Tales of a Sixth-Grade Werecat

By A. M. Deese

No one ever expects to transform into a werecat on the last day of summer.

Felix Woolfe is tired of the teasing and name calling from Ethan, his arch nemesis since the third grade. But this year will be different because Felix is determined to enter sixth grade with a clean slate since accepting Ethan's dar

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Print Publications
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999160848

A. M. Deese

Alexis Marrero Deese is an avid reader of Young Adult and fantasy. Her favorite authors include Brandon Sanderson and Jaqueline Carey. She graduated from the University of South Florida with a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing. Ignited, book one of the Dance of the Elements series, is her debut novel. When she isn't writing, Alexis is probably cooking an elaborate meal, enjoying the outdoors with her three dogs or wasting her day on Pinterest. For more information and for a list of her other titles please visit www.amdeese.com

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Dedication

This book is for Melody Greene. Tag, you’re it.

Chapter One

Fashion Frills Felix

It’s not as if I actually believe in witches. And if I don’t believe, I can’t be scared, right? That’s what I keep telling myself. I don’t believe in witches.

And I’m not scared of some old, creepy house. The one in the middle of the cul-de-sac. The backyard is a tangle of trees, and the overgrowth creeps up from behind, making the house appear to be surrounded by forest. The smell of rotting wood fills my nostrils. The lawn, if you can call it that, gave up on growing grass years ago. It’s basically a patch of dirt and random weeds. A rose bush with no flowers—just thorns. The house has a ton of pollen caked all over it. It turned the siding into a gross pea green. Jed Braun runs a pressure washing business to earn money for college, and he gets everyone’s house . . . but not this one. We all know to stay away.

No one ever goes into the witch house. I hesitate on the sidewalk, reluctant to walk the length of the long stretch of gravel driveway.

It is late August, but the chill of the evening hasn’t started yet. I leave damp marks down the front of my shirt to dry my sweaty hands. Hopefully the guys don’t notice that I’m already sweating like crazy. Am I really going to do this?

I look over to my friend, Jay, for support. He answers with a small shake of his head. He doesn’t think I should do it, but I plan to prove him and everyone else wrong. I’m going to do this. I have to believe that going inside the house will change me forever. I have to do this. Going inside the house will prove to everyone, once and for all, that I’m not a scaredy-cat. Today is the day that Fashion Frills Felix must die.

Behind Jay, three boys straddle their bikes. Brent and Lenny look bored, but Ethan is grinning like a stupid jack-o’-lantern.

You don’t have to do it. It’s okay if you’re too chicken. His mouth is full of crooked teeth. The other boys slap him on the back and laugh.

He’s right. I don’t have to do this. But it isn’t okay if I chicken out. That’s the kind of thing that follows a kid. Tomorrow is the first day of sixth grade, and there is no way I am starting it as a coward. Felix the Chicken. Ethan has been calling me a coward since the second grade when I refused his dare to go into the girls’ bathroom. Fashion Frills is bad enough without throwing in the extra name-calling. And, in any case, I’m not a chicken. Today, it stops.

No. I whisper the word so softly, I’m not sure I even say it aloud. I’m doing it, I say louder and stride toward the door.

There’s no such thing as witches. I know it, they know it, and this whole thing is stupid. Witches are for Halloween, movies, and video games. Witches exist for those weirdos you sometimes see on the street outside that new age store downtown. This house, this decrepit two-story monstrosity, does not belong to a witch.

I clench my hands into fists so the guys won’t notice them shaking and begin to walk forward.

I don’t believe in witches, I don’t believe in witches, I don’t believe in witches.

But, I have heard the stories about this house. Everyone has. Somehow, my feet continue to shuffle forward.

I’m almost up the driveway.

Felix, I gotta go. Jay’s voice is hesitant. He doesn’t want to leave me, but his parents will ground him for life if he’s even a minute past curfew. His parents are strict that way.

I shrug him away and toss up a careless arm in farewell. It doesn’t matter if he sees me do this. I just need one witness. All I need is Ethan. After Ethan sees me enter the witch’s house, he can never make fun of me again.

People don’t even try to knock, not even the Girl Scouts during cookie season. Once, an older kid broke the kitchen window and went inside on a dare. He was never seen again. All the neighborhood kids know that story. They say the house is really old. Built atop an old Indian burial ground or something, and all kinds of people have died in it. I mean, tons. Jackie told me and Jay all about it and she would know—she’s in the eleventh grade. And then, there’s Miss Gray herself, the crazy old lady who lives in the creepy house. The town witch. But there is no such thing as witches.

She’s just a grumpy old lady, I remind myself. If I survive this, I will become a legend. No one will ever ignore me again. No one will dare to call me a sissy or a scaredy-cat ever again. Fashion Frills Felix will be gone forever.

The neighbors all seem to ignore Miss Gray. Mom does too. She calls her old house an eyesore and often frowns at it from our driveway. I think Mom’s feelings are just hurt because the old lady returned Mom’s batch of Christmas cookies a few years ago. Less than an hour after she dropped them off, there was a knock on the door. Mom answered it and found our cookies. Miss Gray was already limping back home.

That was one of the few times I’ve ever seen her. Not everyone can even say that, and I wonder if that gives me any advantage. Now that I am going inside her house. Or, at least, I’m going to attempt to. Miss Gray doesn’t have a car so there is no way of knowing if she’s even home or not. What if she is? What if she is lying in there, dead? We’ve all heard stories like that. Or worse, what if she comes home while I am inside and catches me?

I look over my shoulder and meet Ethan’s eyes. He seems surprised that I’m going through with it. That’s right, Ethan, suck it. I’m braver than you think. I straighten as tall as I can make myself. Lenny and Brent no longer look bored. Yup, here goes.

The porch creaks under my weight—surprising, considering I’m barely seventy-four pounds. I peer into the windows, but they are filthy, smeared with summer pollen, and I can’t see if there is any movement inside.

I wipe my palms on my jeans and knock on the door. After a few moments, I knock again. Still no answer. I try the handle, and the door swings open easily. It doesn’t even creak. I expected it to creak and shake my head in disappointment. I stand in the doorway and turn back toward Ethan. He waves me forward.

He had bet that I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go inside. I am about to prove him wrong. I step over the threshold and close the door behind me.

The house smells, but it doesn’t stink. It’s a strange mix between peppermint and tobacco. Of licorice and stale potpourri. It’s not spooky inside either. There are no cobwebs or spell books, and the house is actually clean, like someone just dusted and polished the dark wood floors. It’s the lamest witch’s house in the history of time. There isn’t much furniture: a small couch with an ugly floral pattern that Mom would hate and an old baby grand piano that Mom would love. We have one in our living room. I never play it. Gave up after just two years of lessons. Music is not for me. Neither is drawing or anything even sort of artsy. Mom says I’m talented, but I don’t have any ambition—whatever that means. And yeah, maybe I suck at sports, drawing, music, and schoolwork, but I’m awesome at video games. Mom thinks games are a waste of time, but I bet she won’t be saying that once I’m making my first million. I wonder if my followers will want to hear about me going into the witch’s house. Probably. At least one of the twenty-seven are bound to be impressed. I’ll have to remember to make a video about it later. I would be livestreaming now if Mom would just get me a phone already.

This house gets lamer by the second. I don’t know what everyone is so scared of. A quick peek in the kitchen proves it to be just that, a kitchen. Also clean and full of the normal appliances. No dishwasher though. I bet Miss Gray goes through a lot of paper plates.

The dining room has a small wooden table. There are no place settings, but there is a lace table runner that was probably white at some point but is now yellowed with age. A plate of food is left out, and I frown as I walk toward it. Is Miss Gray home and just out of sight? Perhaps upstairs?

The plate isn’t really a plate of food after all—just a pile of bones. Fish bones. I recognize the shape, though the bones have been entirely picked clean. Even the eyeball. The empty socket stares back at me. Gross.

Miss Gray? I project my voice so that it’s heard throughout the house. No reply. She’s not here. I sigh in relief. I don’t know what I would have done if she responded!

You might not be a witch, but you’re still creepy. I mutter the words, but in the empty room, my voice still carries back to me.

I decide to explore upstairs. I’ve already been wandering for about five minutes, but Miss Gray isn’t home, and I can’t pass up the chance to see the rest of the house. Ethan and the boys will never believe this. Maybe I can find something to take back with me as proof—something besides a pile of fish bones.

I grip the smooth banister and make my way up the stairs. They are the curvy kind, the sort that twist around on themselves. I’ve always wanted to go up stairs like this. Mom says they’re impractical, but she says that about anything awesome. As I curve to the top, I notice a big, gold-framed mirror in the hall. Something shiny reflects at me from the table below it.

At the top of the landing, I stop in front of the mirror. A silver pendant lies on the table. It’s flat and circular. The braided silver curves in on itself again and again in an intricate pattern. The pendant should probably be attached to a silver chain instead of its faded leather cord. I pick it up by the smooth length of leather and hold it in