The Black Cats Read Online Free

parlor
window. From what I’d gleaned, Sissy meant to bury the dead cat, as humans often
did for one another at the end of life. I had no need for this unnatural
ritual. I preferred to honor the tom in a more practical way—by catching
his murderer.
    I trotted
through the garden to North Seventh where I doubled back onto Green, the same street
I’d happened upon after my trip through the alley. I wasn’t naïve enough to think
I’d find my prey by accident. On the contrary, I planned to seek out his potential
victims and extract information from which to devise a hunting strategy.
    Confident
in my plan, I strode through the neighborhood, head high, gait quick and light,
in search of fellow cats. One might’ve mistaken this section of Philadelphia
for a cemetery, it was that quiet. Unlike western Spring Garden District, the people
of eastern Spring Garden District—Eddy called them Quakers —kept to themselves.
    The
roads held carriages, but many travelers preferred to walk in silence. I hoped
their feline companions leaned more toward congeniality and that my presence
would not raise fur. I had not yet reached the Franklin intersection when I observed
two tabbies—one orange and white, the other pale gray. “Hello!” I called
to them. They did not answer and waited for me to approach their front steps. I
did so guardedly, praying I hadn’t provoked a fight with the block’s toughest
ferals. “I am Cattarina. I live in the Poe house at the end of the street.” I
waved my tail in the general direction of home.
    “Pleased
to make your acquaintance, friend,” the gray tom said. “I am George, and this
is Margaret.” He nodded to the orange and white tabby. “We live with Thaddeus
Beal.”
    “Welcome
to Green Street,” Margaret said. She had impossibly long whiskers. “You’ll find
a peaceful society in this neighborhood. We offer our blessings.”
    My ear
twitched. I could not fathom a non-violent gathering of felines, save for one
in the bastion of my mind. Immanuel Katt’s theories of utopia are stunning; sadly,
they remain out of reach. The only semi-peaceful society I’d met had been Big
Blue’s troop near the penitentiary, and even they weren’t above aggression. “If
I am welcome,” I countered, “then you won’t mind answering questions.”
    “Questions
delight the mind, miss,” George said. His dull coat had the color and density
of a thundercloud. I pictured a lightning strike in its midst.
    “Do you
know of the black cat?” I asked. “The one that was hanged this morning?”
    Margaret
sat and wrapped her ginger tail around her feet. “We know of him.”
    “Who
was his owner?”
    George looked
to Margaret then back to me. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.
    “It is
important to my companion,” I lied. While Eddy had an interest in the tom’s
death, I had become obsessed with it. “Please.”
    “Should
we tell her?” Margaret asked George.
    George blinked
his approval.
    “The
Butcher of Green Street,” she said. “He makes cats disappear.”

 

Jolley
Spirits
    MARGARET’S DECLARATION SOURED
MY stomach more than the wooly cheese I’d pilfered from the cooling cupboard yesterday.
“The Butcher of Green Street,” I repeated. “I gather sausage is not his
specialty.”
    “Unless
you mean cat sausage,” George said.
    “Surely
you speak in jest,” I said.
    “They
go in,” Margaret said with a tremor, “but they don’t come out.” She glanced
over her shoulder before speaking again. “The black cat disappeared into the
Butcher’s house around the quarter moon. Now he’s swinging from a tree. Draw
your own conclusions.”
    “You
said ‘ They go in.’ Have there been
others?” I asked.
    “Yes. It
all started with the Water Giants.”
    I
flicked the end of my tail. “That is utter hyperbole.”
    “Hi- purr -bo-lee?” She cocked her head. “I have
never heard of it. But I am very sure
of my facts. The Water Giants made the mistake of sleeping on the