The Black Cats (18 page)

What added, no doubt, to
my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it
home, that, like
Pluto
, it also
had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared
it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that
humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source
of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.

With my aversion to this
cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my
footsteps with a
pertinacity
which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it
would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its
loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus
nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress,
clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy
it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my
former crime, but chiefly -- let me confess it at once -- by absolute
dread
of the beast.

This dread was not
exactly a dread of physical evil -- and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise
to define it. I am almost ashamed to own -- yes, even in this felon's cell, I
am almost ashamed to own -- that the terror and horror with which the animal
inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimæras it would be
possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the
character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which
constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I
had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had
been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees -- degrees nearly
imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as
fanciful -- it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It
was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name -- and for this,
above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had
I dared -- it was now, I say, the image of a hideous -- of a ghastly thing --
of the GALLOWS! -- oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime --
of Agony and of Death!

And now was I indeed
wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And
a brute beast
--
whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed --
a brute beast
to work out
for me -- for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God -- so much of
insufferable wo! Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest
any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the
latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot
breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight -- an incarnate
Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off -- incumbent eternally upon my
heart!

Beneath the pressure of
torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed.
Evil thoughts became my sole intimates -- the darkest and most evil of
thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things
and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable
outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining
wife, alas! was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.

One day she accompanied
me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our
poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs,
and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe,
and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my
hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved
instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the
hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal,
I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead
upon the spot, without a groan.

This hideous murder
accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task
of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house,
either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors.
Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse
into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to
dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about
casting it in the well in the yard -- about packing it in a box, as if
merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it
from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better
expedient
than either of these. I
determined to wall it up in the cellar -- as the monks of the middle ages are
recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as
this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had
lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of
the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was
a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up,
and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could
readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the
whole up as before, so that no eye could detect any thing suspicious.

And in this calculation
I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and,
having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in
that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it
originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible
precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old,
and with this I very carefully went over the new brickwork. When I had
finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the
slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked
up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself --
"Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."

My next step was to look
for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at
length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at
the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that
the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and
forebore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or
to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the
detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during
the night -- and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the
house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of
murder upon my soul!

The second and the third
day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a
freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold
it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me
but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily
answered. Even a search had been instituted -- but of course nothing was to be
discovered. I looked upon my future
felicity
as secured.

Upon the fourth day of
the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the
house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises.
Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no
embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search.
They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth
time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat
calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end
to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The
police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart
was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of
triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.

"Gentlemen," I
said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed
your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye,
gentlemen, this -- this is a very well constructed house." (In the rabid
desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) --
"I may say an
excellently
well constructed house. These walls --
are you going, gentlemen? -- these walls are solidly put together;" and
here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which
I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brickwork behind which stood
the corpse of the wife of my bosom.

But may God shield and
deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend ! No sooner had the reverberation
of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the
tomb! -- by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child,
and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly
anomalous
and inhuman -- a howl -- a
wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen
only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and
of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of my own thoughts it is
folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the
party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of
awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily.
The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before
the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary
eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and
whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster
up within the tomb!

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Copyright
© 2014 by Monica Shaughnessy

All
rights reserved.

Published
in the United States by
Jumping
Jackalope Press

Shaughnessy,
Monica

The
Black Cats / Monica Shaughnessy

eISBN:
978-0-9885629-8-1

Jacket
Design: Monica Shaughnessy

Edited
by Red Adept

Excerpt from The Tell-Tail
Heart, Cattarina Mystery #1

------------------------------------------

Chapter
1

EDDY
WAS NEVER HAPPIER than when he was writing, and I was never happier than when Eddy
was happy. That's what concerned me about our trip to Shakey House Tavern
tonight. An official letter had arrived days ago, causing him to abandon his
writing in a fit of melancholy—a worrisome event for this feline muse.
Oh, what power correspondence wields over the Poe household! Since that time,
his quill pen had lain lifeless upon his desk, a casualty of the gloom. But refreshment
only intensified these frequent and unpredictable storms—hence my
concern. Irritated by his lack of attention, I sat beneath the bar and waited
for him to stir. He'd been studying a newspaper in the glow of a lard-oil lamp
for most of the evening, ignoring the boisterous drinkers around him. When he
crinkled the sheets, I leapt onto the polished ledge to investigate, curling my
tail around me. I loved the marks humans made upon the page. They reminded me
of black ants on the march. They also reminded me that until I found a way to
help Eddy, it would be ages before he'd make more of his own.

"A
pity you don't read, Cattarina," he said to me in confidence. "Murder
has come to Philadelphia again, and it's deliciously disturbing." He
tapped a drawing he'd been examining, a horrible likeness of an elderly woman,
one eye gouged out, the other rolled back in fear, mouth agape. "Far from
the City of Brotherly Love, eh, Catters?"

I trilled
at my secret name. Everyone else called me Cattarina, including Josef, Shakey
House's stocky barkeep. He'd taken note of me on the bar and approached with
bared teeth, an odd greeting I'd grown accustomed to over the years. When one
lives with humans, one must accommodate such eccentricities.

"
Guten Abend
, Cattarina," Josef said
to me. His side-whiskers had grown longer since our last visit. They suited his
broad face. He reached across the bar and stroked my back with a raw, red hand,
sending fur into the smoke circling overhead.

I lay
down on Eddy's paper and tucked my feet beneath me, settling in for a good pet.
Josef was on the list of people I allowed to touch me. Eddy, of course, held
the first spot, followed by Sissy, then Muddy, then Mr. Coffin, and so on and
so forth, until we arrived at lucky number ten, Josef Wertmüller. Others had
tried; others had bled.

"Tortoiseshell
cats are good luck. Yes, Mister Poe?" the barkeep continued.

"I
believe they are," Eddy said without looking up. He turned the page and
folded it in half so he wouldn't disturb me.

"Such
pretty eyes." Josef scratched the ruff of my neck. "Like two gold
coins. And fur the color of coffee and tea. I take her for barter any day."

"Would
you have me wander the streets alone, sir? Without my fair Cattarina?" Eddy
asked, straightening. "Without my muse?"

"
Nein
," Josef said, withdrawing his
hand, "I would never dream." He took Eddy's empty glass and wiped the
water ring with a rag. "Another mint julep. Yes, Mr. Poe?"

At this
suggestion, Eddy turned and faced the tavern full of drinkers. A conspiracy of
ravens in black coats and hats, the men squawked, pausing to wet their beaks
between caws. Eddy called out to them, shouting over their conversation. "Attention!
The first to buy me a mint julep may have this newspaper." The bar patrons
ignored him. He tried again. "I say, attention! The first to buy—"

"We
heard you the first time, Poe," said Hiram Abbott. He sat by himself at
his usual table by the door. His cravat had collected more stains since our
last visit, some of which matched the color of his teeth. Once the chortling
died down, he challenged Eddy. "A newspaper for a drink? I'd hardly call
that a fair trade."

"Perhaps for a man who can't read,"
Eddy said.

Laughter
coursed through the room, ripening the apples of Mr. Abbott's cheeks. I longed
to understand Eddy the way other humans did, but alas, could not. While I
possessed a large vocabulary—a
grandiose
vocabulary in catterly circles—I owned neither the tongue nor the ear to
communicate with my friend as I would've liked. Yes, I knew the meaning of
oft-repeated words: refreshment, writing, check-in-the-mail, damned story,
illness, murder, madness, and so forth. But a dizzying number remained beyond
reach, causing me to rely on nuance and posture to fill gaps in
understanding—like now. Whatever he'd said to Mr. Abbot pricked the man
like a cocklebur to the paw.

Eddy
continued, "My news is fresh, gentlemen, purchased from the corner not
more than an hour ago. The ink was still wet when I bought it."

"You
tell a good tale, Poe," said Mr. Murray, a Shakey House regular with a
long, drooping mustache, "but I've already learned the day's gossip from
Silas and Albert." He jabbed his tablemates with his elbows, spilling
their ale.

"I
see. Then you and your quilting bee are aware of the latest murder."

Murder
set the ravens
squawking again. Josef, however, remained silent. He wrung the bar towel
between his hands, blanching his knuckles.

"Speak,
Poe!" said Mr. Murray. "You have our attention."

A
chorus rose from the crowd. "Speak! Speak!" Mr. Abbott sank lower in
his seat.

Eddy
shooed me from my makeshift bed, folded the sheets, and waved them above his
head. "The Glass Eye Killer has struck again. The
Gazette
tells all, in gory detail." His mustache twitched. "And
for those of strong stomach…pictures on page twelve."

The portly
man who'd kept his shoulder to us most of the evening lunged for the paper,
knocking Eddy with his elbow by accident. I returned with a low-pitched growl.
The man stepped back, hands raised in surrender, and asked Eddy to "call
off the she-devil."

"I
will if we can settle this like gentlemen," my friend said.

The man
tossed coins on the bar, prompting Josef to deliver a julep and Eddy to calm me
with a pat to the head. But I had more mischief in mind. I sprang for the
glass, thinking to knock it sideways and end our evening early. Muddy would be
expecting us for dinner; she worried so when we caroused. But Eddy's reflexes
were still keen enough to prevent the "accident." Disappointed, I
hopped to the floor in search of my own refreshment.

Weaving
through the forest of legs, I sniffed for a crust of bread, a cheese rind,
anything to take the edge off my hunger. If I didn't find something soon, I'd
sneak next door to the bakery for a pat of butter before they closed. I could
always count on the owner for a scrap or two. Above me, the room returned to
its usual cacophony.

"Read!
Read!" a man in the back shouted. "Don't keep us waiting!"

Once
the tavern settled, the gentleman who'd received Eddy's paper spoke with
solemnity. "The Glass Eye Killer has claimed a second victim and a second
trophy, striking terror in the hearts of Philadelphians." He paused,
continuing with a strained voice. "This afternoon, fifty-two-year-old Eudora
Tottham, wife of the Honorable Judge Tottham, was found dead two blocks north
of Logan Square. Her throat had been cut, and her eye had been stripped of its prosthesis—a
glass orb of excellent quality."

"
Mein Gott!
" Josef said.
"Another!" He left his station at the bar and began wiping tables,
all the while muttering about "Caroline." I didn't know what a
Caroline
was, but it troubled him.

The reader
continued, "Mrs. Beckworth T. Jones discovered the body behind Walsey's Dry
Goods, at Wood and Nineteenth, when she took a shortcut home. Why the murderer
is amassing a collection of eyes remains a mystery to Constable Harkness. The
case is further hindered by lack of witnesses. Until this madman is caught, all
persons with prostheses are urged to take special precaution."

I
jumped from Hiram Abbott's path as he neared, his strides long and brisk.
"Let me see the picture," he said to the portly gentleman. "I
want to see the picture on page twelve. I
must
."

"I
paid for it, sir. Kindly wait your turn."

"Do
you know who I am?" Mr. Abbott asked. "I am Hiram Abbott, and I own
acres and acres of farmland around these parts."

The
portly man faced him, their round bellies almost touching. "Do you know
who
I
am? Do you know how many coal
mines
I
own?" he replied.

I
yawned. I didn't know either one of them, not really. They jostled over the
newspaper, bumping another drinker and pulling
him
into the argument. Three pair of shoes danced beneath the bar:
dirty working boots, dull patent slip-ons, and shabby evening shoes with a
tattered sole. Fiddlesticks. All this over ink and paper. Eddy turned and
sipped his drink in peace, ignoring the row.

"Watch
it, you clumsy simpleton!" Mr. Abbott yelled.

I
wiggled my whiskers and held back an impending sneeze. The men had stirred the
dust on the floor, aggravating my allergies.

"Git
back to your table, Abbott, or eat my fist!" the man in boots said. Then
he struck the bar. I needed no translation.

Nor did
Mr. Abbott. He scurried to his seat, his head low.

Now
that the entertainment had ended, I returned to my food search and discovered an
object more intriguing—a curve of thick white glass—near the heel
of Eddy's shoe. It had seemingly appeared from nowhere. My heart beat faster,
railing against my ribcage.
Bump-bump,
bump-bump.
A regular at drinking establishments, I'd found numerous items
over the years. A button engraved with a mouse, a snippet of lace that smelled
more like a mouse than the button, and the thumb, just the thumb, mind you, of
a fur-lined mitten that tasted more like a mouse than the other two. But I'd
never found anything of this sort. It reminded me of a clamshell, but smaller.

I sniffed
the item. A sharp odor struck my nose, provoking the chain of sneezes I'd
staved off earlier. The scent reminded me of the medicine Sissy occasionally
took. In retaliation, I batted the half-sphere along the floorboards where it
came to rest against the pair of working boots I'd seen earlier. Their owner
wore a short, hip-length coat and a flat cap—a countrified costume. Mr.
Shakey's alcohol must not have been to his liking, for a flask stuck from the
pocket of his coat. "The guv'ment's gonna make the Trans-Allegheny a state
one day," he said to the gentleman who'd won Eddy's paper.

"It
will never happen," the portly man said. "Not as long as Tyler's in
office."

"Tyler?"
Eddy whispered. He kept his back to the two, half-aware of their conversation,
and spoke to himself. "I should like to work for Tyler's men. I should
like to…" He rubbed his face. "Smith said he would appoint me.
Promised he would."

The man
in boots didn't bother with Eddy. "You'll see," he said to the portly
man. "One day we'll split. Then there'll be no more scrapin' and bowin' to
Virginia."

"Leave
it to a border ruffian to talk politics," he replied.

The man
in boots thumbed his nose. "My politics didn't bother you before, Mr.
Uppity."

Humans
typically followed
mister
and
miss
with a formal name. I'd learned
that from Sissy when she called me Miss Cattarina and from Josef when he
addressed Eddy as Mister Poe, pronouncing it
meester
. Muddy, too, had contributed to my education. Always the
proper one, she insisted on calling our neighbors Mister Balderdash and Miss
Busybody, though never to their faces. Out of respect, I surmised. At least now
I knew the older, fleshier gentleman's name.

"You
think we need a Virginia
and
a West
of Virginia?" Mr. Uppity huffed. "Not hardly."

Weary
of their jabber, I hit the lopsided ball again. It spun and ricocheted off
Eddy's heel. Then I wiggled my hind end and…pounced! When the object
surrendered, I sat back to study its curves. It studied me in return with a
sky-colored iris. I thought back to the picture Eddy had showed me in the paper
and the word he'd uttered—
murder
.
The rest of the tavern had certainly used up the subject. And while details of
the crime hovered beyond my linguistic reach, I knew my toy was connected. If
not, some other numskull had lost his eye. Either way, humans were much too
cavalier with their body parts.

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