Another one straight from nightmare
Oct. 29th, 2007 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koilungfish19/10/07 - 505 words on Bad Press
20/10/07 - 655 words on It's Not Funny
21/10/07 - 2484 words on The Other God of Charr
22/10/07 - 1224 words on The Other God of Charr
23/10/07 - 1031 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
24/10/07 - Day Off
25/10/07 - Ill
26/10/07 - 669 words on Ark Visit
27/10/07 - Ill
28/10/07 - Ill
29/10/07 - The Cat Hoarder
I've seen Phillip Maxwell, and I say, for the love of God, leave him alone.
I know that the families of Sandra Bernard and my colleagues may think this a pretty crappy suggestion, and I've been called a coward enough times to know what they think of me, but since I'm the only person now who's met Maxwell and is gonna talk about it, I reckon my word should stand for something.
I'm a fireman, or I was. I ain't now. I hope one day, when my nerves are better, I will be a fireman again. Dunno if anyone'll take me on again though. God knows I've seen nowt worse in my job than Maxwell's house, and that wasn't on fire, although I reckon it should be. Flames won't scare me none now, but my nerves are wrecked.
I've heard the problem with Maxwell started a year or two before the fire brigade were called in. Maxwell's house is in a quiet, pleasant suburban area, made up of neat rows of houses up and down the straight roads. I remember it as being very, very quiet there. No birds. No cars. No people. A dormitory housing development, I suppose, but a nice one. The birds were Maxwell's fault, I guess.
Maxwell, I'm told, was a very old man. Served in the trenches in World War One. Got injured, got a medal, came home a bit strange. Told a lot of weird stories about things he'd seen in the trenches that weren't supposed to be there. Talked a lot about dead bodies. Never married. I never heard what he did for money, although Mrs Bernard told me he had a reputation as a skinflint 'mongst people old enough to remember him. They're all in old peoples' houses. Thank God he isn't.
Maxwell only cared about one thing, his cats. Although I say he cared for them, I mean that way some really lonely people can get, when they go a bit loopy about something. Lot of old people get it. Collect bags and cats the way kids collect toys - lots and lots and lots of 'em, never mind what they are or what state they're in.
The cats were the start of the problem. The cats were the bloody problem. Mrs Bernard was from the council. People in the neighbourhood didn't like Maxwell's cats, dozens of the things all over with mange and fleas, all of them quick to scratch and eager to nose in the dustbins. They were pests. The neighbours tried to complain to Maxwell, but he never answered his door, nobody ever saw him go out or go in. Just cats, cats, cats, sitting in the yard and watching everyone go past.
A couple of brave neighbours actually went into the yard, a bare expanse of old concrete stained with cat-piss, and risked a lot getting through all the meowing and the ankle-clawing to stick letters through Maxwell's letterbox. He had an odd porch, a sort of conservatory-come-porch. The front door itself was normal - frosted glass pane, dark mahogany woodstain, Yale lock - but around it was this glass box, like a greenhouse almost, might even have been made from one. There were two doors, both of them narrow ones that folded up like a fan or concertina. They were on runners, and they were damned stiff. I have a lot of nightmares about not being able to get those doors open.
Anyway, Mrs Bernard was from the council and she got called in when the smell and the noise and the dustbins and the scared kids got too much. She couldn’t ring, because Maxwell didn't have a phone, so she went around and - brave woman, her - went up to the door and knocked. She told me she'd come three or four times, knocked and hallooed and peered at the windows although she couldn't see a thing through the filthy net curtains.
She said the smell of cat-shit was pretty bad, even back then, but it got worse as weeks went on. She did a lot of looking Maxwell up, found out he had a membership at the local library but he hadn't borrowed anything for ten years, and that he had a TV licence all paid up even though the aerial was hanging off the roof.
Finally, she got her hands on the boy who did Maxwell's shopping for her. Local lad, about fifteen. He went over to Maxwell's house every third morning, had a key, let himself in. Never saw Maxwell because of the smell - house stank of cat-shit and cat-piss. He just stood in the front door with the cats hissing at his ankles and Maxwell yelled what he wanted from inside. There was always a cardboard box in the hall, usually with a cat or two in it, and a ten pound note at the bottom for the shopping and a five pound note for him. He took those and went down the shops, got whatever Maxwell wanted - milk and catfood, mostly, boil-in-the-bag food, eggs and small brown loaves, that sort of thing - then took it back and put it in the hallway and that was that.
Mrs Bernard tried to get this lad - Johnson, I think - to let her in, or loan her the keys. Lad was right scared of Maxwell, didn't like the house, didn't like the way Maxwell shouted at him, but it was ten pounds a week or so and he was saving for a new bike and Maxwell had told him that if he brought anyone else over, or lost the keys, that was the end of that.
The lad was there when we turned up, trying to persuade Mrs Bernard not to go through with it, and Bob - Bob Cranley, man in charge of our team - asked how he'd met Maxwell. Said it had started when he was nine or so, chased a ball into the porch. Maxwell yelled at him from inside the house. Lad said he'd never been so shit-scared in his life, but Maxwell told him to come back the next day and he'd give him five pounds to do his shopping. That was that.
That boy'd been working for Maxwell for six years, and only seen the man once, right back in the start of things. The first time he came over to do his shopping, Maxwell was there, with the box and the notes, and he said how it was going to be. The lad said he couldn't really remember much about how Maxwell looked, except that he was thin and had bushy hair and a beard and scary eyes. He didn't have half so many cats back then, either. Promised to show the lad his medals some day. Never did.
Mrs Bernard wanted to know where the money came from. The lad just shrugged and looked scared and ran off a bit after that. After I'd seen inside that house, I think that kid was the bravest person I've ever heard of. When I got my compensation from the fire brigade, I sent round to his house and made sure he got that new bike. He'd earned a dozen.
In the end, Mrs Bernard got pretty worried about this chap who never went out and was about a hundred, so she got the police, and they sent a pair of coppers over to knock the door in, but because of the smell they called us over. Mrs Bernard even called the hospital in advance, told them what might be happening, but I reckon the bobbies thought she should have the morgue on speed-dial, if you know what I mean. Still, we spoke to that lad, and he said he'd brought Maxwell his cat-food and stuff the day before, and the old man had shouted at him like always.
I can't forget that yard. It was early spring, so the light was white because there wasn't sky so much as there was this upside-down bowl of dirty clouds. The house looked bad. There were cats in all the windows, thin cats with nasty eyes. The broken aerial was flopping around like a naked scarecrow. There were tiles off the roof, and you could see the damp running up the walls. The garage door was half-open. Garage was full of cats and rubbish and cat-shit. The yard was clean-ish, but only because of the rain. The bins were lying all fallen over any old how. God knows where his rubbish went. Back garden, probably. Never asked.
There were cats in the front yard of course, and the only ones that weren't thin were the pregnant ones. They all crawled away, hissing. There were a couple of dead ones in there too. Bob and I had a look whilst the police banged on the door and shouted through the letterbox. The one that wasn't too far gone had a collar on. Had a number on it. I wrote it down, meant to call, didn't get around to it for months. The lady who answered said they'd lost their cat four years ago.
What'd keep a cat starving in Maxwell's house when it could've gone home?
The other cat was rotten, all black and gooey. Seen worse things at work. Wasn't too happy about that. I like cats, I do, nice fluffy house cats that play with a bit of string and sleep in front of the fire. Didn't like Maxwell's cats. They all looked at you like they were thinking about eating your eyeballs. Mrs Bernard said she was setting something up with the RSPCA to come and get them. People shouldn't leave their cats to die in the front garden and be eaten by their other cats. It's not right.
After the police was done, they signed some papers with Mrs Bernard and we got the breathing gear on and they knocked the door in - I dunno what it smelt like, but they all stood back and I reckon one of the bobbies was sick.
We went in with torches, me and Bob and Davey March, and Mrs Bernard came after, wearing wellies over her clean tights. Took me a moment to work out why the torches weren't lighting things properly. It was 'cause everything was covered in cat-shit. I mean covered. Wall to wall cat-shit. Old cat-shit. Mrs Bernard kept saying "Oh my God", over and over, and Davey said "Jesus Christ!". The walls were ... dark. They glistened a bit, like they were wet, only not wet like water. Wet like slugs. I reckon it was mould, but I've never seen mould like that, all coming down the walls like damp-stains.
There was cats everywhere, sitting on the table and the dresser and the chairs, all of the furniture plastered in cat-shit, and standing around and all of them quiet. That was fucking scary. All those eyes, those round green lights flashing and all of them staring, I reckon there was a hundred or something. None of them ran out the door or hide or clawed at us. They just moved back when we got close, and stared. Everywhere we pointed a torch there was cats, and when we pointed the torch away, they were still there, not moving. Just this mass of bodies, all of them watching us. Everywhere you looked, cat. Staring at you. God, it makes me cold to think of it.
Mrs Bernard said "Mr Maxwell? Mr Maxwell, I'm from the council -" and this voice from the room at the back said "Know who y'are, bitch!"
That voice made my balls shrivel up and my guts go cold. It wasn't right. We couldn't hear quite right with the masks on, but that voice was - it was deep, real deep, and hoarse, like someone who smokes too much. It was coarse and wet, like someone who's got flu. Worse. Like their lungs are just full of phlegm and shit. Wasn't a voice so much as a bark. Made you feel like you'd done everything wrong, and nothing you could do would ever be good enough. Made you feel tiny. Made you feel dirty.
That was Maxwell.
We went into the back room, and because I was off on the right of us lot and the door was on the left I ended up being last man into the room. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me, even if I won the National Lottery tomorrow.
This room was real dark. Windows boarded up. Cat-shit three inches deep. I could smell the cat-piss even through the breathing gear. There was a telly in the corner, not tuned to anything, just showing static. There were cats everywhere, all over the floors and the chairs and the sofa.
For a bit, I couldn't see Maxwell, just cats, cats, staring at us. Quiet. I reckon it was about then my hands started shaking. Then Maxwell said "Didn't invite you in!" and that voice - I didn't hear him breathe in to shout, he just shouted in that wet, raspy, hollow voice. Made you feel it, that you were standing in cat-shit surrounded by filthy cats and it felt like there was shit in your boots, I could smell the piss so bad I could almost taste it.
Maxwell was under the cats, on the sofa. They were all sitting on him, like a blanket, purring a bit, treading him with their paws, and I couldn't see a thing of him except his head, and it was too dark. Just this pile of cats, moving slightly, green eyes flashing all over.
None of us shone our torches on him. If we had, I don't think I would've gotten out. I'd've been too scared to move. I was shit-scared as it was. All those cats, staring, and that voice, and just his head showing.
I could just see the shape of his head in the light from the telly, which was pale and a bit green and flickering like. Could see his hair, all bushy and dark and ... and I looked at it and I thought "his hair's wet, why's that?" 'cause it was kinda glistening like the mould on the walls.
Maxwell said "Don't want you here!" like he was God and we were naughty kids, and he turned his head a bit so he wasn't looking at the TV, he was looking at us - well, at Bob or Mrs Bernard, they was closest to him, I guess. That was when I lost it.
See, when he turned his head and his hair glistened, all bushy and hard like it was glued together with slime, I thought "I don't want to see any more," because I had a kinda feeling that I knew what I'd see, so I tried to run only I couldn't because I had all my gear on and all the cats were getting in the way so I was wading through cats. They were clawing me and jumping on me and I'm just glad I had all my gear on.
I heard Maxwell say "Had enough of you people pestering me! 'specially you, council bitch!" and that was when Davey screamed. I couldn't turn around to save my life right then, but I'm pretty sure he made a run for it. I reckon he saw.
I got to the front door then and I got kinda stuck because I got my oxygen tank caught on the frame, so I was struggling and there were cats clawing at me and I don't want to say it but I think I was crying. I heard - well, kinda felt - this thump, and that's when I looked back and shone the torch back.
Davey was on the floor in the doorway to the back room, and he was going backwards like he was being dragged. He was clawing the floor and I could see him gouging up the old cat-shit and he was yelling and the cats were pouncing on him and biting his fingers. All the cats were going in there, they were running past me to get into that room. There was more cats coming down the stairs, pouring down the stairs, out of everywhere, from under everywhere. God, there must've been hundreds of them!
I got free of the front door and I was in that little greenhouse porch and the doors were stuck, I dunno how they got closed, but I was pulling on 'em and shaking them and those coppers were on the other side of the yard and they were coming over to open the door but they were walking and I knew it was gonna be too late.
I dunno what happened then. He wasn't behind me, but I heard his voice like it was. He said "Tell 'em, boy. Tell 'em to leave me alone." That voice - horrible, wet, loud, didn't sound like he was breathing - I reckon it was then that I pissed myself, like a cat. "Tell 'em if they don't bother me I won't bother them, but if just one more of you bastards come to my house, I'll bring it down on the whole town." Them words hurt me, like they were going into my back like knives. I wanted to wash until I bled and got the dirtiness out. I wanted to wash myself on the inside of my head and my eyes and everywhere. "The whole town, boy, and none one person spared!"
I got the door open then, and I kinda fell on the policemen. I was a right mess, all crying and screaming and stinking and bleeding 'cause I'd put my hand through one of them glass panes and not noticed. I don't really remember what happened next. I was lying on the ground, crying like a little kid 'cause I knew the others weren't coming out, and then everything went grey, and I was in hospital. I don't know what happened to the policemen. Turns out neither of them were there when the ambulance crew turned up and found me in that state. They just loaded me up and drove off, thank God.
The police sent some more cops over to Maxwell's house, but they couldn’t find it. They kept getting turned around, I heard, ending up in weird places. I spoke to one of them at the inquest. He said he drove down the street one way, and next thing he knew he was a mile away, so he tried driving down the street the other way, and then he was somewhere else.
I'm pretty glad of it. I think Maxwell meant it about doing for the whole town.
Writing all this down has been good for me, I think. I can remember that thing that made me run, and I couldn't before. Dunno how I'll sleep tonight, but I've got the doctor this afternoon so that might help.
See, when Maxwell turned his head, I could see there was something wrong, because that wasn't hair I was seeing, all bushy and dark and wet and hard.
That was brain.
20/10/07 - 655 words on It's Not Funny
21/10/07 - 2484 words on The Other God of Charr
22/10/07 - 1224 words on The Other God of Charr
23/10/07 - 1031 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
24/10/07 - Day Off
25/10/07 - Ill
26/10/07 - 669 words on Ark Visit
27/10/07 - Ill
28/10/07 - Ill
29/10/07 - The Cat Hoarder
I've seen Phillip Maxwell, and I say, for the love of God, leave him alone.
I know that the families of Sandra Bernard and my colleagues may think this a pretty crappy suggestion, and I've been called a coward enough times to know what they think of me, but since I'm the only person now who's met Maxwell and is gonna talk about it, I reckon my word should stand for something.
I'm a fireman, or I was. I ain't now. I hope one day, when my nerves are better, I will be a fireman again. Dunno if anyone'll take me on again though. God knows I've seen nowt worse in my job than Maxwell's house, and that wasn't on fire, although I reckon it should be. Flames won't scare me none now, but my nerves are wrecked.
I've heard the problem with Maxwell started a year or two before the fire brigade were called in. Maxwell's house is in a quiet, pleasant suburban area, made up of neat rows of houses up and down the straight roads. I remember it as being very, very quiet there. No birds. No cars. No people. A dormitory housing development, I suppose, but a nice one. The birds were Maxwell's fault, I guess.
Maxwell, I'm told, was a very old man. Served in the trenches in World War One. Got injured, got a medal, came home a bit strange. Told a lot of weird stories about things he'd seen in the trenches that weren't supposed to be there. Talked a lot about dead bodies. Never married. I never heard what he did for money, although Mrs Bernard told me he had a reputation as a skinflint 'mongst people old enough to remember him. They're all in old peoples' houses. Thank God he isn't.
Maxwell only cared about one thing, his cats. Although I say he cared for them, I mean that way some really lonely people can get, when they go a bit loopy about something. Lot of old people get it. Collect bags and cats the way kids collect toys - lots and lots and lots of 'em, never mind what they are or what state they're in.
The cats were the start of the problem. The cats were the bloody problem. Mrs Bernard was from the council. People in the neighbourhood didn't like Maxwell's cats, dozens of the things all over with mange and fleas, all of them quick to scratch and eager to nose in the dustbins. They were pests. The neighbours tried to complain to Maxwell, but he never answered his door, nobody ever saw him go out or go in. Just cats, cats, cats, sitting in the yard and watching everyone go past.
A couple of brave neighbours actually went into the yard, a bare expanse of old concrete stained with cat-piss, and risked a lot getting through all the meowing and the ankle-clawing to stick letters through Maxwell's letterbox. He had an odd porch, a sort of conservatory-come-porch. The front door itself was normal - frosted glass pane, dark mahogany woodstain, Yale lock - but around it was this glass box, like a greenhouse almost, might even have been made from one. There were two doors, both of them narrow ones that folded up like a fan or concertina. They were on runners, and they were damned stiff. I have a lot of nightmares about not being able to get those doors open.
Anyway, Mrs Bernard was from the council and she got called in when the smell and the noise and the dustbins and the scared kids got too much. She couldn’t ring, because Maxwell didn't have a phone, so she went around and - brave woman, her - went up to the door and knocked. She told me she'd come three or four times, knocked and hallooed and peered at the windows although she couldn't see a thing through the filthy net curtains.
She said the smell of cat-shit was pretty bad, even back then, but it got worse as weeks went on. She did a lot of looking Maxwell up, found out he had a membership at the local library but he hadn't borrowed anything for ten years, and that he had a TV licence all paid up even though the aerial was hanging off the roof.
Finally, she got her hands on the boy who did Maxwell's shopping for her. Local lad, about fifteen. He went over to Maxwell's house every third morning, had a key, let himself in. Never saw Maxwell because of the smell - house stank of cat-shit and cat-piss. He just stood in the front door with the cats hissing at his ankles and Maxwell yelled what he wanted from inside. There was always a cardboard box in the hall, usually with a cat or two in it, and a ten pound note at the bottom for the shopping and a five pound note for him. He took those and went down the shops, got whatever Maxwell wanted - milk and catfood, mostly, boil-in-the-bag food, eggs and small brown loaves, that sort of thing - then took it back and put it in the hallway and that was that.
Mrs Bernard tried to get this lad - Johnson, I think - to let her in, or loan her the keys. Lad was right scared of Maxwell, didn't like the house, didn't like the way Maxwell shouted at him, but it was ten pounds a week or so and he was saving for a new bike and Maxwell had told him that if he brought anyone else over, or lost the keys, that was the end of that.
The lad was there when we turned up, trying to persuade Mrs Bernard not to go through with it, and Bob - Bob Cranley, man in charge of our team - asked how he'd met Maxwell. Said it had started when he was nine or so, chased a ball into the porch. Maxwell yelled at him from inside the house. Lad said he'd never been so shit-scared in his life, but Maxwell told him to come back the next day and he'd give him five pounds to do his shopping. That was that.
That boy'd been working for Maxwell for six years, and only seen the man once, right back in the start of things. The first time he came over to do his shopping, Maxwell was there, with the box and the notes, and he said how it was going to be. The lad said he couldn't really remember much about how Maxwell looked, except that he was thin and had bushy hair and a beard and scary eyes. He didn't have half so many cats back then, either. Promised to show the lad his medals some day. Never did.
Mrs Bernard wanted to know where the money came from. The lad just shrugged and looked scared and ran off a bit after that. After I'd seen inside that house, I think that kid was the bravest person I've ever heard of. When I got my compensation from the fire brigade, I sent round to his house and made sure he got that new bike. He'd earned a dozen.
In the end, Mrs Bernard got pretty worried about this chap who never went out and was about a hundred, so she got the police, and they sent a pair of coppers over to knock the door in, but because of the smell they called us over. Mrs Bernard even called the hospital in advance, told them what might be happening, but I reckon the bobbies thought she should have the morgue on speed-dial, if you know what I mean. Still, we spoke to that lad, and he said he'd brought Maxwell his cat-food and stuff the day before, and the old man had shouted at him like always.
I can't forget that yard. It was early spring, so the light was white because there wasn't sky so much as there was this upside-down bowl of dirty clouds. The house looked bad. There were cats in all the windows, thin cats with nasty eyes. The broken aerial was flopping around like a naked scarecrow. There were tiles off the roof, and you could see the damp running up the walls. The garage door was half-open. Garage was full of cats and rubbish and cat-shit. The yard was clean-ish, but only because of the rain. The bins were lying all fallen over any old how. God knows where his rubbish went. Back garden, probably. Never asked.
There were cats in the front yard of course, and the only ones that weren't thin were the pregnant ones. They all crawled away, hissing. There were a couple of dead ones in there too. Bob and I had a look whilst the police banged on the door and shouted through the letterbox. The one that wasn't too far gone had a collar on. Had a number on it. I wrote it down, meant to call, didn't get around to it for months. The lady who answered said they'd lost their cat four years ago.
What'd keep a cat starving in Maxwell's house when it could've gone home?
The other cat was rotten, all black and gooey. Seen worse things at work. Wasn't too happy about that. I like cats, I do, nice fluffy house cats that play with a bit of string and sleep in front of the fire. Didn't like Maxwell's cats. They all looked at you like they were thinking about eating your eyeballs. Mrs Bernard said she was setting something up with the RSPCA to come and get them. People shouldn't leave their cats to die in the front garden and be eaten by their other cats. It's not right.
After the police was done, they signed some papers with Mrs Bernard and we got the breathing gear on and they knocked the door in - I dunno what it smelt like, but they all stood back and I reckon one of the bobbies was sick.
We went in with torches, me and Bob and Davey March, and Mrs Bernard came after, wearing wellies over her clean tights. Took me a moment to work out why the torches weren't lighting things properly. It was 'cause everything was covered in cat-shit. I mean covered. Wall to wall cat-shit. Old cat-shit. Mrs Bernard kept saying "Oh my God", over and over, and Davey said "Jesus Christ!". The walls were ... dark. They glistened a bit, like they were wet, only not wet like water. Wet like slugs. I reckon it was mould, but I've never seen mould like that, all coming down the walls like damp-stains.
There was cats everywhere, sitting on the table and the dresser and the chairs, all of the furniture plastered in cat-shit, and standing around and all of them quiet. That was fucking scary. All those eyes, those round green lights flashing and all of them staring, I reckon there was a hundred or something. None of them ran out the door or hide or clawed at us. They just moved back when we got close, and stared. Everywhere we pointed a torch there was cats, and when we pointed the torch away, they were still there, not moving. Just this mass of bodies, all of them watching us. Everywhere you looked, cat. Staring at you. God, it makes me cold to think of it.
Mrs Bernard said "Mr Maxwell? Mr Maxwell, I'm from the council -" and this voice from the room at the back said "Know who y'are, bitch!"
That voice made my balls shrivel up and my guts go cold. It wasn't right. We couldn't hear quite right with the masks on, but that voice was - it was deep, real deep, and hoarse, like someone who smokes too much. It was coarse and wet, like someone who's got flu. Worse. Like their lungs are just full of phlegm and shit. Wasn't a voice so much as a bark. Made you feel like you'd done everything wrong, and nothing you could do would ever be good enough. Made you feel tiny. Made you feel dirty.
That was Maxwell.
We went into the back room, and because I was off on the right of us lot and the door was on the left I ended up being last man into the room. Luckiest thing that ever happened to me, even if I won the National Lottery tomorrow.
This room was real dark. Windows boarded up. Cat-shit three inches deep. I could smell the cat-piss even through the breathing gear. There was a telly in the corner, not tuned to anything, just showing static. There were cats everywhere, all over the floors and the chairs and the sofa.
For a bit, I couldn't see Maxwell, just cats, cats, staring at us. Quiet. I reckon it was about then my hands started shaking. Then Maxwell said "Didn't invite you in!" and that voice - I didn't hear him breathe in to shout, he just shouted in that wet, raspy, hollow voice. Made you feel it, that you were standing in cat-shit surrounded by filthy cats and it felt like there was shit in your boots, I could smell the piss so bad I could almost taste it.
Maxwell was under the cats, on the sofa. They were all sitting on him, like a blanket, purring a bit, treading him with their paws, and I couldn't see a thing of him except his head, and it was too dark. Just this pile of cats, moving slightly, green eyes flashing all over.
None of us shone our torches on him. If we had, I don't think I would've gotten out. I'd've been too scared to move. I was shit-scared as it was. All those cats, staring, and that voice, and just his head showing.
I could just see the shape of his head in the light from the telly, which was pale and a bit green and flickering like. Could see his hair, all bushy and dark and ... and I looked at it and I thought "his hair's wet, why's that?" 'cause it was kinda glistening like the mould on the walls.
Maxwell said "Don't want you here!" like he was God and we were naughty kids, and he turned his head a bit so he wasn't looking at the TV, he was looking at us - well, at Bob or Mrs Bernard, they was closest to him, I guess. That was when I lost it.
See, when he turned his head and his hair glistened, all bushy and hard like it was glued together with slime, I thought "I don't want to see any more," because I had a kinda feeling that I knew what I'd see, so I tried to run only I couldn't because I had all my gear on and all the cats were getting in the way so I was wading through cats. They were clawing me and jumping on me and I'm just glad I had all my gear on.
I heard Maxwell say "Had enough of you people pestering me! 'specially you, council bitch!" and that was when Davey screamed. I couldn't turn around to save my life right then, but I'm pretty sure he made a run for it. I reckon he saw.
I got to the front door then and I got kinda stuck because I got my oxygen tank caught on the frame, so I was struggling and there were cats clawing at me and I don't want to say it but I think I was crying. I heard - well, kinda felt - this thump, and that's when I looked back and shone the torch back.
Davey was on the floor in the doorway to the back room, and he was going backwards like he was being dragged. He was clawing the floor and I could see him gouging up the old cat-shit and he was yelling and the cats were pouncing on him and biting his fingers. All the cats were going in there, they were running past me to get into that room. There was more cats coming down the stairs, pouring down the stairs, out of everywhere, from under everywhere. God, there must've been hundreds of them!
I got free of the front door and I was in that little greenhouse porch and the doors were stuck, I dunno how they got closed, but I was pulling on 'em and shaking them and those coppers were on the other side of the yard and they were coming over to open the door but they were walking and I knew it was gonna be too late.
I dunno what happened then. He wasn't behind me, but I heard his voice like it was. He said "Tell 'em, boy. Tell 'em to leave me alone." That voice - horrible, wet, loud, didn't sound like he was breathing - I reckon it was then that I pissed myself, like a cat. "Tell 'em if they don't bother me I won't bother them, but if just one more of you bastards come to my house, I'll bring it down on the whole town." Them words hurt me, like they were going into my back like knives. I wanted to wash until I bled and got the dirtiness out. I wanted to wash myself on the inside of my head and my eyes and everywhere. "The whole town, boy, and none one person spared!"
I got the door open then, and I kinda fell on the policemen. I was a right mess, all crying and screaming and stinking and bleeding 'cause I'd put my hand through one of them glass panes and not noticed. I don't really remember what happened next. I was lying on the ground, crying like a little kid 'cause I knew the others weren't coming out, and then everything went grey, and I was in hospital. I don't know what happened to the policemen. Turns out neither of them were there when the ambulance crew turned up and found me in that state. They just loaded me up and drove off, thank God.
The police sent some more cops over to Maxwell's house, but they couldn’t find it. They kept getting turned around, I heard, ending up in weird places. I spoke to one of them at the inquest. He said he drove down the street one way, and next thing he knew he was a mile away, so he tried driving down the street the other way, and then he was somewhere else.
I'm pretty glad of it. I think Maxwell meant it about doing for the whole town.
Writing all this down has been good for me, I think. I can remember that thing that made me run, and I couldn't before. Dunno how I'll sleep tonight, but I've got the doctor this afternoon so that might help.
See, when Maxwell turned his head, I could see there was something wrong, because that wasn't hair I was seeing, all bushy and dark and wet and hard.
That was brain.
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Date: 2007-10-29 05:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-29 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-30 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-30 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-30 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-30 01:14 am (UTC)Two gripes: Finally, she got her hands on the boy who did Maxwell's shopping for her. I think you mean shopping for him, as you're talking about Maxwell's shopping.
He had an odd porch, a sort of conservatory-come-porch. The front door itself was normal - frosted glass pane, dark mahogany woodstain, Yale lock - but around it was this glass box, like a greenhouse almost, might even have been made from one. There were two doors, both of them narrow ones that folded up like a fan or concertina. They were on runners, and they were damned stiff. For the life of me I could not picture this guy's front porch until I read to the end. I think what confused me so much at first was that you started by mentioning the porch, then described the front door in great detail. So by the time I got to reading about the porch being enclosed in glass, I had forgotten that it was supposed to be a porch and instead was picturing some kind of glass blocks or pet window (http://www.petpeek.info/) or something. And are the double doors inside the front door, or are they the front door itself? I'm assuming the former, but I still find it confusing. Also, the idea of having a sunroom or glass porch seems very odd for the atmosphere of the piece. I picture the interior of the house as completely dark, yet you have this porch that could be (not sure what the weather is at the time of this writing) very sunny? Wow, okay, enough about the porch.
There are some wonderfully delicious phrases in this one, starting with the title. "Thinking about eating your eyeballs" is another great one. "Everywhere you looked, cat." That will always make me giggle, taken out of context. What'd keep a cat starving in Maxwell's house when it could've gone home? That's a great creepy line that hints at some kind of symbiosis between Maxwell and the cats.
Bottom line, interesting and creepy.
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Date: 2007-10-30 10:33 am (UTC)Yes, that is an error. Zut.
Okay, the description of the glass porch is off. I will have to rewrite it. Sorry. The glass box porch is like half a greenhouse stapled to the front of the house - kinda like a poor man's conservatory - and it has the double doors. The front door is a normal boring ordinary front door.
Cat hoarders are pretty weird to start with. Maxwell is out the other side of strange and into something weird.
Glad you enjoyed it. Hopefully the more polished version will have fewer problems and a better ending.
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Date: 2007-10-31 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-08 03:06 am (UTC)Nearly 30 flea- and tick-covered cats were removed from a Lake County house that had mountains of feces and trash stacked from the floor to the ceiling, according to a charging affidavit.
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Date: 2007-10-30 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-31 10:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-24 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-24 12:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-24 09:59 am (UTC)Glad you liked the ficbit. Anything in particular that stuck out?