Chapalu

"Gawn, get out of it, ya mangy ratter!" The voice was phlegmy, coarse as the old man called out to the cat on the top of the altar tomb next to the path. The cat, a black silhouette in the darkness turned its eyes on him disdainfully. Even in the poor light in the cemetery the cat's eyes flashed with an emerald, green radiance.

"Hop it! Scram!" The old man waved his walking stick at the cat which casually stood, stretched and giving the man one last baleful stare, slipped down to the ground on the far side of the tomb, it black coat merging with the darkness.

"Bloody cats! Horrible sodding animals! Hates the bastards!" Grumbled the man as he shuffled along the path. He coughed, a thick rattling cough deep in his chest and he paused, then spat into the grass beside the path.

"There see, got cat flu now aint I! Bloody fing, give it what for, I see it again."

He continued his shuffling progress along the path, where on both sides, stood head stones of varying age, upright or leaning drunkenly, interspersed by an occasional altar tomb or mausoleum. The man was mumbling to himself, a continuous litany of words barely audible, broken by an occasional hacking cough and more spitting.

"Sodding cats! They's everywhere, just like at farm. Breeding everywhere the little bastards. Sorted em out though, didn't we? Dad showed us how to get rid of em. Stamp on their heads or put em in a sack with a brick and in the river with em. Trouble was by the time you turned around there were always more of em."

'Long time ago,' he thought. 'Afore the bloody bank and guverment lost us the farm. Afore Dad blew his head off and left Mum and three kids in the lurch wannit. Afore that bitch I married threw me out coz of me drinking. Great fat cow! All she did was sit there all-day watching bleeding soaps, then moaned when I stopped for a pint on the way home from work in the sodding factory. More welcome in the pub than at home, weren't I?'

"She'd no right!" he said aloud. "No bloody right ta kick me outta me own house! Cold hearted bitch!"

He stopped to cough and spit, leaning on his stick. With the other hand he patted his coat pocket where a half bottle of the cheapest vodka he had been able to find waited, then wiped the hand under his nose in an ineffectual swipe.

Behind him the cat had returned to the top of the tomb, watching his progress intently. It was joined by a second dark-haired cat and shortly by a third. All three sat watching the man. Only their glowing green eyes, a slightly darker patch of night atop the tomb announcing their presence. When the man was some twenty feet away, his grubby, shabby clothing fading into the darkness, the first cat, a little larger than the two between which it sat, gave an almost human nod. The two flanking it sprang noiselessly from the tomb and disappeared either side of the path. The remaining cat dropped silently onto the gravel of the path and began a slow stalk of the man, padding after him with purpose.

Almost in the centre of the cemetery, where the light from streetlamps beyond the walls of the churchyard barely reached, not far from the mausoleum he was using as a home, the first rumble of thunder caught him by surprise. He looked up, but above him the sky was clear, the stars cold and unblinking in the chill autumn air.

"No one said nuffin bout rain tonight," he grumbled to himself continuing to shuffle forward.

Another rumble of thunder, louder this time. Looking skywards, he could see clouds racing and churning over the trees on the far side of the cemetery. The wind had picked up, flicking leaves off the grass and path into the air.

"Bloody weathermen! Never get fings right, does they? Useless bloody lot. Sack em all I says!" he quickened his shuffle a little, wanting to be inside when the storm broke but even so his progress was far from rapid.

Thunder rolled across the sky again, louder, overhead, making him jump. He looked up at the clouds racing across the stars and started swearing softly in his cracked voice. At the point on the path where he cut across the grass to the mausoleum, there was a flash of sheet lightning and in the momentary brightness, he saw a cat sitting on the path just ahead.

"Get out of it!" He waved his walking stick but was more concerned about staying dry than chasing it off. There was another flash in the clouds above him and in its brief light he saw cats on his left and right.

"Three of the buggers! Gawn gets out of it! I aint got nuffin for ya 'cept me boot!" he waved his stick at the cat blocking his route cross the grass and when the next flash came, it was gone. He shuffled forward, leaning heavily on his stick, trying to move faster. He didn't know why, but the cats were beginning to make him nervous. He was no more than five feet from the entrance to the mausoleum when there came the loudest clap of thunder yet and an actinic flash of light behind him as lightning struck the rod on the top of the church steeple. He hunched his shoulders waiting for the drenching rain he was sure was about to engulf him.

Before he could move there was another strike on the lightning rod, then a third. The accompanying thunder was a deafening cacophony, yet the anticipated rain didn't come. He started to move forward again, ears ringing, half blinded by the brightness. There was another prolonged flash of light behind him which was when he saw the shadows. Three black shadows projected against the stone of the mausoleum. Shadows which were growing, altering as he watched, elongating, growing upwards from the ground. Their edges writhing and shifting and then they were gone as the light faded.

The old man stood frozen, not daring to move, leaning on his stick, trembling, the fear a thick lump in his throat which no amount of hawking and spitting would shift. In the next flash of lightning, he again saw the shadows against the stonework. Tall thin shadows. Very tall, very thin. The middle shadow a fraction taller than the other two. He tried to look behind him without turning his head but try as he might his eyes could not swivel far enough.

He tried to swallow, tried to speak, but the lump in his throat was too large. His heart was pounding madly and each breath a struggle. When the lightning flashed again the shadows were larger, taller. Whatever was casting them was closer to him. He tried to take a step forward, but his legs wouldn't move. His heart felt as if at any moment it would burst from his chest. There were too many beats, each painful, as if his racing heart was trying to break his ribs and escape. His chest tight, breath whistling in and out asthmatically. No longer just trembling, shaking. Tremors running down his body in waves.

Another clap of thunder echoing across the sky above his head, lightning illuminating the cemetery around him. Shadows rising above the roof of the mausoleum as whatever cast them was now no more than a pace behind him. The effort to turn his head was almost beyond him but creaking, stiff, it moved a fraction of an inch at a time. His eyes, swivelled hard to the side, waited for a glimpse of what was behind.

His head turned as far as it could. Not enough to see properly and with equal sluggishness, he turned his shoulders, twisting at the waist. Still nothing and now he forced his feet to turn him around. Nothing. Nothing on the path or the grass and graves bordering it. Nothing there. He let go a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and felt his muscles relax.

"Bloody idiot!" he muttered. "You daft old sod. Scaring yourself over a bit of thunder 'n' lightning." He chuckled, a grating sound from deep in his chest which set him coughing again. He spat a wad of phlegm onto a head stone and as it slid down the lichen covered surface he turned back to the entrance of the mausoleum.

Shuffling forward, he eased himself one step at a time down to the entrance, leaning heavily on his walking stick. At the bottom the door was ajar. It grated on fragments of stone as he pushed it wide enough to squeeze through. Inside he fumbled for matches left in a niche just inside the doorway. Striking one he lit the stub of votive candle liberated from the church at the end of Sunday's service. He'd watched the verger lock up the church looking around, probably for him. Not that there was anything in there worth nicking.

He'd swelled the congregation by twenty percent when he sat down at the back of the church. He'd gone in the forlorn hope they'd put the heating on, but the church was freezing. Too cold to even let him doze off during the sermon the vicar delivered to the four old women sat in the front rows. Still, he'd managed to pocket a few bits of candle on his way out. He pushed the door closed as far as he dared.

'Didn't want to trap himself inside now did he?'

It still left a gap which let the wind in when it blew in the wrong direction, but it kept a lot of the cold out. Holding the candle up he shuffled over to the empty niche where he'd laid out his ragged blankets, dripped some wax onto the stone then pushed the candle onto it. He sank down onto a pile of old newspapers and rags he'd gathered to act as a seat and leaning back against the wall, sighed. Outside there was another clap of thunder and bright blue-white light briefly illuminated the interior through the gap.

He blinked his rheumy old eyes to clear the after image and felt in his pocket for the vodka. He took his time cracking the seal and unscrewing it. Savouring the anticipation of the first swallow of the rough spirit. He raised the bottle to his mouth and closed his eyes as he swallowed. Once, twice, the burn in his throat, then his stomach welcoming. He lowered the bottle and drew a breath in between his teeth.

'God in his heaven, that's good!'

He opened his eyes and, in the flickering, candlelight the shadows in the corners seemed to ripple and change. He peered towards the corners, trying to focus, when another flash of lightning stung his eyes and now when he looked there was a thick ebony blackness either side of the doorway with another expanding before it.

From each shadow, about knee high on a man, a pair of green emeralds suddenly shone out at him. As he watched, puzzled, they moved further from the floor as if whatever their source was … growing? He shook his head and raised the bottle to his mouth, dismissing them as a manifestation brought on by the vodka and his upset over the cats.

In the next flash of prolonged lightning, the physical forms of the shadows with the glowing green eyes, were revealed.

The bottle fell from his hand, its contents adding to the growing warm wet patch on his trousers as his bladder emptied in spurts. His heart seemed to lurch, then stop. A low moan, wordless, escaped his lips, his eyes widened as he tried to comprehend the impossible sight before him.

Three black cats of great size, larger than the largest lion he had ever dreamt of, sat on their haunches, calmly eyeing him. Emerald eyes stared at him, unblinking, unwavering, with uncaring indifference. One yawned lazily, displaying great white canine teeth with needle sharp points reflecting the candlelight. A pink tongue flicked around them, then the mouth closed, its owner turning to look at the centre cat, its questioning gaze matched by the one on the far side. The middle cat was immobile not returning their gaze, emerald eyes fixed on the stricken old man before them, then with deliberate slowness it nodded once.

The flanking cats turned to look at the man and rose to their feet, their heads almost touching the ceiling of the mausoleum while the middle cat continued its implacable stare. As one, the two cats stepped forward, pads silent on the floor, a lazy almost lethargic motion, controlled, effortless and fluid. The old man's chest heaved with the effort of breathing. His eyes were wide, full of fear as these epitomes of felis domesticus, inexplicably writ large, swayed towards him insouciant grins on their faces, showing gleaming teeth. He raised a hand towards them in a feeble warding gesture, but it did little to halt their progress.

They came to a halt either side of the semi prone man, looking down at him where he quivered in abject terror. Each placed a paw onto his torso holding him down. He felt the slight prick of claws as they flexed them. The seated cat rose and sauntered towards him and as it straddled his legs, the cat slowly leant forward opening its mouth wide, an enormous cavern of pink gums, pink tongue and white teeth. Sharp, large, white teeth, larger than his fingers.

'It wasn't me! It was Dad, he was the one, he always made us do it!' were his last frantic thoughts as the gaping jaws descended.

 A spluttering sound, an acrid smell as his bowels released. His heart lurched once, twice then came to a stop, his vision mercifully fading before the jaws closed.

Above the mausoleum, clouds still churned and raced, but the thunder had stopped, and a hushed quiet had fallen across the graves. From within the candle lit mausoleum, came the sound of crunching bones and contented purring.