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  Gabriela

  Tales From A Demon Cat

  By

  R.C. Rumple

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real

  people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not construed as real.

  Copyright © Richard Rumple 2018

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1722320966

  ISBN-10: 1722320966

  PUBLISHER’S NOTES

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and by extension, Worldwide. Any Reproduction or unauthorized use of this material is prohibited without the express written consent of the author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  My Thanks

  Usually, I start off this page of gratitude by naming the many advance readers who assist me in discovering areas of weakness and strength. Yet, this time, the list is much too long. With the many various stories enclosed, my readers were given the opportunity to read only a few, and none have read all. I do wish to say a hearty “Thank You” to each who participated in the reading of my works and for the assistance they rendered.

  I do wish to express my sincere gratitude to a gentleman, and a fellow herper, who mentored me earlier this year and has become instrumental in taking my writing to the next level. Even though I suspect this publication will not be perfect in his eyes, I am eternally grateful to Jason V. Brock for opening my eyes in many ways to give the reader a more pleasurable reading experience. He deserves my full respect for taking on the challenge and continues to help me every way he can. I thank you for mentoring me, as well as being my friend, Jason. Maybe one day, I’ll make you proud.

  Lastly—and once again—I must thank my dear wife. Millie, you put up with my jokes, my sarcasm, and constant, “Hush, I’m writing” comments. I’m a lucky man to have found you thirty-eight years ago. By the way, dear, Gabriela’s litter box needs emptying when you get the chance.

  Why Didn't I Get A Dog?

  Gabriela entered my life as a favor to a friend. I should have known better.

  Brushing aside all small talk upon my arrival, he rushed me to meet his devilish offering. A back bedroom had become Gabriela’s den, acrid in smell and kept dark with lights off and curtains closed tight. I sought to locate my soon to be “pet” but was unsuccessful until two glowing eyes peered out from under the bed. Pulling me back, my friend whispered, “Give her room. You’ll be happy you did.”

  Black as the bowels of Hell from where she came, Gabriela's appearance as a spawn of Satan confirmed her origin as she stalked about her den, glaring up occasionally as if I were her next meal. I stepped forward to pet her in hopes that she would respond favorably but was met with a maniacal howl and hisses of violent intentions.

  I was informed that Gabriela’s personality would improve when she no longer had others of her own kind around. She was a loner, one that had no need of company. He spoke of how his other felines had discovered her personality was not to be challenged. Doing so had only led to speedy but fierce battles and medical attention to tend wounds caused by her razor-sharp claws.

  “But, I swear to you, she’ll get better once she’s away from the others. Gabriela will make you a great companion. Unlike a dog, you don’t have to keep her amused with fetching a ball. There’s no need for long walks twice a day, just a litter box and she’s taken care of. And, you won’t have neighbors complaining about the barking. Cats don’t bark!”

  There are many things in life we do that we later regret. The adage, “hindsight is 20/20” comes back to haunt at times. I think back now at how desperate he seemed to make Gabriela mine. His enthusiasm when I said, “Yes” was beyond that of a man finding an unwanted pet a new home. Instead, it was more like the relief of a teenage boy being told no baby was on the way—by three different girls.

  I have been accused of being naïve at times. There is no doubt now that becoming Gabriela’s new owner proved that accusation. I quickly learned that she would not be owned by anyone. She would own them.

  The afternoon was sunny. “A good time to take her home,” my friend said. “She is at her weakest during the daylight hours, especially when there are no clouds to block the sun.” He pulled out a chrome metal cat carrier and begged her to enter. Wary of his requests, the feline turned away, taking protective cover once again under the bed. I stood back, shaking my head, as he struggled to force her into the cage.

  What the hell am I getting myself in for?

  Finally latching the door, he sat back on the floor, panting heavy as the sweat poured down his forehead. His slacks--stained red from the blood oozing from the scratches on his hands and forearm--were themselves shredded from the hind paws seeking to maim. As he lit a cigarette and blew smoke at Gabriela in revenge, she exhaled a yellowish smoke, smelling of sulfur, and sent it his direction. I began to regret my decision.

  During the journey home, her demonic moans and hisses filled the inside of my car. Music had no chance as her volume surpassed that of my stereo. Besides, I already had the soundtrack to a movie on exorcisms being supplied by my new pet. Noticing some of the cage bars bending from her efforts to escape, I stepped on the gas.

  She's just scared. When we get home, she'll calm down. Once she has a good meal, the anger and fear will leave, and she'll be just like any other cat.

  I told you I was prone to being naïve.

  Parking in my driveway, I reached for the carrier handle but found claws straining through the bars to reach my fingers. I grabbed a set of pliers from the trunk, latched them tight, and carried her inside. Setting it down in the center of the living room, Gabriela hunched against the back of the cage. Figuring her far enough away, I unlatched the door, barely pulling my hand away in time to escape her springing through with claws intending to rip my fingers apart.

  Free, Gabriela faced me, black fur standing on end, back arched high, with hisses hurled in my direction. She was determined to make a first impression. But, so was I.

  Gathering my bravery, I spoke to her in a calm manner. “Aww, is Gabriela scared? There's no reason to be frightened, you're home. I'm going to take good care of you and show you all the love you deserve. You won't have to fight with other cats to eat. There’s no sharing of the food bowl. You can eat in peace.”

  Her hisses increased in quantity and intensity. Crouching as a tiger ready to leap upon prey, there was no hiding her intentions if I made the wrong move. I kept talking, not in standard “talk to the kitty” manner, but intelligently, as I would to a human. Silently I prayed that she would accept my hospitality and bribes.

  Minutes dragged, each seeming to take forever to pass. Gabriela’s attack mode eased, and her eyes changed from a red to a yellow glow. Padding off to my favorite chair, she reared high upon her hind legs, stretching high to embed her front razor-sharp claws into my favorite chair. I could only cringe as the leather was sliced from top to bottom. She repeated her act on all four corners until the foam cushion and cloth padding hung from the jagged tears. Finished, she sat facing me, a sadistic smile forming upon her face, waiting for me to react.

  For several minutes, neither of us stirred. I wanted to lash out and chastise her, yet, if I did any progress made would be lost. This
cat was smarter than any I’d ever dealt with. She was attempting to psyche me out, get me angry, see how I’d retaliate. If I showed my ire, she’d know I would be a combatant as long as she stayed. If I showed her vandalism had no effect on me, maybe she’d recognize my efforts to appease any further confrontations. Maybe I was giving her too much credit and being naïve, again.

  Finally, she rose to her feet and took refuge in the makeshift cave between the couch and the wall—her choice of homeland—later named “The Den of Evil.”

  I took refuge in the kitchen and found temporary solace in a bottle of lite beer. This cat is a wild beast, a crazed lunatic, a demon! I’ve got to get her on my side somehow. Let me put out some food and see what happens. Maybe she'll eat the kitty chow instead of me.

  I slept with my bedroom door locked that night. The bitter smell of sulfur seeped through the gap underneath the door reminding me that these were her hours of “strength” and she’d be weaker in the morning. I was awakened several times by the same moans heard during the drive home, only much louder. It was as if a door to Hell had opened and the agony of the tortured held me captive to its sadistic pleasures. Pulling the covers over my head, I revisited the “safety of the blankets” concept my parents had taught me during my younger days, knowing it untrue, but having no other option to explore.

  “She's at her weakest during the daylight hours.” My ex-friend’s words echoed in my head as I lay waiting the last few minutes before morning arrived. Usually, I shun the sunlight, wanting to remain in bed and enjoy its softness and warmth. Yet, when the sun’s rays finally shone through the window, I greeted them with a smile.

  The smell of sulfur was gone, along with the moans that had plagued the night. Hoping for the best, I left the safety of my locked room, took a shower, and dressed before heading out to face the beast.

  “I'll be damned, what did you do in here?”

  My loveseat was shredded—pieces of foam and cotton strewed throughout the living room. Coffee and end tables lie overturned and scarred with deep gashes and claw marks. Lamps, without shades, all smashed from the bases to the bulbs. And, she’d shown no mercy to the carpet which had been ripped apart in sections leaving only the padding in spots. Even my collection of DVDs had been removed from their cases and destroyed.

  From her den, Gabriela slowly appeared and gave me a “Good Morning” hiss, awaiting my response. Somewhat in a state of shock, I did the only thing I could.

  Walking to the kitchen, I pulled out a clean bowl and filled it with dry cat food. After washing and filling her water dish, I put both by the doorway to the living room. “If you want something to eat, it's waiting.”

  The evil queen strolled out of her den, sniffed the dry food, and gave me a glance that said, “I would prefer canned. Maybe, one day, you'll get that through your head. I can be a real bitch if I don't get my way.”

  “You'll get canned food at night and have a bowl of dry available to you every morning to munch on if you get hungry. No one will touch it, so there's no reason to think you'll ever go hungry.” Strangely, her head bobbed, as if she understood and could live with that answer. It was the first major milestone. We had communicated.

  I left her alone most of the time in the following days. Being a writer, I spend most of my time typing away, creating stories for my readers. One afternoon, I turned and caught her watching me from across the room. “I'm sure you've heard the old ‘curiosity killed the cat’ cliché. Well, you don't have to worry about that here. If you're interested in what I'm doing, or if you simply want a little attention, come over any time and I'll do my best to comply with your wishes. Believe it or not, we can be friends.”

  Expecting the habitual hiss as a reply, I was surprised as she advanced in my direction and took a seat on what was left of the loveseat arm to my right.

  “I don't like people who claim to be my friend. They're just lying. Sooner or later, they toss you out and don't care if you starve or die. People suck.”

  Okay, this isn't happening. I'm hearing her in my mind. Cats don't talk, and they sure don't have telepathic powers. Damn, I have been alone in the house too long. I'm going crazy!

  “I can't attest to that, but cats do talk, or use telepathy as you say. People just don't listen. Why do you think we have the reputation of being so damned independent? If everything you said was ignored, you'd say, “Fuck 'em” and do your own thing, too.”

  I can't tell you how weird I felt as stunned and amazed don't even come close. This cat, this demon, this creature from Hell was answering my thoughts. Wondering if she understood verbal communication, I asked, “So, should I just think, and you pick up my thoughts, or would it be better for me to talk out loud?”

  “Oh, please talk normally,” she responded, sounding slightly disgusted at my question. “Your brain is filled with so many worthless thoughts I'd go crazy trying to sort them out. Talk to me and I'll answer you when and if I decide to do so.”

  With that, Gabriela left my side and returned to her spot behind the couch. That night, the smell of sulfur was gone, as well as the moans that had become commonplace over her short stay. I came close to leaving the door unlocked, but my trust in her was still a little on the light side. Why take chances?

  Days passed, and she didn't talk again. In fact, I'd started wondering if she'd ever spoken to me at all. Her life consisted of staying behind the couch most of the daylight hours and lying on the window sill, staring at the moon, during the evening. I fed her as promised, twice a day, and watched as Gabriela’s fur began to shine and her frame filled out. She wasn't friendly, but she'd proven to be adept at keeping out of my way. Plus, she had ceased her efforts to destroy every piece of furniture I owned and no longer hissed at me (except when I reached out to pet her).

  Late one evening, when my editing of a novel was almost complete, she once again took her place on the loveseat arm. I saw her, extended a quick “Hello” in welcome, and went back to my editing.

  “You know, your writing isn't half bad. But, your stories leave much to be desired. The tales I could tell you would make your readers sit back and say, “What in the world did I just read? It was so different!”

  “So, you're a writer, too? Have a lot published, do you?”

  “Oh, Mr. Smartass here,” her sarcasm showing. “I don't waste my time writing. I have better things to do. I simply know a lot of stories, some of my own lives that would make your readers sit up and take notice and some I heard while waiting in line in Hell to be reborn. If you want, I'll tell you a few and you can decide whether to type them out or not. It's up to you.”

  “What do you mean your own lives?”

  “People say that cats have nine lives. They've got it half right. We do have nine lives, but not all during one life. We're born and then reincarnated eight more times before we can rest forever. I'm on my last one. When it’s over, that's it. I can leave your kind behind and go to our version of Heaven called Cathala. You know, like the Vikings Valhalla, but there’s no one named “Val” there. We’ll have plenty of mice to chase, toys to enjoy, and spend our days hanging around enjoying the lazy life.”

  She was talking again. It was time to ask some questions that had been bothering me. “When you first got here, there was the smell of sulfur and a lot of moans during the night. What was that about?”

  “I was pissed off. I'd just gotten the cats at the other place to understand I wasn't someone they wanted to mess with and I'm yanked up, put in a cage, and dropped off here. Not complaining, but you aren't much of a decorator. This place sucks. The sulfur and moans? Simple, when cats die, it depends on what they were doing when they died as to where they spend time waiting in line to be born again. I haven't always been the darling, so I've learned a few things from my visits to Hell. Figured if you didn't work out, they'd provide a reason to find me a home that would.”

  “Yeah, I loved you at first sight, too,” I threw back at her. “Look, these stories you're talking about … you know I'
m a writer in the genres of Horror and Thrillers, right? Will your stories fit my readers?”

  She turned her face away and stared out the window at the moon. “Listen, my life has been filled with horror. Plus, a few friends always get together and tell stories while you're waiting to get reborn. Some of my stories will scare you, some will be strange, and others will just freak you out. Do you want to hear one or not?”

  Who could say “No” to that?

  Kind of Handy

  The first human I ever saw was an ugly bastard. I had nothing to compare him to, so I thought all humans looked like him. If a heavy black unibrow, overbearing forehead, and a huge hooked nose were common traits of human appearance, I was happy to be feline.

  He caught me in a traumatized state. It was 1947 and mother had been killed by a pair of savage watchdogs only moments before. She had positioned herself between us kittens and the snarling duo hoping to provide her offspring an opportunity to escape. Mother was marvelous, bristling her hair, arching her back, and spitting out hisses that fully announced her intentions to rip the canines to shreds should they come any closer. Unfortunately, so focused was she on the two, an unseen third pounced on her from behind. We scattered, hearing Mother's final cry of pain behind us as powerful jaws crushed her spine.

  My brothers skirted off to the right toward a pile of old tires. I ran as fast as my tiny legs would carry me toward the street, hoping they'd lose me in its cavalcade of scents. Perhaps, the blackness of my fur blended with the darkness and kept them from following. Then again, maybe the dogs simply wanted the three-course meal my siblings offered instead of the snack I would supply. Whatever the reason, I’m still haunted to this day by their screams for help and the crunching of bones that came next.