Tales of a Sixth Grade Werecat

I couldn't introduce the idea without also letting y'all meet Felix. I hope you like him as much as I do. Here is the first chapter of his story:

The house sits on the edge of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by Alabama forest and the smell of rotting wood permeates my nostrils. I hesitate on the sidewalk, reluctant to walk the length of the long stretch of gravel driveway toward the house.

It is late August, but the chill of the evening hasn't started and as I wipe my palms on my T-shirt I leave damp marks down its front. Was I really going to do this?

I look over to my friend, Jay, for support. He answers with an near imperceptible shake of his head. He doesn't think I should do it.

Behind him, the trio of boys straddle their bikes. Brent and Lenny look bored, Ethan is grinning.

“You don't have to do it, it's okay if you're too chicken.” He grins with crooked teeth. The other boys slap him on the back and snicker.

He's right. I don't have to do this. But it wasn't okay if I chickened out. That kind of thing follows a kid. Tomorrow is the first day of sixth grade and there is no way I am starting it as a coward. Felix the Chicken.

“No,” I whisper the word. “I'm doing it.” I say louder and stride toward the door.

There's no such thing as witches. Witches are for Halloween, movies, and video games. Witches exist for those weirdos you sometimes see on the street lingering outside that New Age store downtown. This house, this decrepit two-story monstrosity, does not belong to a witch.

I clench my hands into fists so the guys won't notice them shaking and begin to walk forward.

I don't believe in witches, but I have heard the stories about this house, the house of the town witch. Somehow, my feet continue to shuffle forward.

I'm almost up the driveway.

“Felix, I gotta go.” Jay's voice is hesitant. He's reluctant to leave me but his parents will ground him for life if he's even a minute past curfew. His parents are strict that way.

I shrug him away and toss up a careless arm in farewell. It doesn't matter if he sees me do this. I just need one witness. After Ethan sees me enter the witch's house he can never make fun of me again.

No one has ever gone into the house before. People don't even try to knock, not even the girl scout's during cookie season. Once, an older kid broke the kitchen window and went inside on a dare. He was never seen again. All the neighborhood kids knew that story. If I survive this, I will become a legend, no one will ever ignore me again.

The neighbors all seem to ignore Miss Gray. Mom does too, she calls her old house an eye sore and often frowns at it from our driveway. I think Mom's feeling are just hurt because the old lady had returned Mom's batch of Christmas cookies a few years back. Mom had left them on her front porch with a cheerful bow and a card that read “Happy Holidays”. Less than an hour later there had been a knock on the door. Mom answered it and found our cookies, Miss Gray was already limping back to her home.

That had been one of the few times I've ever seen her, not everyone can say that, and it gives me the advantage. And now I am going inside her house. Or, at least I will try. Miss Gray doesn't have a car so there is no way of knowing if she is even home or not. What if she is? What if she was lying in there, dead? We've all heard stories like that. Or worse, what if she came home while I was inside?

I look over my shoulder and meet Ethan's eyes. He seems surprised that I'm going through with it. I straighten. Lenny and Brent no longer look bored. Yup, here goes.

The floor boards of the porch creak under my weight, surprising, considering I'm barely seventy-four pounds. I peer into the windows but they are filthy, smeared with pollen, and I can't see if there is any movement inside. I wipe my palms on my jeans and knock on the door. After a few moments, I knock again. Still no answer. I try the handle and the door swings open easily. It doesn't creak, I expected it to creak, and shake my head in disappointment. I stand in the doorway and turn back toward Ethan, he waves me forward.

He had bet that I couldn't, wouldn't, go inside. I was about to prove him wrong. I step over the threshold and close the door behind me.

The house smells, but it doesn't stink. It kinda smells like a mix between peppermint and tobacco. Of licorice and stale potpourri. It's not spooky inside either. A quick look around leaves me disappointed. There are no cobwebs or spell books, and the house is actually clean, like someone just dusted and polished the dark wood floors. There isn't much furniture, a small couch with an ugly floral pattern that mom would hate and an old Baby Grand Piano that mom would love. We have one in our living room. I never play it, gave up after just two years of lessons. Music is not for me.

A quick peek in the kitchen proves it to be just that, a kitchen. Also clean and full of the normal appliances. No dishwasher though. One of my chores at home is dish duty, I couldn't live without a dishwasher.

The dining room has a small wooden table, there are no place settings but there is a lace table runner that was probably white at some point in time but is now yellowed with age. There is a plate of food left out and I frown as I walk toward it. Is Miss Gray home and just out of sight? Perhaps upstairs?

The plate isn't really a plate of food after all, just a pile of bones. Fish bones. I recognize the shape though the bones have been entirely picked clean, even the eyeball. The empty socket stares back at me. Gross.

“Miss Gray?” I project my voice so that it's heard through out the house. No reply. “You might not be a witch but you're still creepy.”

I decide to explore upstairs. I've already been wandering the house for about five minutes, but Miss Gray doesn't seem to be home and I can't pass up the chance to see the rest of the house. Ethan and the boys will never believe this. Maybe I can find something to take back with me as proof, something beside a pile of fish bones.

I grab a hold of the smooth bannister and make my way up the stairs. They are the curvy kind, the sort that twist around on themselves and I'm enjoying the experience, I've always wanted to go up these kind of stairs. As I curve to the top I notice an ornate mirror in the upstairs hall, something shiny reflects back at me from the table below it.

At the top of the landing I stop in front of the mirror. A silver pendent lays on the table. It's flat and circular, the braided silver curves in on itself again and again in an intricate pattern. The pendant should probably be attached to a silver chain instead of the long leather cord. I pick it up by the dark leather cord and hold it in front of me. Mom would call it ugly, but I think it's cool looking and put it in my pocket. Now I have proof.

A movement up above catches my eye and I look up in the mirror to see the angry face of Miss Gray behind me. I spin around and race for the stairs, taking them two at a time. I trip over a step, and reach for the bannister to catch myself. I miss, and my hand clutches at air. A quick yell rips out of me as I tumble down the last remaining steps. I land on my back, my head smacking into the hardwood floor. I hope the boys didn't hear me scream.

I can't do anything but lay there and try to breathe. I mean, that really hurt. My heart seems to have slammed up into my throat and my ears are making a strange buzzing noise. I eye the stairway for Miss Gray but the only thing coming down the stairs is a cat. It leaps the rest of the stairs and lands on my chest.

Had I been wrong? Did I truly see Miss Gray? Or had I only seen a portrait reflected in the mirror? Surely Miss Gray would have followed me down the stairs after my fall. She hasn't though, the only thing that has is this cat. A tri-colored tabby with wide golden eyes. Those eyes blink down at me, holding my gaze.

I finally catch my breath enough to sit up and the cat springs from my chest to land nimbly at my feet.

I draw in a ragged breath and wipe at the thin line of sweat that coats my forehead. It doesn't seem like I've broken anything. I rotate my wrists and neck, and sway back and forth at the waist, stretching my back. Yup, nothing's broken. I'm just the idiot that was almost killed by a cat. And not even a black one. Miss Gray is definitely not a witch.

I rise to my feet and rub at the back of my head. Even through all my hair I can feel that a knot has started to form. I am going to have one heck of a bump later.

“This is all your fault,” I say to the cat. It blinks at me and releases a plaintive meow. I nod my head. “Well, I forgive you. I shouldn't be in here anyway.”

I really do need to leave. The sun has already set and Mom is going to be pissed that I am late for dinner. I squat down and stretch out my hand, intending to pet the cat. It hisses back. My hand falters, catching in mid air. Did it just not want to be touched, or did it think I would try to hurt it? It seemed friendly, well, it had before it decided to hiss at me.

“Just wanted to pet you,” I say. I thrust my hand toward its furry face before it decides to run away.

It doesn't run away. Instead, it hisses again, sits back on its haunches and swats at my hand. The cat's claws dig into the back of my hand and I jerk my hand back to suck at the tiny droplets of blood that form from its scratch. Now, not only is my head throbbing, but my hand feels like it's been stung by a hornet. Good job, Felix.

“Stupid cat,” I mutter. I stand up and limp toward the door. The cat watches me leave.

It is dark outside and I hurry down the steps of the front porch.

“Well, I did it.” I call out to the boys. Shouldn't I be greeted by cheers? Or at least an attaboy? Instead, I'm greeted by silence. The moon is bright over head and my blue bike is bathed in its light. My blue bike, and nothing else. The boys have all left. What a bunch of jerks. At least they saw me go inside, no one could ever call me a sissy. I hop onto my bike and begin to peddle furiously toward my house at the end of the street. My last day of summer was nearly over, and it had mostly sucked.