Part 32: Light Switch

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— The gang settled in at the Big House, waiting for another Call to come so they could nab one of Feenuín’s Gifts and put a stop to The Inquiry’s plan…whatever that may be. Enjoying a few too many cocktails while they waited, Frank and Blevin argued about Frank’s parents and all the strangeness Frank had ignored in an effort to earn their love.

As tempers cooled and new understanding blossomed, something crept in through the unlocked swinging door.

“Not all of them could lock,” said Harlow.

Frank turned around slowly. He was sure it was worse in his mind. That was always the case, right? It was always better to finish the scary movie and find out the ghost was really just someone under a sheet. Or, like, an easily-managed ghost. Someone whose bones just needed a good salting. 

The beast crouched low before him with its shoulders high and shaking. Frank might have been allergic to cats, but he was not completely ignorant to their ways. This one did not intend to join in their revelry like some sort of gritty reboot Tony the Tiger.

The large cat, a mountain lion/cougar (if Harlow’s coffee cup art was to be believed), was one of the several deadly felines that strut into the parlor. Frank thought back to the campfire stories, the town legends; that so many such lions, tigers and bears stalked the pines of Carlisle. The narratives often shifted between them fetching food for the Woods Woman or being her sworn enemy. Frank half-remembered one where the beasties were children who had masturbated too much, but that felt a little too Catholic to be real. 

“What…” said Harlow, her lips barely moving. She took slow steps towards the boys. “Do. We do?” 

Frank glanced towards the radio, frightened that the grind of his eyeballs moving would be enough to set the cats off. Their shoulders stretched like massage chair arms under sagging leather. 

Not skinny, then, he thought. Starved.

“The one in front has eight ribs. Does that mean anything?” said Blevin. “Wait, no. Twelve.” He shouted at the cat. “STOP MOVING!” It snarled back, baring one broken fang and a mouth full of rot. 

“I will push you in front,” said Harlow. “I’m sure your head alone is enough meat to slow them down.” 

“Harlow…” said Frank. 

“Francis?!” 

Frank was in front, both of his arms spread to the sides (seemed as good an idea as any) and behind, corralling his friends as they sidled across the room. He’d angled towards the second door, the one with the dead bolt that led to the basement staircase. A worse option, but easier to unlock than the foyer with its two sliding rods.

“Just stay calm. Stay quiet. Nobody say a word. Stay calm…”

“You are the only one talking!” said Harlow.

“When we get to the door, either of you flick the lock and then we run. It leads to the cellars. We’ll get some distance and then find another staircase up.” They all nodded.

“Wait, did you say ‘cellars?’ Plural?” Harlow’s words reeked; the smell of warm blood spilled in a corn maze. 

“The deepest I’ve been is two stories down. But sometimes Dick would come back upstairs soaking wet and be like, ‘I don’t know why you don’t use the diving pool more.’”

“What diving pool?” 

“Exactly. Just stay together and we’ll be fine.” 

They made it to the door as a fifth cougar sauntered into the room. They casually surrounded the human trio; the certainty of an impending meal outweighing starvation. It was almost like they were used to the cycle. One of them, with two crusty divots where its eyes might have been, easily dodged furniture and fire.

Blevin flicked the lock.

The cougars’ heads snapped towards him, and the manor held its breath. 

“go.”