Part 2 of Micky’s Auction Strange Teapot
“Spending your money on that cat again instead of on me,” Morag pouted as Connor thrust the tempting titbits he’d bought in the pet shop at the cat in the vain hope it would stop it stalking the new-born bats in the roof space. The cat sniffed them, threw Connor a disdainful look, turned it back and in one fluid movement sprung from the floor to the kitchen dresser and sat there its green eyes fixed on Morag.
As Morag’s pregnancy progressed the cat took to following her around the old house. Connor couldn’t say why but it made him uneasy to see it sitting still as death its eyes fixated on the round bump of Morag’s protruding stomach.
As darkness stole the light from the day it clawed its way to the top of the dresser and sat there its eyes gleaming red in the light of the fire; its long veined tongue darting out from between its teeth as it licked and licked at the seal around the rim of the old teapot.
“That cat gives me the creeps,” Morag cried putting her hands protectively over he swollen belly.” Why don’t you get rid of it? It makes my skin crawl to hear the terrified cries of the baby bats trying to escape its claws every might.”
Connor silently stared into the leaping flames of the fire.
“You must have seen the way it brings the bones of the dead bats and arranges them in a circle around the pot? I keep throwing them out but the next morning there are fresh bones there.”
A nervous twitching began in Connor’s cheekbone. He clamped his jaws tightly together in an attempt to stop it. He had seen the cat do that but had been afraid to mention it in case Morag thought he was going balmy. He heard it hunting at night too.
Lately he had been afraid to sleep at night. He lay awake for hours waiting for the inevitable terrified sound of flapping of wings as the mother bats tried to save their babies.
He cast a surreptitious glance in the direction of the strange pot. Was it his imagination or was the lid of the old teapot making a rattling sound and was something slithering from its lid? He shivered involuntarily. That was impossible. It was stuck solid. He had tried to prise it open. Morag had tried to force it open and every visitor they had since they’d moved in had tried to open it without success.
Like a trapped bird a nervous fluttering began in his stomach. Was he turning into his mother imagining things that weren’t there? His granny told him his mother’s madness had started with small things. He had only been a babe-in-arms when his grandfather signed the form to keep her in the old psychiatric hospital for good.
He forced his mind back to the present. “Granny says to bring her back the old teap..”
Morag twisted around and glared at him.
“It is hers after all,” he insisted. “She says she’ll take it back to Micky’s auction rooms.” He didn’t add he was sorry she ever bought it in the first place.
“It belongs in this house,” Morag shouted, suddenly angry. “Leave it where it is. If you want to get rid of something get rid of that cat before the baby comes. I don’t trust it,” she said vehemently. “Take it back to your granny.”
Silence fell between them. Above their heads they could hear a scratching sound and the creak of the rotting boards on the back stairs. While Morag had been spitting fire from her eyes at him the cat had stealthily crept away in search of a way into the attic.
Sometime during the night Connor woke from a fitful sleep. He lay for a minute feeling uneasy. The heavy oppressive silence of the house seemed to wrap itself around him and Morag. Somewhere in his fog of weariness he sensed something was wrong. Leaning up on his elbow he listened. “Silent as the grave as granny would say,” he yawned hoping he would fall over to sleep again. He turned and placed his hand gently on Morag’s belly. Beneath his touch he felt the baby move and smelled the aroma of Morag’s scent.
His eyes grew heavy. He jerked open again. That was it! The house was silent as if it was holding its breath. Usually at night-time the old house groaned and moaned as its floorboards settled. He lay still and strained his ears. All he could hear was the trembling of the ill-fitting old sash window frames as the wind shook the branches of the trees outside the bedroom window. He raised his hand to shake Morag awake and then thinking better of it let it fall on her sleeping form.
As he did he felt the icy presence of something close by. His eyes were drawn towards the foot of the old fashioned antique bed that came with the house. Morag had argued they should keep it. It was too valuable to throw out. She pleaded she wanted the baby to be born in it.
Two figures stood at its foot. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. They were still there. He closed his eyes and opened them again and jerked back against the carved wooden head of the bed. They seem to be floating towards him. His heart was beating so loud in his chest he was sure Morag, even in her sleep, could hear it.
“What do you want,” he whispered his voice coming out in a croak.
One of the forms materialised into the figure of a woman with long flowing hair. With a start Connor realise she was heavily pregnant. He felt his eyeballs shoot out as if they were on stalks. No! No! It couldn’t be. She was as old as his granny but the image of Morag!
Frantically, his eyes shifted to the second apparition. He felt all the breath leave his body. It had the body of a human but the head of the cat and arms like the wings of a huge bat.
Smothering with fear Connor made the sign of the cross. He couldn’t look away.
The two forms floated in the air until they were hovering over the sleeping body of Morag. Connor screamed a warning but no sound passed his lips.
The next morning as soon as his eye opened the images of the ghostly apparition instantly filled his mind as fresh as it had been the night before. He reached out for Morag. Her side of the bed was empty and cold to his touch.
Gemma Hill 2020 ©
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