TRASH CAT LIT

Jenny Hart

Listen to Jenny read her story

I know Nikki is a werewolf. She denies it, but she has tells. The way she eats with her fingers, tearing meat from the bone, growling as she chews. And she won’t wear the silver necklace I bought her for our fifth anniversary. 

That’s because five years is wood.

Instead, I made her a bead bracelet. She never takes it off. She rolls the balls against her skin and smiles, eyes closed, like she’s marking her scent.

That’s cats, dummy.

We met the last time there was a full moon on Halloween. Nikki followed me home and I woke to find her curled at the foot of my bed, my red riding hood costume shredded. I tell Nikki I’m going Trick or Treating as Lady Van Helsing this year

Van Helsing was vampires.

What‘s the traditional nemesis of werewolves then?

Their lovers.

I lock Nikki in the basement. I’ve made it nice for her. A squidgy sofa, candles, a rug from Ikea. A couple of Rotisserie chickens from the SPAR, reduced 20% because they were closing. By morning she’ll have picked the bones clean.

If I was a werewolf, wouldn’t I eat the chickens whole?

No, because cooked bones would shred your guts.

Despite my best efforts, Nikki has escaped before, putting an abrupt end to our neighbour’s poultry keeping. As a precaution,  I load my great grandfather’s stolen Glock with a silver bullet I commissioned from a jeweler on Etsy. He said he gets a lot of requests for these. He can’t guarantee the bullet won’t explode when I pull the trigger. It is written explicitly in his terms and conditions.

Town is dead. Covid-caution has kept everyone home. I miss Nikki, so I head back along the silent streets. I reach the whitewashed cavernous underpass, a graffitied red face with black crosses for eyes guarding the entrance. There are shadows at the far end of the tunnel.

“What you supposed to be?” The men, boys, haven’t made much of an effort. They wear brittle masks. One has a wolf head made from rubber pulled over his face, tufts of matted grey fur sprouting in thin rows. He barks, “Still would though.” His friends cackle.

“Give me a kiss if you want to get past.” The stench of sweat drifts down the tunnel as he swaggers towards me. 

Then Nikki is there, standing behind them. I know it’s her. She is impossibly tall, long dark hair covering her body like a coat. She’s wearing the bracelet. 

Could be a big dog with hawthorn berries caught in its fur.

The men howl in fear, stumble and try to run, masks scattered. 

I knew this day would come. I raise the gun. It is an impossible weight at the end of my arm. Nikki looks at me, golden eyes full of love. She knows I have to do the right thing. I don’t have a choice. Because I would choose Nikki every single time, werewolf or not. I put my gun away.

In the morning, she’s asleep in the basement, candles snuffed out, chickens untouched.

For some reason, I wasn’t really hungry.

Jenny’s prompts were: during All Hallow’s Eve, an escapee, a firearm

Jenny Hart is a writer from England who loves a dark or unusual short story. She has previously contributed to ‘Trash Cat Lit’ as well as ‘Trembling with Fear’, ‘Daikaijuzine’ and ‘Hotch Potch Literature and Art’.
When Jenny isn’t writing, you can find her walking in the local countryside. Probably lost. She lives across the road from a cemetery, with her two cats, Jason and Jeff.

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