Write This! 2018 Entry - Cats, Coins, and Caskets

Cats, Coins, and Caskets

A cool autumn breeze fluttered the curtains as leaves skittered across the sidewalk. Orange light illuminated the dim parlor.

Small padded feet tapped across the wooden floors, leaving tiny prints in the dust. Meows echoed through the large and empty home.

A tall thin woman hummed in the kitchen as a kettle steamed with hot tea. Her grey frizzy hair bouncing as she moved.

Her hands, shaky with age, tediously picked at the threads on her sweater. Popping off a button and she dropped it into a tinted mason jar.

The button rattled as it hit the others. Buttons, small and large, filled a quarter of the jar. Shaking it gently, the old lady screwed the lid back on and replaced the jar on a windowsill.

Smiling to herself, she continued humming while her kettle whistled loudly.

Kids voices could be heard as her window was always cracked open. Cheerful shouts in the chilly afternoon, the rustle of leaves and rolling of tires.

-

"Sam, do you hear that?"

"What, Johnny?"

"That!" The boy pointed to the house across the street. It's looming figure, tall and stark.

"Sounds like it's coming from the ghosts," Johnny snickered.

Sam's eyes widened, spooked by the idea of spirits and ghouls.

"G-Ghosts..?"

"Yeah! Haven't you heard? Old Ms. Emerson keeps ghosts and demons in her basement."

"N-No way! Those aren't real."

"Oh yeah? Then why does she keep so many cats? They keep away the evil things, witches used them in the olden days."

Johnny waved his arms and doubled over with laughter.

Sam shook with fear.

"Johnny! Stop it!"

Johnny stilled suddenly, a serious expression played onto his features.

"No, I'm serious. She's got some witchy stuff going on, you see how she keeps her button jar?"

"Buttons?"

"She collects these buttons in an old mason jar, see, right there on her windowsill. Then at night some people see her go down to the old graveyard. Holding onto that thing like a freak."

"That's not nice, Johnny. What if she's just-"

"Just what? No one goes down there to visit, there's no one buried there that she would even know. Crazy old cat lady's got no family anyway."

"Stop talking like that, Johnny! You're being rude." Sam's pigtails shook as she shouted at her older brother.

"You don't believe me huh? Well I'll prove to you. You'll see." Johnny chuckled.

Sam crossed her arms, huffed and stomped home.

Johnny hesitated to followed, instead catching another glimpse at 208 Ashe Boulevard.

A pair of glowing eyes glinted through the front window before disappearing into the dark house.

-
The cat purred loudly as Mrs. Emerson gently stroked its fur. Sipping at her fragrant tea and flipping through an old photo album.

Each page was yellowed and delicate, worn thin through the years. Her eyes twinkled with warm memories.

The sun was barely above the horizon when the clock struck 6. And with the clink of a teacup and a shuffle of her woolen slippers, Ms. Emerson set out.

Guided by the orange tinted light, she walked towards the old town graves. A dark grey chartreaux following beside her.

Glowing orbs followed the pair, flashing between bare branches. The hooting of owls and chirping of crickets accompanying the on setting darkness.

Holding tight to her mason jar, the buttons were jostled by each movement. And she went along the old cobblestone path, Mrs. Emerson hummed in time with the clinking and clattering of her button jar.

As she did every night of every October of every year, devotedly bound to her old Wiccan traditions. Traditions of a culture that seemed to be forgotten in the modern world.

Arriving in the quiet cemetery, Mrs. Emerson sought out the thick white candles that peppered grave 38.

Barely marked and hidden under a lonely Yew tree, a small stone headstone lies.

A few candles remained, many already burned down into the grass. The ground was soft and waxy.

Setting down her button jar, Mrs. Emerson reaches in and pulls one out. It was small and round, rough and made of pine.

Pressing the button into the soft wax, she holds her hands up in prayer. Honoring the spirit when no one else would.

The stone's lettering shifts.

JONATHAN EMERSON
1668-1692

The buttons in her jar glowed, shining and sparkling. They slowly shook and turned. Many fell silent and remained regular buttons, plastic or wooden.

But there were a couple that remained shiny and new. Gold. Pure gold coins surfaced from the jar.

Mrs. Emerson gave a soft smile. Nodding, she whispered grateful words.

"Rest well, Johnny."

Her quiet voice blended naturally with her surroundings. Old and wise but quiet as a mouse.

A camera clicked and a bright light flashed quickly through the night. It went as quick as it came but not unnoticed.

The chartreux hissed, the brush rustled, and loud pounding footsteps echoed through the night.

And old Mrs. Emerson vanishes.

Have you ever wondered where old people get their money?