15 Dark and Twisted Tails

By Sharon King-Booker

In this collection of 15 stories you'll meet Charlotte whose fear of cats may have precipitated the tragic events which occur after she meets The Old Woman's Cat. Tracy wakes up one morning to find she has lost not only the last 11 years of her life but her Identity as well. When Penny inherits her grandparents old farm, she discovers the Skeleton Key that unlocks a long-buried secret. The little dog Danny has is imaginary...or is it? Michael delivers groceries to That Chastain Place for years and learns there is more than one way to love. Meet these, as well as a man who is driven insane by mirrors, a snowman that kills, and a vampire with a real problem. You may smile, you may even cry, but you won't be disappointed.

A native of Beulah, North Dakota, Sharon has lived and worked in Minnesota and Oklahoma. She now lives in Arizona with her husband and five cats. A member of the Cat Writers Association, she has written many poems and songs and is presently working on a mystery novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329910973

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15 Dark and Twisted Tails

15 Dark and Twisted Tails

By

Sharon King-Booker

15 DARK AND TWISTED TAILS

Copyright © 2016 Sharon King-Booker

Author’s Note

Some places in these stories may seem quite familiar to some of my readers. That is because they are true places; however, the characters and their deeds are strictly products of my imagination.

ISBN 13: 978-1-91097-3

Dedication

To my husband, Thom, and the cats that helped write this book.

THE OLD WOMAN'S CAT

Summer, such a lovely time! The sun warms my shoulders as its rays fall through the leaves of the large oak tree under which I sit. It's funny; back in the early spring I despaired of ever seeing summer again. Perhaps it would have been just as well if I had not. The nurse has placed my wheelchair here. She has settled the pillows comfortably behind my back and left me with my pen and writing pad. It was so difficult to convey to them that I wanted to write all of this.

They tell me I will never walk again, as my spine was nearly severed in the automobile crash. Their explanation of my aphasia–my inability to speak–is less clear. They tell me they can find no physical reason for this. They believe it is my way of blocking events of the past year. They are mistaken. I do want to talk about it, to tell about it.

Sheriff Gates has been to see me several times the past few weeks. Earlier, I had been moved from the hospital to this extended care facility. By then I had learned the terrible truth, not just about my paralysis, but also that my husband was dead.

It is so lovely here. The grounds are like a park, emerald green lawns sweep down to a lake, so still today as it mirrors sky, clouds, and the huge oaks and maples that dot the property. There are stone benches where patients and visitors may sit and enjoy the summer days. Everyone felt that surroundings such as these would hasten my recovery, to the extent that there will be a recovery, that is. So, I have been here for nearly a month.

My room is on the ground floor. I wish it were higher up, but how can I tell them this? I don't wish insanity to be added to my diagnoses. From my large picture window, I can view these same peaceful grounds. But that window also makes it possible for him to find me. Sometimes at night I can hear him padding across the deep veranda that surrounds most of the building. I lie still, almost not breathing and listen for the soft, padding paws, the brush of body against screen, and the meow!

I finally made it known to them that I wished to write a record of it. Will I get to give this to Sheriff Gates? I hope so, but I feel there is not much time left. I am the last to survive; but I don't believe any of us will be left alive. That is no one but him, the old woman's cat! What is that rustling sound? I wonder if anyone else can hear it. Is there even now a great, tawny cat lying behind one of those trees, or up high on one of its branches, just waiting? Perhaps insanity should be added to my diagnoses. Perhaps it is only my guilt in this whole affair that leads me to believe I am being stalked.

* * * * * *

I feel I must begin at the beginning. My name is Charlotte Stanfield. When I was perhaps five years old I had my first unpleasant encounter with a cat. He had come into the yard and was brushing around my ankles. I picked him up and cuddled him close to my face. He was such a pretty thing; ginger-tabby I think he would have been called, with a snowy white chest and paws. He snuggled against my neck and rumbled in purring pleasure.

At that moment, Shag, my dog, came into the yard. The cat struggled to be freed from my arms. I tried to shield him from the oncoming dog. Instead of releasing my grip, I clung even tighter to the now terrified animal. The rest was a nightmare. The cat clawed me viciously. For some reason I clung even tighter to him until his claws raked my face. I dropped the cat and my screams of pain and terror brought my mother running.

At the sight, she screamed and grasped me in her arms. I must have looked a mess. My blouse was torn, my hands and face were covered with blood and I was hysterical.

A neighbor came to our rescue. At the hospital, the doctor said I was a very lucky little girl. The cat had barely missed my eye. My wounds were cleansed, some were stitched, and the doctor said he believed my wounds would leave no permanent scarring.

There were no physical scars, but emotionally I was left with a terror of cats. For years after, the mere sight of a cat would send me shrieking to my mother. Of course, as I grew older, my fear lessened. After all, I was much larger than a cat; and, therefore, should be able to protect myself, but I still shuddered when a cat brushed against my ankles.

In high school I didn't date much. My ambition was to study hard and become an attorney who would go into practice with my dad. When I went away to college I spent most of my evenings studying. It was on one of those evenings, while I was doing research in the library, that I met Chris Stanfield. He was a bit less than six feet in height with wavy dark hair and brown eyes that revealed an awareness of self. He wanted everyone to know that he was really someone! Even as we spoke for the first time, I knew that we were going to be an item. Within three months my lofty ambition to become an attorney had been replaced by my desire to become his wife.

We were married at the end of my freshman term. We took a studio apartment and vowed to both my parents and one another that we would complete our college education.

The first year went quite well. Chris had only one living relative, an aged aunt who lived somewhere in Vermont. He had inherited a sufficient amount of money when his parents were killed in a plane crash.

Chris was a junior and I was a sophomore when I found I was pregnant with our son, Charles. We had decided if we had children that as both our names began with the letter C we would continue the C" names for our offspring. Those first few months after the birth, things still went quite well.

During the summer Chris heard of what he thought would be an excellent job opportunity. After many arguments, he did persuade me that it might be to our advantage if he left school and took a job.

We moved to Detroit where Chris was employed by one of the large automobile manufacturers. We bought a nice home and I spent my time taking care of the baby.

The next few years passed quite uneventfully. I sensed Chris was dissatisfied with his job, but the pay was good and with a wife and child to support, he was not able to leave it.

When Charles reached school age I decided I would finish my education. Chris, however, had other plans. If I were able to take a job, he said, he would be free to leave his job and pursue other areas of business.

I loved Chris, and finally agreed. So I found an office job and Chris went in search of his proverbial pot of gold. There was the photography venture, then insurance, the selling of vacation home sites, and a home food and freezer venture. There were so many, I can't remember them all. One by one they blossomed, almost bloomed, and died. Chris had a belief in himself, had a winning personality, and was liked by almost everyone. What he lacked was business sense.

So the years passed, the schemes failed, and we moved from place to place. Charles' school work suffered because he was uprooted too often to ever feel he belonged. I worked at first one thing and then another. More and more my pay checks were necessary for our survival.

Chris agreed to return to Detroit. Unfortunately the American auto manufacturers were now losing money and there were no jobs to be had.

Finally, much to my discomfort, we moved back with my parents. Carrie was born that spring and I was not able to work for some time after her birth. Our constant moves had left me physically and emotionally exhausted.

Chris found a job with a used car dealer. But even though he did well at his job, I could see the signs of his restlessness and dissatisfaction growing almost daily.

I hate to live like this, Chris said one evening as we watched Carrie attempt to pull herself up on the corner of the dresser.

Maybe we can afford to get a place of our own soon. I said.

That's not the point, he said, putting an arm around my shoulder. I hate this job. I promised you the world and look where we are.

But it's a job, I countered. You can't expect my parents to support us.

I was thinking, he began. Do you know there is a fortune to be had in ski lodges?"

So? I asked, finding it difficult to keep the sarcasm from my voice. Where shall we get a ski lodge?

That's the beauty of it, he continued, his eyes sparkling in barely contained excitement. The makings of a perfect ski lodge are right at our fingertips. You remember Aunt Victoria

I must confess I almost didn't remember Aunt Victoria. After all, why should I? She was a name mentioned once or twice in passing. For all I knew she wasn't even alive. So? I asked again.

Well, Chris began, pacing up and down as he always did when one of his schemes was working in his head, I wrote Aunt Victoria and asked if we might come for a visit. She lives alone in a big old farm house. With a little luck, I can convince her it would be better to turn the old place into a ski lodge. Look at the money it would make for all of us.

But how can we? I began. Charles is doing so well in school and Carrie isn't even a year old yet. But I knew that Chris would eventually wear me down. I was so tired of the constant struggle. Still, I would give him this last chance.

We left at the end of the school term, assuring Charles it would only be for the summer. I hoped that by the time school began this dream too would have died. The trip to Vermont went smoothly. I had to admit that the scenery was breathtaking. The stately oaks and maples were green and beautiful. The mountains, even in June, still bore caps of snow. We stopped for lunch in a small community and asked for directions to the Stanfield Farm.

My cousin does the chores for old Miss Stanfield. The waitress told us. Just follow the highway up the mountain. The farm is only a few miles from here.

The farm house was old with peeling paint. The building was long, looking as if a section had been added each time the family needed more space. Inside it was cozy and most modern.

Aunt Victoria was old, perhaps more than eighty years old. She lived alone except for the cat! At the sight of the cat my heart sank. It was apparent that he was much loved by her. When we had arrived, we found her seated on the porch in an old rocking chair. The huge cat lay on her lap, his head cocked in a gesture of listening. I would judge that he weighed well over twenty pounds. He was the color of orange marmalade. His chest, paws, and tail tip were snowy white. His amber eyes regarded us with neither friendliness nor fear. As I looked into those unblinking eyes, I felt a stab of apprehension.

As we approached the steps, the cat leapt to the floor, surveyed us and found us lacking. He then walked away without so much as a backward glance. I sighed audibly.

Isn't he beautiful? Aunt Victoria asked as she laboriously rose from her seat. Old Cat and I have been sharing this house and this rocking chair for a good many years now.

Old Cat? Charles asked. That's a funny name for a cat.

Aunt Victoria smiled. It may be that, she agreed. But he seemed to be an old cat even when he was a kitten. I just got into the habit of calling him that.

For the previous few months Aunt Victoria and I had exchanged a few letters. From these letters I already felt comfortable with her. She was tiny, beyond thinness, looking almost emaciated. Her white hair was coiled in a knot at the back of her neck. Her eyes were bright, alive and intelligent. They resembled Chris's eyes, I noted with some surprise. She, too, was strong willed and self-assured. I wondered how long before those wills would collide.

I had learned that the Stanfields had been a large family. When World War II had come, the men had left the farm for service in the Armed Forces or to work in the defense plants. When the War was ended, they didn't want to return to farming. This left Aunt Victoria living in the old homestead. Now, all these years later, Chris was the only surviving Stanfield in his branch of the family.

All these things passed through my mind as Aunt Victoria showed us the house and our rooms on the upper floor. Her bedroom had been moved downstairs and a second bathroom had been installed.

She proudly showed us through the house. The dining room and living room were huge, the better to accommodate the previously large family. The kitchen was the heart of the house. It combined age with modernity. One corner of the room housed an old wood stove which, in years past, had been the source of both heating and cooking. A small apartment-sized electric range sat next to it. The huge single sink still housed the pump handle formerly used to bring cold water from the well. An electric hot water heater had been installed, so the pump handle was only an ornament. There was a square wooden table with painted wooden chairs in front of the kitchen windows. A rocking chair sat next to the wood stove, and on a shelf sat a small television set. The top floor had long been unused. I spent days sweeping down cobwebs, dusting furniture and airing bedding. There was an old-fashioned bathroom as well.

The house was comfortable. We dismissed the lady who had formerly come to do the work. Chris and I can handle that, I argued, when she protested. Aunt Victoria will be happier with family helping.

The only gloom was the cat. He sensed that I feared and disliked him, and lost no opportunity to place himself in my path. He would sit and watch me while I worked. I would feel myself observed, then turn to see it was the cat sitting not far from me, washing his face. But I was not fooled. I knew he was watching me, waiting for . . . for what?

Aunt Victoria, I said one day while we sat on the porch, she with her cat on her lap, I with some mending.

Would it be terrible of me to ask you to perhaps keep the cat outside . . . I mean . . . maybe not let him into the house?

The hand which had been idly stroking the tawny fur stopped in mid-stroke. She looked at me angrily.

Charlotte, she said, her tone level but cold, Old Cat has shared my home for a good many years before you and Chris even acknowledged my existence. Old Cat is welcome in my home for as long as he lives. Please don't ask me again.

I felt myself blush. I'm sorry, Auntie, I stammered.

It's just that I was badly hurt by a cat once. I then told her about my childhood experience ending with, so you see, Auntie, I wouldn't want the same type of thing to happen to Carrie or Charles.

Old Cat has shown little interest in your children, Aunt Victoria answered. He spends most of his time with me. As I said, dear, let's not discuss it again. As long as the cat lives, he is welcome in my house.

As long as he lives, I mused. Then I hated myself for even the thought. Aunt Victoria had been more than generous to us. Chris had not attempted to find a job; and, while we had a little money in savings, with neither of us working, I knew that she had absorbed all our expenses.

It's all going to be mine someday anyhow, Chris had said one day while we were walking over the farm.

When Auntie dies the farm and whatever else she has will go to me. So why shouldn't she spend some of it now while she can enjoy seeing the pleasure it brings us?

There were times when I didn't like Chris too much. Oh, I still loved him; but there were things about him I didn't like.

Years ago the farm had been used as a summer vacation spot for rich people from New York and New Jersey. Now, however, everything had fallen to ruin. Perhaps a ski lodge would really work. The idea even began to have some appeal to me. But even as I began to have visions that our ski lodge might become a reality, fate was getting ready to intervene.

We were seated on the porch one July evening. Aunt Victoria sat in her chair with the cat curled on her lap. I sat beside her; and Chris, with a cup of coffee balanced on the porch rail leaned against it, talking dreamily of his plans. Carrie had been put to bed, and Charles was off playing somewhere in the woods. Crickets chirped, and fireflies darted here and there in the twilight. Chris had always been a good salesman, and I found myself envisioning the ski lodge as he was describing it.

Young man, Aunt Victoria suddenly interrupted, If I were to agree to your plan–and that certainly wouldn't be in my lifetime–but if I were to agree with this ski lodge idea of yours, just where would the financing come from?

Chris's eyes widened in surprise. Well, Auntie, he began, this old house certainly is in need of the repairs I have outlined, whether there is a ski lodge or not. I had hoped that if we were willing to do the work, you would be willing to see it through financially. Then, when the lodge gets on its feet, we could pay you back with interest.

Aunt Victoria's eyes seemed far away. I wondered if she was seeing the farm as it used to be. I felt, by the look on her face, that he almost had her convinced. At that moment, the cat sprang up from her lap