Mr. Whimbleton Faces the Shadow Thing

MR. WHIMBLETON FACES THE SHADOW THING

Mr. Whimbleton was considered by the Fowler family to be the monarch of all cats. A large, furry Main Coon with most beautiful golden eyes, he looked like he should have been named “Fluffy” or “Sweetums”. His dark fur was always groomed, never a hair out of place and fur balls were something that happened to other cats. Even as a kitten, he proved to be the very picture of an aristocrat, a prince among the feline race. He always walked with his head and tail high, his eyes gleaming as he took in the measure of his kingdom. He never begged for food. No, Mr. Whimbleton would glower at the cupboard or at Mama Fowler until he was fed, sniffing haughtily at the rudeness of those with whom he lived.

Mr. Whimbleton governed his domain with dignity and grace. He was master of all he surveyed and every nook and cranny of 715 West Lake Road was his to reign. He roamed the yards, and no blade of grass was ever in disarray. He prowled the rooms with an air of content, knowing that nothing was ever out of place.

Every room, that is, except for little Gracie Fowler’s bedroom. He had no problem squeezing his fat, furry body into the tiniest, darkest corners of the house, but he would not enter that one room, not even on the sunniest of days. He spent his time sitting in the hall, staring into the soft yellow room, his golden eyes unblinking. He was always careful to not let so much as a paw, so much as a whisker, pass through that doorway.

Now, Mr. Whimbleton was not a scaredy-cat by any means. He could bravely stand up to the Henderson’s dog or stare down that evil Siamese next door. Not even the fast cars could ruffle his fur and he laughed, as only a cat can, at the prospect of seeing the vet. Yes, Mr. Whimbleton was a very courageous cat. However, that one room made his fur stand on end. He would yowl, hiss and scratch to keep out of there.

He had a very good reason to fear that room. The dignified Mr. Whimbleton did not like what lived in that room. It was dark and cold and stared back at him with blank eyes. He would watch it glide more graceful then any cat from the window to the bed to the door and back again. Sometimes, when Mr. Whimbleton was sitting in the hallway, plotting of ways to rid his regal kingdom to this unwanted creature, it would sit on the floor and stare back at him. It never came out of the room, and he never went in.

That creature was causing problems in Mr. Whimbleton’s family. Little Gracie, whose room it habited, could not sleep at night. She would wake up, howling in fear. Mr. Whimbleton, tired of the racket, would wait outside her door for her parents. Then, to keep her calm, he’d follow her to the Master Bedroom and curl up with her until her shaking stopped.

Mr. Whimbleton knew that his family could see this thing. Mama Fowler would sometimes give a startled jerk when passing the room, stopping to stare in and then shake her head, not believing what she thought she saw out of the corner of her eye. Papa Fowler never saw anything, but he would hold Little Gracie’s hand when that thing was about and she was too scared to enter her room.

The next time it sat on the floor and stared at him, Mr. Whimbleton tried to communicate with it. However, it either could not speak cat, or it was stubborn. Either way, Mr. Whimbleton was not amused. This mysterious entity was not welcomed in Mr. Whimbleton’s domain, and he had to find a way to get rid of it.

Everything he thought of failed. The “death glare” that caused the Henderson’s dog to whimper and run, the “stay-away growl” that kept the evil Siamese at bay, and the “hiss with back arched and fur on end” that normally worked on the older Fowler children had no effect on this thing. Mr. Whimbleton had a sinking feeling that anything short of going into the room would only fail. It was an option that the valiant Mr. Whimbleton would have liked to do without.

He put it off, week after week, month after month. His routine was set, and he did not think anything would change. The feel of his home was starting to shift from content to worried. Little Gracie’s nightmares were becoming more frequent and often brutal as the dark figure grew stronger. She now had long scratches on her arms, which were first blamed on Mr. Whimbleton, of all things!

Mr. Whimbleton knew he had to act. He liked Little Gracie, far better then her older siblings, who still pulled on his tail and refused to feed him from time to time. She always scratched between his ears and was gentle when she brushed his fur and he could always count on her for a kitty treat. This black shape was hurting that which he must protect!

He gathered up his courage (not that he was afraid, mind you) and entered the room one bright, sunny day. His ears flattened back against his skull as he felt the thing all around him. It dominated the room, causing his hairs to stand on end. He could smell decay and wet concrete, the scent of this thing invading his body.

It loomed up over him, coming up through the floor. For the first time, Mr. Whimbleton could see this thing clearly. It reminded him of Little Gracie. It was sad and really not as big as he had first thought. He could sense that it was lost and did not know where it was, and did not know who the people were that were living in it’s house.

Suddenly frightened (and Mr. Whimbleton did not frighten easily), Mr. Whimbleton darted from the thing and gracefully leapt to the chair and then the bookshelf. The thing followed him, swiping at the spot where Mr. Whimbleton had been just seconds ago. It chased him around the room, knocking over dolls and Little Gracie’s water glass and the ballerina lamp that both Little Gracie and Mama Fowler loved so much.

Mr. Whimbleton tried once more to tell it to leave, hissing and yowling. This time, the thing reacted. It swooped down towards Mr. Whimbleton. He tried to run for the door, but it caught him by his tail and dragged him back, his claws digging into the wood floors. It lifted him into the air, letting him swing from his wounded tail.

Mr. Whimbleton hissed and spat at the thing, demanding to be put down. For a moment, he could hear the thing, it was begging for release. It was trapped in this room, and it wanted to leave. Mr. Whimbleton had a flash of very confusing pictures in his mind, something that would normally cause him confusion, but this freaked him out. Images of a little girl, a broken leg, wet concrete slowly bury the girl as she screamed . . . the final moments of the shadowy thing before it became the shadow.

Find me, let me rest.

Mr. Whimbleton clawed at the shadow until it dropped him to the floor. He twisted to land on his feet and hissed at the thing. How was he to convey to his family to find the thing’s body? They were not intelligent enough to speak cat, after all. Once the thing was released from it’s concrete prison, it would leave. Mr. Whimbleton could sense this.

The thing grabbed Mr. Whimbleton again. It was growing stronger, more solid. It was desperate to be seen, to be noticed, to have someone besides Mr. Whimbleton know that it was there. That was why it had attacked Little Gracie. It knew she could see it at times, but felt betrayed that Little Gracie had not looked for it.

Mr. Whimbleton gave a loud yowl and started to scratch the thing like mad. He could see that he wasn’t making any progress. The thing was still more smoke then solid, but it seemed to drive the thing back. It held him at arm’s length, but Mr. Whimbleton clawed at any part of it that near him. The creature tried to let go of Mr. Whimbleton, but the crafty cat climbed up on it’s arm, sinking his claws into it and holding on tight as the creature shook him and howled.

The thing’s attention was distracted and Mr. Whimbleton had to jerk his body to see what the creature was staring at now. Little Gracie, Mama Fowler and Papa Fowler were standing in the doorway, horrified. They could see this thing, they could see what it was doing. Mr. Whimbleton tried to warn them, but he knew it was in vein. Humans don’t speak cat.

While Mr. Whimbleton was trying to warn his family, the creature dislodged him. He flew off and landed near the bed – in a puddle of water – a little too close to the broken lamp and dangerous blue sparks.

Mr. Whimbleton woke the next morning, expecting to be fed and petted by his family. To his immense surprise, no one noticed him. No one continued to notice him, not even when he complained loudly at the removal of his food bowl. He could not understand why his humans were so sad and why Little Gracie was hugging his favorite blanket and crying all the time.

Mr. Whimbleton did not figure it out until he went to rub up against Little Gracie . . . and fell right through her. Mr. Whimbleton was no more. The mark of his reign was a flower bush with a small plaque in the backyard. Though he could not read human writings, he knew that it was to mark where the Fowler’s had buried him. He was gone, but not forgotten.

A little disgruntled, Mr. Whimbleton watched as his family had a parade of strange men though his domain. He tried to not mind it when they stepped through him, but it was very disheartening. He had once been the prince among felines, and now he was nothing more then dust in the air. He did, however, find that it made things slightly better when one or two of the strange men would yelp when they put their big, clunky feet through him, as if they just stepped into a cold puddle.

The strange men started to dig up Little Gracie’s room. As they did, the shadowy thing became clearer and clearer. By the time the men found the body, the creature looked like a little girl, the same age as Little Gracie. Mr. Whimbleton followed her as she watched the Fowler family hold a funeral for her.

After the funeral, the little girl bent down and petted Mr. Whimbleton. She whispered her good-byes, and Mr. Whimbleton could understand her, and then she vanished in a rush of warm summer wind. The scent of freshly mowed grass stayed with Mr. Whimbleton long after she was gone.

Mr. Whimbleton returned to his home and watched his family learn to live without him. Now that the shadowy thing was gone from Little Gracie’s room, Mr. Whimbleton took to curling up with her at night. After a while, she no longer cried in her sleep.

The family moved a year after burying the shadow girl. They made sure that Little Gracie’s room was put back together and looked better then it had before they dug up the shadow girl. A new family moved in and Mr. Whimbleton, ever the prince among cats, took to protecting this family as he had his first. He prowled the yard and made sure that not one blade of grass was out of place. He continued to frighten the Henderson’s dog and keep that evil Siamese next door in line. He curled up to sleep with the youngest child, a boy this time, and kept an eye out for any intruders.

Mr. Whimbleton was, as he would always be, the monarch of all cats. He governed his domain with dignity and grace. He was master of all he surveyed and every nook and cranny of 715 West Lake Road was his to reign.