This story is by Page Craw and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Both clock hands high above our homeroom teacher’s desk ticked to noon when the first three elementary grades departed The Little Red Schoolhouse for recess.
Four Second Grader friends walked to the neighborhood candy store with our dimes on sunny days, talking about silly things.
Beyond our path, a Victorian mansion sat desolate where weeds and blighted bushes competed for nutrients in the packed earth on a lot with faint tracks of habitation. Once painted bright white but now soiled by time and neglect, the clapboard siding grew lichens in the shade cast by two scraggly oak trees.
We saw no one as we traveled by, and the dilapidation inspired horror tales from our childish eight-year-old imaginations.
Skipping along the sidewalk and swinging my pink cloth purse, I avoided the cracks in deference to my mother. My mouth watered, anticipating the Clark Bar I would have today.
Susie pointed to the house as we approached it. “Is anyone brave enough to take the bet? We’ve gone by this wreck for weeks, and no one has dared.”
The Pickapenny Store’s proprietor told us an elderly woman lived there with her cats—some said one hundred. We’d heard all kinds of stories, although they were most likely made up. One was that this person killed her husband and fed him to her cats. Because the police never found his body, the widow went free. This event occurred shortly after the couple moved into their new house, a wedding present from the groom sixty years before.
The dare remained unanswered—to set foot on the porch and tear a corner from the tottering stack of newspapers showing the date to prove the incursion. No one knew if you’d make it back alive because the crazy cat lady who lived there might capture you. But the thrill of the dare remained irresistible.
When I considered the story, I couldn’t imagine a new bride murdering her husband. I thought about her sadness when he never returned and she remained alone. Still, since no one had seen her for decades, it was hard to imagine her without making her look like a witch.
“I’m tired of talking about this all the time. I’ll do it,” I said, approaching the open metal gate. A stepping-stone walkway beneath years of old turf showed dimly, leading to the porch. Despite the fear gripping me, I’d show my pals I had the nerve.
“Are you sure, Cath?” Susie asked.
Holly wore a shocked expression, her eyes wide with disbelief at my nodding “Yes.”
“I don’t think you should,” Mary said.
“Don’t worry so much. Watch me go!”
I made it to the porch steps in a flash, hearing loud gasps from my friends behind me. I dodged the supplies arranged near the front door. The sound of cats meowing inside confirmed that part of the tale. I didn’t question my decision until I heard the screen door creak open on its rusty hinge. I looked up in time to spot a skeletal form. The door slammed shut as the person realized my presence. I turned tail and ran back to where my friends jumped up and down with fear, shrieking even after I joined them.
“I saw her!” I panted.
“Let’s first get out of here,” Susie said, “then you can tell us about her.”
We collected in a far corner of the candy store, squealing about my recent boldness. But even though I had tried, I hadn’t succeeded.
“What did she look like?” Mary asked.
“Her skin was ghostly white, and she was so skinny. I think she had a head scarf on.”
“Well, I’m glad you made it back. It was a dumb move,” Holly said.
I bit into my Clark Bar and savored the chocolate crunchiness. “Yeah, but I don’t think she’s dangerous. I think she’s sad.”
That night, I told my mother what I had done.
“Cathy, you shouldn’t pester Mrs. Newman. No one knows much about the circumstances, but she has managed alone her entire life.”
“What happened to Mr. Newman?”
“Her husband may have had a hunting accident in the hills, and no one ever found him..”
“How does she eat?” I asked.
“Do you mean, how does she get groceries?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m told she has a standing order at the grocery store. She leaves a check, and the delivery boy deposits the bags on her porch. No one has seen her for many years until your sighting today.”
I didn’t sleep well reviewing my next move. Mommy wouldn’t understand that I needed to save face with my friends. Even though I had reached the porch, I hadn’t brought proof.
Maybe if I were polite, Mommy wouldn’t object as much. So, I wrote an introduction note.
Dear Lady,
We pass your house daily and would like to meet you. No one is allergik to cats.
Your friend,
Cathy Thorpe
The following day, before I lost my nerve, I sprinted down the walkway and took the steps two at a time. The supplies from the grocery store no longer sat near the door. First, I tore the corner of a top newspaper from the stack and stuffed the paper in my pocket.
I could see nothing through the dirty windows. The house sat in a dead calm behind me until the cats erupted in a cacophony of meows when I knocked on the door with my hand-written note clutched in my palm.
Seconds passed as I waited for my knock to be acknowledged, my stomach knotting from nerves in the seconds I waited without a rehearsed reaction to Mrs. Newman if she appeared. I didn’t know what I’d do, and maybe she was as afraid of me as I was of her.
When a door closed inside, I jumped with a start. I glanced back, but couldn’t see Susie and Holly hiding behind a hedge lining the road. I didn’t see Mary anywhere as I waited, although I knew she was there somewhere.
Why had I come again to pester Mrs. Newman when Mommy had told me not to? I felt ashamed of my motive as I stood at her door. It wasn’t to befriend a loner but to win a dare.
I looked for a place to hang the note I’d written, thinking the only proper thing to do now was to depart. When I turned around, the door latch clicked, and the screen door screeched ajar. I whirled around to encounter the house’s occupant—a tiny woman whose white hair hung below her waist.
“Is yours an errand of mercy or mischief?” Mrs. Newman inquired.
I stuttered my apology for intruding, so taken aback was I at her arrival. As I had observed before, her skin had a pearly sheen and a paleness I’d never seen on anyone else. And were it not for the color of her hair suggesting her age, her face, a face without creases, was that of an angel. I must have had a confused expression because she answered my unspoken question.
“I’m eighty-five years old. Limiting sun exposure has kept my skin youthful. How old are you?”
“I was eight in October. I wrote you a note,” I said, handing her the composition of the evening before.
Mrs. Newman studied my few words with rapt attention. Any mewing of the cats came from a distance within the three-storied building.
“How do you do, Cathy Thorpe? I am Mrs. Newman.”
I curtseyed and then held out my hand, unsure which method she would prefer.
Mrs. Newman took my hand in hers, and my eyes widened with the softness of her hands.
She read my mind for the second time after I rubbed my hands.
“I think more than I work—and use good hand cream.”
“What do you think about?” I questioned without deference to her seniority.
“I write Gothic Fiction under a nom de plume, a false name. This keeps me busy.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.” Mrs. Newman laughed, a tinkling sound.
After a brief pause, I asked, “Aren’t you alone too much?”
“I’m a Creative. It’s not people who inspire us; it’s imagination. By the way, allergic is spelled with a ‘c,’ not a ‘k.’ I will meet your friends hiding in the bushes the next time you come by.”
“Do you mean tomorrow, Mrs. Newman?”
“Tomorrow will tell. It will be our second chance to get to know one another. Goodbye, Cathy.”
What had I begun?
At The Pickapenny Store, we chewed bubble gum, contemplating our future twenty-four hours out.
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