essdeesee number twenty-five
Supernatural, Bobby, demon, yellow-eyed
::as requested by helenmia::
Robert Lewis Singer peered around a little warily. His momma had told him to go visit Mrs Flaherty and give her a pie. “Bobby,” she had said, “Mrs Flaherty is right lonely now her husband’s gone, and I reckon a pie would be just the thing to brighten her up.” Trouble was, Robert Lewis Singer thought, trudging through the wood to Mrs Flaherty’s house, that his momma was kinda sweet an’ all, and didn’t see that Mrs Flaherty was a wicked old woman, who prob’ly ate kids like him. Sure, grown-ups pretended stuff like that just happened in books, and it weren’t real or nothing, but Robert Lewis Singer was not convinced. Mrs Flaherty, he thought, was prob’ly a demon or something, that’s what she was. An old-woman-shaped demon, who was just sittin’ around waitin’ for some fool boy to come bringin’ pies. Didn’t his momma realise that? Didn’t she know what she was lettin’ him in for? Robert Lewis Singer shook his head sorrowfully. A right sorry state it was when your own mother couldn’t tell that sorta thing.
Mrs Flaherty’s house, shabby and dilapidated, stood in a small clearing. Bobby eyed it dubiously. Yep, ate little kids and buried the bones. A movement in the dark undergrowth caught his attention, and he started, scared. There was a rustle, and then a cat appeared. It was a black cat, slick, smooth, yellow-eyed. Robert Lewis Singer and the cat stared at each other for a moment, and then the cat slunk towards the house, and Bobby rubbed his nose nervously. Well, now, that changed things. A cat like that meant only one thing, to Robert Lewis Singer’s way of thinking. Mrs Flaherty was a witch. A gen-u-ine witch. He looked at the pie dish in his hand, and looked at the front door of Mrs Flaherty’s house, which seemed to be coming closer and closer.
Robert Lewis Singer ran forward, dropped the pie dish on the porch, and ran back through the woods. He sure hoped his momma didn’t want that dish back, cuz he was darned if he was goin’ back for it. That, Mrs Flaherty, she was a witch all right.
. . .
“That Singer boy,” said Mrs Flaherty, running an arthritic finger around the faded floral dish Mrs Singer had sent, “he sees far too much.”
The cat said nothing, but there was a yellow-eyed flash as it blinked.
::as requested by helenmia::
Robert Lewis Singer peered around a little warily. His momma had told him to go visit Mrs Flaherty and give her a pie. “Bobby,” she had said, “Mrs Flaherty is right lonely now her husband’s gone, and I reckon a pie would be just the thing to brighten her up.” Trouble was, Robert Lewis Singer thought, trudging through the wood to Mrs Flaherty’s house, that his momma was kinda sweet an’ all, and didn’t see that Mrs Flaherty was a wicked old woman, who prob’ly ate kids like him. Sure, grown-ups pretended stuff like that just happened in books, and it weren’t real or nothing, but Robert Lewis Singer was not convinced. Mrs Flaherty, he thought, was prob’ly a demon or something, that’s what she was. An old-woman-shaped demon, who was just sittin’ around waitin’ for some fool boy to come bringin’ pies. Didn’t his momma realise that? Didn’t she know what she was lettin’ him in for? Robert Lewis Singer shook his head sorrowfully. A right sorry state it was when your own mother couldn’t tell that sorta thing.
Mrs Flaherty’s house, shabby and dilapidated, stood in a small clearing. Bobby eyed it dubiously. Yep, ate little kids and buried the bones. A movement in the dark undergrowth caught his attention, and he started, scared. There was a rustle, and then a cat appeared. It was a black cat, slick, smooth, yellow-eyed. Robert Lewis Singer and the cat stared at each other for a moment, and then the cat slunk towards the house, and Bobby rubbed his nose nervously. Well, now, that changed things. A cat like that meant only one thing, to Robert Lewis Singer’s way of thinking. Mrs Flaherty was a witch. A gen-u-ine witch. He looked at the pie dish in his hand, and looked at the front door of Mrs Flaherty’s house, which seemed to be coming closer and closer.
Robert Lewis Singer ran forward, dropped the pie dish on the porch, and ran back through the woods. He sure hoped his momma didn’t want that dish back, cuz he was darned if he was goin’ back for it. That, Mrs Flaherty, she was a witch all right.
. . .
“That Singer boy,” said Mrs Flaherty, running an arthritic finger around the faded floral dish Mrs Singer had sent, “he sees far too much.”
The cat said nothing, but there was a yellow-eyed flash as it blinked.