unfaithful and dishonest, like Mr. Baxter. You remember him, right?” I nod yes to show that I do. Mr. Whiskers continues on, “Well, unfortunately, this house also attracts murderers. And the one we have here is very prolific,” Mr. Whiskers showcases the cards to further prove his assessment.
“But who is he?” I ask.
“Oh, my dearest, Thelma, who do you know that comes home late? That insists on showering right away because he just got back from the gym. Who is unkind and lacks empathy? Living next door to an abandoned house that the neighborhood is terrified of provides a convenient place to hide souvenirs, don’t you think?”
“Are you saying that Edgar did this?” My voice comes out louder than I expect, and I immediately cover my mouth with my hands. Perhaps as a futile attempt to take them back.
“Shhh!” Mr. Whiskers places his finger in front of his mouth. He whispers, “He’s here. The ghosts say that he’s upstairs, and he’s headed this way. We have to hide.”
Mr. Whiskers grabs my hand. He leads us behind a row of unpacked boxes that are stacked high enough to keep us hidden. There is a gap between the boxes that allows us to watch Edgar as he walks down the basement steps. He’s whistling a happy tune, which makes my skin crawl. I catch Mr. Whiskers rolling his eyes in disgust.
Edgar grabs a black bag and begins packing it with supplies. He grabs duct tape, rope, black gloves, a large knife, a brown bottle, and a white washcloth. I’m dumbfounded. He’s like a stranger. Edgar can be a real ass. But a serial killer? Who the hell have I been living with, sharing a bed with?
Terror pulses through me. He’s getting ready to murder someone. Tonight, he’ll add another driver’s license to his collection. I have to stop him! Even if I die trying, I can’t let him kill another woman!
As if reading my mind, Mr. Whiskers lightly pats my head with his hand. I look up into his green eyes, and he nods in a way that calms me. In the next moment, taking my hand in his, he leads me away from our hiding spot.
Edgar’s eyes widen as he sees us step out from behind the boxes. For an awkward second, I’m not able to speak. I shake my head in disbelief. He’s holding the black bag, neatly packed with all the tools he’ll need to murder someone tonight. Edgar doesn’t look guilty or ashamed. He looks surprised and angry.
“What are you doing here? Who is he?” Edgar’s loud voice fills the room. He sounds indignant. Like we’re the ones doing something wrong.
“I came to find Mr. Whiskers. He jumped through a broken window. What are you doing, Edgar? The bag, the things you put in the bag! What are they for?” My voice sounds shaky and scared. I’m crying. My cheeks are wet with tears.
Edgar looks at me with disgust, “You and your stupid cat! You better hope I don’t find him. If I do, I’m taking him straight to the pound where they’ll kill him. I’m sick and tired of hearing you talk about that damn cat. And who’s this guy? Why are you here with my wife?” Edgar’s mean gaze settles on Mr. Whiskers.
“I wanted to show her what you’re up to. I thought she had a right to know the real you,” Mr. Whiskers answers in a voice that is so calm, he sounds almost bored.
“What are you talking about? We’ve been married for ten years. Of course, she knows the real me! What kind of lies have you been filling her dumb head with?” Edgar takes a step towards us. His hands are balled into tight fists.
“I’ve been showing her things. She watched you pack your little black bag. And your souvenirs, we were just looking at them,” Mr. Whiskers points to the floor at the pile of driver’s licenses.
Edgar looks at then pile and then directly into my eyes. The intensity of his stare is uncomfortable. I would have never guessed he was a killer. But his actions tonight, coming to this house alone instead of being away on business, whistling as he came down the stairs, packing duct tape and rope, and the cold look in his eyes, tell me one thing. Edgar did it. He murdered over a hundred women.
I don’t have a poker face. Edgar is fully aware that I know what he did.
“I wish you hadn’t come here tonight,” Edgar tells me as he pulls the knife out of his bag. “Stupid, stupid, Thelma, you shouldn’t have followed that damn cat. Now, you know too much. I can’t let you leave.” Edgar shrugs his shoulders as if to say, what else can he do?
“Oh, I don’t think Thelma will have any trouble leaving. They’re willing to let her go,” Mr. Whiskers smiles at Edgar. It’s a chilling smile. The kind of delight that a cat gets from playing with a mouse.
“They? Who’s they?” Edgar asks. “It’s just us. Unless you’re trying to imply that the police are outside, which is a really pathetic bluff. Seriously, Thelma, where did you find this loser?”
“Oh no, not the police. You’re right. No one is coming to rescue you. But as for being alone, you’re dead wrong,” Mr. Whisker puts his arm around me. “They’ve been waiting for you. All of them have been waiting for you.”
The lights flicker. Mr. Whiskers pull me closer to him. I skip a breath. The temperature in the room takes a quick nosedive. The dead women are with us. There are over a hundred ghosts in the basement. We are tightly packed together. I can feel one standing next to me shoulder to shoulder. I wrap my arms around Mr. Whiskers and hold on to him for dear life. Terrified if I don’t, the ghosts will drag me away.
The ghosts are dressed in clothes that represent each decade back to the 1990s. They look similar to one another. Each has long dark brown hair and blue eyes, which happens to be how I look. I could easily be their sister. Every ghost has multiple stab wounds. It’s painful to look at how much they suffered! All of them have their bloody arms stretched out towards Edgar.
Edgar stumbles backward in shock and finds himself in the arms of a ghost. She wraps herself around him with her long, stringy hair hanging over his shoulders. He screams as more of them grab him. Their faces press tightly against his as he tries to pull away but can’t.
“Get off me! Get off me!” He screams wildly as he tries to push against the angry ghosts grabbing at him. “Thelma, help me! Help me! I can explain everything. Don’t leave me with them!”
I shudder seeing Edgar being pulled down to the ground screaming. I can only imagine what will happen next. As if reading my mind, and not wanting me to see the answer, Mr. Whiskers starts to lead me towards the steps. He keeps me cocooned in his arms, protecting me from the ghosts around us. He quietly moves us away from the horror show. Edgar’s screams become louder, and I suspect that parts of him are being ripped off, by the wretched high pitch shrills I hear. But I don’t dare look to confirm that I’m right.
I don’t argue with Mr. Whiskers as we walk up the steps. Something inside me knows better than to interfere with what’s happening in that basement, Edgar’s day of reckoning. Instinctively, I follow Mr. Whiskers in silence, knowing that if I don’t, the ghosts will turn on me as well.
We reach the top of the stairs, and Mr. Whiskers closes the basement door. He leads me out of the kitchen and into the foyer, creating a little distance between us and the grisly scene we just witnessed.
I cry in Mr. Whiskers arms. He holds me, and strangely enough I feel safe, although I probably shouldn’t.
I’m not ready to leave the Anderson house. Somehow, I know the ghosts won’t hurt me. If they wanted to hurt me, I’d be dead already. But the minute I step outside that front door, all of this will become real. Edgar is never coming out of that basement.
What will I do next? How can I ever explain what happened here tonight without sounding crazy?
I was married to a serial killer who died in a haunted house, torn apart by a horde of angry ghosts. No one will ever believe me.
“Are you ready to leave, Thelma?” Mr. Whiskers ask.
“I don’t know what I can tell people once they notice Edgar’s gone,” I answer.
“You don’t have to worry about that. It’s already been taken care of,” Mr. Whiskers lightly touches the side of my face. I look into his brilliant green eyes. He smiles, and I feel reassured that with his help things will work out. He continues, “Do you remember the husky that chased me?”
Stunned by his unexpected question, it takes me a moment to remember how all this started. It comes back to me, the chase between Mr. Whiskers and the dog running loose.
“Yes, I remember. That’s why I followed you in here,” I reply.
“He’s a friend of mine, and he happens to be a police detective. He knows everything. A plan to cover up tonight’s events is already in place. Don’t look so surprised! The Anderson house remains standing to this day with the help of the police department. The Anderson house has a way of handling special cases that are difficult for law enforcement to deal with. In return, detectives, like my husky friend, are willing to bend the truth a little,” Mr. Whisker’s voice is soothing, even as he talks of unbelievable things.
“You said you came to the Anderson house because you were following someone. Obviously, you were following Edgar. Did you know he was a serial killer?” I ask.
“He smelled of dead women. It’s not something you can wash away, not even with a hundred baths. Such heinous acts mark a person with a foul stench. I was worried for your safety,” Mr. Whiskers confesses.
“Thank you,” I can’t even look at him as I say the words. How do you thank someone that has saved you from a monster?
“Let’s get you out of here,” Mr. Whiskers replies as he moves us to the front door, which opens on its own as we approach. “The ghosts wanted you to see Edgar for who he truly was so that you wouldn’t mourn him for too long. They see you as a fellow victim that might still be saved. It gives them some peace knowing that he will no longer be able to harm you or anyone else.”
We step outside the Anderson house, and I breathe in the fresh night air.
“I don’t want to go back to my house. Everything there will remind me of Edgar and what happened tonight. I’m scared to be alone,” I confess.
“You never have to be alone again. Let me take care of you, the way you take care of me. I have a house by the lake. I’ll cook dinner, while you put your feet up and drink a fine wine. And if you find that you like living with me, then you never have to leave,” Mr. Whiskers offers.
I don’t know how it’s possible. But he looks even more handsome in the moonlight.
Edgar is gone. It will take time for me to accept everything that happened here tonight. I imagine that it will be a while before I’m ready to step into a new normal.
But who knows? Maybe I’ve found my forever home?
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