Halloweek Sneak Peak (Short Horror Story

Hi guys,

For one video in Halloweek I’m doing a video with two short original stories. Here is my first draft of one of them (tw while this is a fictional story it mentions animal neglect and deceased animals).

Crazy Cat Lady

I used to live in a small town in the UK. While many believe its picturesque, there’s not much to do around here. It’s mostly inhabited by small families trying to find a good place to raise their kids or older people simply desiring somewhere peaceful to settle down in to retire. Naturally, my family fell into the former group while my neighbours fell into the other. I lived next door to two elderly couples, both of which resided there since before I was born. The couple on the right were pleasant folks who often picked up my parcels for me when I was out and would send me a card on my birthday. On the right was a widow, who I will name Betsy for the purpose of this story, Well, she wasn’t a widower until a few years back when her husband sadly succumbed to his lung cancer. They’d been nice enough but not as friendly as the other couple, however after her husband’s death she became even more distant than before. Makes sense, I guess. I’m still young, early 20s, and the idea of losing someone I’d been with for decades is something so far away in my future that I can’t begin to even imagine how that feels. My family gave our condolences and carried on with our own daily trials and life choices.

I’ve had a cat ever since I was young. Maybe five or six. Her name was Mandy: a gorgeous rescue cat, slim yet with a smooth, glossy black and white coat that left her feet appearing as if she were wearing socks. She eventually would go onto breed with another cat and give birth to a litter as we’d been misinformed about her status as a spayed cat - but that’s another story.

A year or so after Betsy’s husband died, she began leaving out food for Mandy. Doing what cats do, she was lured in by the food and spent more and more time over at her house. I was irritated that she was somewhat taking my cat away rather than adopting one in real need of a home, yet also recognised how lonely her house must seem without her husband there. Over time, my family and I let it slide. Mandy was being cared, occasionally hopping over to our garden, looking to still be in her prime despite being quite an ageing cat, and we’d since adopted a dog.

More recently, other strange occurrences began to take place. A neighbour who lived behind us knocked at our door, asking to check our shed to see if a fluffy orange ragdoll cat named Alfie has managed to lock himself in. We have a pond with fish and it was a common gathering area for cats to come and stare at them (still unable to catch the dear things as a net protected it all). Maybe Alfie had gone to admire a potential prize that couldn’t be caught and managed to make his way into the shed beside it. However, it was mid winte: we hadn’t used the shed in weeks and it’d been locked up since August. I assured him that we’d keep an eye out for Alfie and not to worry, our dog liked cats and would surely alert us playfully if one wandered about.

A couple of days passed and I heard a commotion from Betsy’s front door. It was the man looking for Alfie storming out and, by the looks of the ginger ball of fluff, he’d manage to find him. Betsy followed, profusely apologising. Something about Alfie sneaking into the garage and she hadn’t noticed due to poor eyesight. The man simply glared at her and continued to walk out of the driveway, muttering as he did. I frowned. Betsy was old, nearing her 90s. She could have easily missed Alfie in a dark garage, even with his bright fur, it seemed rash to become angry at her.

A few weeks went by and nothing really happened. Mandy still wandered between gardens, seemingly still as lively and healthy as ever, so I had no concerns about that; I saw Alfie by our pond and his house was right over the fence. No more accidental lock-ins. Our fish were safe, our dog was doing well. Pet-wise, everything was as it should be.

A month or so passed before I heard another knock at the door. It was the man again. His expression was lined with wrinkles of frustration, regarding me upon opening the door, glancing over to Betsy’s door and then back at me.

“Do you know what time Betsy gets home?” He asked, obviously trying to hold back from taking his furiosity for Betsy out on me, “We haven’t seen Alfie in two days.” I was shocked: again? And surely if Betsy would have learned to turn her garage light on after last time.

“5pm, I think. She’s seeing her niece right now. I’d try around that time.” He thanked me before turning around to head back to his place.

Being as curious as I am, I kept a close eye on Betsy’s driveway for the rest of the afternoon. As I predicted, her niece’s car parked up around quarter to 5 and she helped her aunt out of the car and to the door. They exchanged a quick hug before the niece returned back to her car, reversed and drove down the road again. After about 25 minutes, I saw the man coming around the corner - I kept watch as nosey as that is - and watched him knock angrily at the door. Betsy answered. I couldn’t hear what was said, only that the man was in a rage and Betsy was articulating herself very nervously. After a couple of minutes, Betsy allowed the man to come into her house. Not even 10 minutes passed before the garage door opened and the man exited, empty handed. He whisked his head round to scowl at Betsy before marching round the corner again. I rolled my eyes. Clearly Alfie wasn’t there, they’d gone through the garage for goodness sake. He didn’t have to be so rude.

I didn’t see Alfie out and about after that. They say when cats are going to die, they leave home. Perhaps it’s was just poor Alfie’s time. But this wasn’t the end of it. Upon walks into town to run errands, I began to see a lot more “missing cat” posters plastered to street lamps, walls and inside shop windows. After several months, so many had been put up that older ones with less stick began to litter parts of the road. Even the council had to make a statement: suggesting that cats are being stolen to be sold elsewhere for shows and to breeders. Most likely a scam as the majority of cats around here aren’t pure bred and have been spayed and neutered, even Mandy was after her little procreation accident. We made sure of that.

We didn’t see Mandy around as often as we used to. During a sunny evening in mid-summer, my family and I were enjoying a rare BBQ. Sizzling sausages cooked on the open firepit and we watched our fish properly without a net as we could easily shoo away any cats that decided to give fishing a go. Not that many visited the pond anymore. I spied Betsy pottering around the garden watering her plants and piped a hello and waved. She sheepishly waved back. Before she could turn around again, I decided to enquire into Mandy.

“Betsy, how’s Mandy holding up?” By asking I reminded myself that Mandy was my cat that I adopted and had to grit my teeth due to the displeased feeling I had of asking someone else about how my cat was doing. She blinked and paused before responding.

“Just a little tired, dear. The heat must be a lot for a cat who is getting on”. I nodded l, supposing she was right. Mandy looked young but had been around 5 years old already by the time we adopted her. She must be nearing 10, 11, maybe when 12 by now. Cats usually only live to 16 or 17 so she is getting on a bit. I smiled and turned back to the cosy BBQ that was a pleasant relief from the occasional chill breeze.

It would be another 2 years before we received the upsetting news that Betsy had passed away. Her health had been declining, or so we gathered from the one or two ambulances we observed in her drive away and the more frequent visits from her niece, so it wasn’t much of a surprise no matter how gloomy a situation it was. That wasn’t the only piece of news however that surrounded Betsy.

She was found by a nurse who had come to conduct a regular house check up on her arthritic knee. She knocked a few times but the door was left unanswered. After ten or so minutes and ringing the house phone several times, the nurse was at peak concern levels, ringing both a locksmith and the ambulance service. One way or another, they all managed to enter. I wasn’t there when any of this happened but my father was. He witnessed them enter and the nurse leave pretty quickly, her face contorted in disgust. It took a while for the paramedics to resurface, carrying a covered body on a stretcher. Yet many more guests would pass in and out the house, so much so that they may as well have installed a revolving door. Bags with unidentified contents were hauled from the inside and even a fumigator was called. The entire street was perplexed until the following week the local paper printed a story.

“Local Pensioner Found Dead Surrounded By Cats.”

Betsy had been discovered on her bed, lifeless. And she wasn’t alone. Amongst feces, flies and roaches were cats. So many cats. We don’t even know how many and the worst part is that most of them were... they were dead. The article stated that the cats appeared starved. Their boned jutting out under thinning coats of fine fur covering a thin layer of flesh bitten to hell by all kind of mites; mouths of the more recently deceased ones completely dried out from dehydration; eyes sunken and their weak bodies appearing as though that even when alive, they were barely able to walk. There were decomposing corpses of all stages of rigor mortis. Some were still limp from a recent death, others completely stiff. Some bodies had begun to bloat and in some the organs had begun to liquify. Bones were mentioned briefly who knows if she’d been doing this long enough for that to happen. The stench of the whole bedroom was reported to be foul, I’m surprised we didn’t smell anything at all. Perhaps her windows being shut was our only salvation from that horrific odour. They found all kind of cats of all ages. There was even a tiny litter of kitten miraculously still alive. Betsy must have taken in, or stolen, a pregnant pet. The little ones were very weak as their mother had passed on but fortunately animal welfare was able to locate foster parents that were nursing them back to health. A few other malnourished souls were rescued, on immediately requiring urgent attention and from what I know, they all made it. I hope. It wasn’t until another week later that the truth I knew was inevitable arrived in the form of a phone call. A microchip had been found and... it was Mandy. She had been found dead with a broken leg, likely from a fall, and had died around four weeks before Betsy was discovered. She’d survived longer than most of them. Alfie was unfortunately also among the feline victims. I suddenly understood the man’s suspicion and rage. I couldn’t understand it. How could Betsy, a distant yet gentle person, have done this? Taken away precious pets from the community around her and neglected them so? It made me ill.

It turns out Betsy was diagnosed with dementia - and I know this kind of behaviour isn’t common of dementia patients or something that they do. There are so many dementia patients who, with help, can live the rest of their days fulfilled with family, friends and even pets. My, there’s a lovely old guy just a few blocks away with the same neurological problem who adores his Labrador, Buddy, and his own nephew comes by several times a week to check up. But Betsy was different. Hers was severe and went against her niece’s pleas seek treatment and to give her Betsy’s power of attorney so she could ensure it. The divide was so much so that Betsy wouldn’t let her inside the house. Just drop her off. So her niece stopped pressing the matter, worrying it may antagonise her disorder even more to the point Betsy would forget her too, viewing her as someone who wanted to hurt her or lock her away in a home. Or was she aware of what she was hiding? Or planning to hide? And that’s why she didn’t let her in? Were her episodes so bad that she couldn’t register the meowing of cats constantly surrounding her? Did she have the foresight to lock the windows to shut out their cries and the smell? I didn’t know it Betsy was sick, evil, desperately lonely or all three. I just didn’t know. And I still don’t know.

All I know is that every time I settle down in my own bed, I can almost feel the cold matted fur on my finger tips, hear the distant whines of a weak kitten and smell the faintest funk of rot. Just like Betsy must have every single night.