Black Cat Weekly #90

Chapter 5

byI padded across the backyard wearing my slippers, bathrobe, and gardening smock. My husband watched me from the kitchen window. My God, why did he feel the need to monitor me like an errant child? I’d turn eighty-one on Friday, a year younger than him, and I didn’t suffer from dementia—no matter what the doctor said.

I stopped in the middle of the lawn and glared. Alfred waved, wearing his incessant gigglemug. I scowled and trudged across the brown grass toward my garden, careful not to trip over dead clumps of grass and weeds. My husband may not trust me, but could he grow vegetables in this rocky, acidic New England soil?

I think not.

October brought brass monkey weather, and icy wind howled through the conservation land that abutting my garden. Despite the thinning foliage, the woods remained dark and foreboding. Who knew what hid behind the Eastern pines, speckled alder, and winter creepers?

I shivered.

Gardening was arduous work, more difficult with each passing year, but I’d always harvested my food. The world had become confusing—but not my garden. Nubia eggplant, rhubarb, and cherry peppers brought me comfort. And what would I do without basil and garlic or my prize-winning Brandywine heirlooms? They—

“My tomatoes. They’re gone.”

The six-foot plants were bare. The blood-red fruit no longer glowed among the shamrock leaves.

“Alfred, come quick. Something has taken my babies.”

My beautiful tomatoes. All that hard work for nothing. I spat and probed the forest with my eyes. Who had done this?

The back door slammed, and Alfred limped across the dying bluegrass carrying a tin pail with my gardening tools.

I frowned. How had I forgotten them?

He set the pail down beside the decaying wooden plank bordering my garden. “What’s wrong?”

“Something ate my plants.”

“You’re not wearing a jacket. It’s frigid this morning.” He squinted at the sky. “And it looks like rain.”

“There’s a monster living in the woods.”

Alfred sighed. He stroked my arm. “Monsters don’t exist, my darling.”

My pulse thumped in my temples. He never believed me. He thought I was moonstruck. They all did.

“Something slithered out of those woods and devoured my tomatoes.”

“Maybe you picked them and forgot.”

“Do you think I’m off my kadoova? I’m not crackers. I’d remember if I’d wolfed down my own heirlooms. I’ve been tending to them for months.”

“Please, dear. Come inside.”

I stared into the dark thicket. “It’s lurking in there stalking me. I can feel it.”

“I told you it’s not a monster. You’re not thinking clearly.”

My blood boiled. “Animals trouble farmers around here. Rabbits destroy gardens all the time. Remember our house in Plymouth?”

“We didn’t live in Plymouth. That was your sister’s home. And a rabbit would eat the leafy greens. Look, your Boston lettuce is fine.”

“A black bear maybe?”

“It’s not a bear,” he said. “There’s nothing in those woods.”

“How do you know? Have you searched? Perhaps I should look and see if—”

Alfred grabbed my shoulders and leaned in close. “Madeline, you’re not supposed to leave the property. You know that. Not ever.”

My bottom lip quivered. Why couldn’t I control my emotions anymore? They wandered like my thoughts, living their own story.

“It’s okay,” Alfred said. “Come inside and eat something. Our daughter is coming for lunch. We have leftovers in the icebox, and I made soup. Your favorite—tomato.”

“I’m not hungry.”

His forehead wrinkled. He opened his mouth to say something then shook his head. He pulled up his collar against the cool breeze, turned, and trudged across the lawn.

I watched him until he disappeared into the kitchen, and rage grew inside me like a beast. My doctor worried about Alzheimer’s, and my daughter wanted to commit me to a facility. A danger to myself or others? Absurd. Back in my day, people took care of their families.

But praise the Saints, Alfred rebuffed their recommendations and kept me home. He remained the only thing between me and involuntary commitment to St. Jude’s Memory Care Unit.

Lately, however, Alfred seemed to waver. Like today. What would I do without him?

But I know something’s out there, and Alfred has done nothing to protect me from whatever evil lives in the forest. I stared into the gloom. Darkness flashed across a stand of hemlock. Had a cloud blocked the sun, or had I seen a creature’s shadow? Something hulking. And hungry.

I grasped the top of the pail for balance and knelt beside the garden. All my tomatoes gone. Such a pity. I pulled a barren tomato plant close to my face and its spicy odor tingled my nostrils. I examined it through cloudy eyes. A predator had picked the fruit clean without damaging the leaves or the stem. Clever beast.

I felt its eyes on me, and I jerked upright. The woods remained still as a cemetery, but something lay in wait, coiled, ready to pounce. I sensed it. My stomach knotted like a rock in the cold soil. The demon craved me more than my vegetables. It wanted to pierce my flesh like tomato skin and consume me.

I pulled my pruning shears from the pail and clenched them until my fingers went numb. The devil was at my door. I scanned the underbrush. Everything seemed alive. Deadly.

“Get away from my plants,” I screamed.

It must be crouched there, waiting in ambush, but if I ran, it would bound across the yard and catch me before I made it halfway to the back door. It would pin me down and rip the flesh from my bones. My eyes darted from shrub to shrub. The woods closed in. My breath came hard and fast.

A branch snapped beside me.

I whirled around and faced the beast. It bared its fangs and growled. It reached for me with sharp claws.

I thrust the pruning shears and plunged the sharp steel into its chest. It wailed an inhuman cry. What was this thing? Was it of this world or something from beyond? I yanked the shears out with a sucking sound.

The creature toppled to the ground at my feet.

I stabbed it again and again, until I had no energy left. My fingers grew slick with blood. Stars flashed in my vision, and the earth tilted. I collapsed. My body tingled with fear and I gasped for breath. I scrambled across the hard earth on my hands and knees, waiting for the creature to clamber to its feet and attack again.

But it didn’t move.

“Oh, my God. Alfred, help me.”

I staggered to my feet. My chest heaved and sweat ran down my back. Blood soaked my shirt. I dropped the sheers and stumbled backward.

I had been right. I wasn’t a lunatic. The creature existed. Alfred will finally have to admit it. They all would. I turned and raced across the lawn, stumbling on the uneven earth.

“The devil is real. I told you.”

I burst into the kitchen like a conquering knight. Alfred had set the table for three. The organic scent of tomato soup hung in the air.

“Alfred, I killed it.”

No response.

Where was he? I wandered into the living room and stopped. What was I doing in there, and what did I want to tell Alfred? I rubbed my chin and tried to remember, but my thoughts rolled away like storm clouds. And why were my hands red?

No matter. If it was important, I would have remembered it. My stomach grumbled. I needed to eat. I should pick more tomatoes.

Alfred entered the living room. “What’s all the commotion?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Lunch is almost ready,” Alfred said. He stopped looked at my hands. His face blanched. “Mildred, where’s our daughter?”

Jeffrey James Higgins is a former reporter and retired supervisory special agent who writes thriller novels, short stories, creative nonfiction, and essays. He has wrestled a suicide bomber, fought the Taliban in combat, and chased terrorists across five continents. He received both the Attorney General’s Award for Exceptional Heroism and the DEA Award of Valor.

Jeffrey has been interviewed by CNN, New York Times, Fox News, Investigation Discovery, Declassified, and USA Today. He has won numerous literary awards, including the PenCraft Book Awards Fiction Book of the Year, a Readers’ Favorite Gold Medal, and the Claymore Award. Jeffrey is a #1 sss bestselling author.

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