The cat was out of the grave. It was flinging its claws and slinging its tail like a lunatic, spraying loose sand in all directions. Madness ignited his eyes, shining black because of the darkness. A bird overhead shrieked and disturbed the autumn branches startling the feline creature. It jumped with an arched back and its four feet tensed. Then it scurried over to the nearby church. It perched itself on the nearest sill and peered through the tall stained glass window.
A tall figure stepped in front of that window on the inside. When he saw the cat, he groaned. He absolutely detested cats. They dropped there infested feces everywhere. He shivered involuntarily. With a loud knock on the window he chased the abhorrent thing away.
He sighed deeply. Good riddance. If we were all creatures of God, did that make him an abhorrent feline? He looked up through the window and saw a full moon. Usually, its surface looked pale. Today it was a strange sort of yellow. The good priest scratched his goatee. He felt oddly on edge. He contemplated venturing outside; maybe the stale air in the church was making him feel unwell.
His feet made soft tapping sounds on the marble floor. Standing in front of the large church doors, he undid the lock and placed both of his palms flat on the oak doors and pushed hard. As the door slowly opened, a cool evening breeze flew across his face. Yes, this was exactly what he needed. He walked out and turned around, careful to close the entryway to the church again.
He stood outside for a moment, feeling the cool air around him. It woke him up a bit. That’s when he also noticed the little crinkle in the sleeve of his cassock. It annoyed him to no end. He tried rubbing it out, but it didn’t work. Every time the crinkle seemed flattened, it popped up again like a jack-in-the-box.
He set out walking on the broad path lined with oak trees on both sides. The crinkle in his cassock already forgotten, he began silently humming a Sinatra song. As he strolled on, his mood improved increasingly. When he arrived at the chorus, a loud rustling noise startled him. He quickly looked around, but couldn’t see anything strange or out of place. However, the shovel laying three feet from him on the right side of the path was indeed out of place. He guessed the gardener must have forgotten to put it back up in their tool shed.
He cautiously picked up the song where he left it up. But three sentences into the third refrain, there was another rustling noise followed by what sounded like scurrying feet. The priest looked around him once again, and then decided that picking up the shovel would be wise. So, that’s what he did.
“On a witch-hunt?” a shrill voice sounded from behind him. He hastily turned around to face the origin of the voice. He was now face to face with a black-eyed, black-dressed woman. Although he would prefer the word hag, for this woman was amazingly ugly. Never in his 58 years had he seen anyone or anything like her. Well, maybe except for that cat.
It was not long before her shrieking tone started up again. “What’s the matter preacher man? Cat caught your tongue?” She laughed, hollered, ending her fit with a shrill shriek. “You know, you’re awfully ill-behaved for a man of God,” she sighed dramatically before rambling on. “Chasing one of God’s creatures away from the window sill, thinking about it as being abhorrent and infested. Who do you think you are? Are you allergic to cats or something? What’s with you? Who do you think you are?”
The man cringed. Why was she repeating that sentence? He clutched the shovel tightly against his chest. He was a man of God, and he would not be put into the position where he would hurt someone intentionally. Besides, for some reason the shovel wasn’t making him feel safe at all.
“Come on, answer me you low-life!” she yelled. He felt he was losing his patience and, therefore, his manners fairly quickly now. “Just- just tell me what you want, and then leave me alone!” he said meaning to sound confident only finding out that his voice was actually shaking.
“I want you to walk to the grave next to the window sill you chased that cat from,” she demanded. He just stared at her with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open without making any intention to move his body into that direction. “Why?” he squeaked. She rolled her eyes at him. “Because I want to show you my CD collection,” she deadpanned.
Somehow he found her sarcasm soothing, so he walked towards the appointed grave. He looked down into it. “What am I supposed to-” Because he got kicked into his behind, he couldn’t finish his sentence. He toppled over, falling face first into the damp earth the handle of the shovel poking him in the shoulder. He spluttered for a moment, and then righted himself dusting himself off. He looked up and noticed he was now in the grave in stead of beside it, which made an enormous difference to him.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she cried. He looked up at her towering above him standing outside of the grave. Then she laughed, loud and hysterically. “Y- you even found… reeeheeehee! your own… reeeheeee! damn shovel… heeeheee!” Now she was actually pointing at him and laughing. “Start digging, you fool!”
Then she started a perfect impersonation of Dusty Springfield.
