The Unfamiliar & Other Stories

By R. H. Dixon

Ten bite-sized tales of terror.

 

'What does the cat do?'

'Lures kids back to her house.'

'Why?'

'Have you ever read Hansel and Gretel, my boy?'

My skin prickled with delighted chills of revulsion. 'You mean Maud Mouser eats kids?'

Gran nodded, her eyes alight with dark mischief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Corvus Corone Press
• Release date: Aug 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201657604

R. H. Dixon

R. H. Dixon is a horror enthusiast who, when not escaping into the fantastical realms of fiction, lives in the northeast of England with her husband and two whippets. When reading and writing she enjoys exploring the darknesses and weaknesses within the human psyche, and she loves good strong characters that are flawed and put through their paces. Her favourite authors include: Shirley Jackson, John Ajvide Lindqvist, Joe Hill, Susan Hill and Ramsey Campbell.

Book preview

For everyone who lost their mind a little during the pandemic.

‘The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.’

Carl Jung

Contents

The Unfamiliar

Them & Us

The Spiral Staircase

Skull Crusher

The House that Won’t Be Sold

The Trouble with The Past

2020 Perspective

Drain Flies

The House that Stands Alone

The Hole in the Wall

The Unfamiliar

Maud Mouser is an old spinster. Lives in the house at the edge of the woods. My gran told me the house used to be grand. Now it’s a few missing roof tiles and some broken windowpanes short of being derelict. My gran also told me I should stay away from Maud Mouser, and if I was to see a black cat near her house on Halloween under no circumstance was I to approach it.

‘It’s her familiar,’ Gran explained. ‘Do you know what that means?’

I shrugged. ‘Not really.’ I hadn’t the faintest idea.

‘Maud Mouser is a witch, and the cat is her assistant. She can send it out any time she likes, but mostly she does on Halloween because that’s when she’s at her most powerful.’

‘But...’ I scrunched my face in thought. Still didn’t get it. ‘What does the cat do?’

‘Lures kids back to her house.’

‘Why?’

‘Have you ever read Hansel and Gretel, my boy?’

My skin prickled with delighted chills of revulsion. ‘You mean Maud Mouser eats kids?’

Gran nodded, her eyes alight with dark mischief. ‘You’ll never see her at Conway’s buying groceries, that’s for sure. She eats only once every few years, and when she does she gorges on the tender meat of children.’

‘Ugh, gross!’

Maud Mouser generates an air of mistrust among the villagers. Has done for many years. I guess there’s something suspicious about a woman who never got married or had kids and continues to live alone. Must be something wrong with her, most folk think.

My mother said the rumours about Maud Mouser being a witch are nonsense, and that Gran, as well as going senile, is from a generation that doesn’t readily embrace diversity and accept that people have a right to not conform. She said the old spinster is misunderstood. Was cast out and shunned by the rest of society for not adapting to their hand-me-down ideals. My mother used to work for Maud Mouser before I was born. Cleaning her house. ‘Because Maud Mouser loves to tend to her garden,’ my mother told me. ‘She prefers to put her efforts into working outside. If not for me, the house would be left to wrack and ruin. Maud Mouser is self-sufficient. I admire her. She eats her own fresh produce and catches game from the woods.’ Believing my mother’s account, that the spinster was a benign old lady, I disregarded what Gran had said.

And this would be my downfall.

It was Halloween and dark. Had been for hours. My best friend Davey and I were making our way home from the village hall’s annual fancy dress party. We talked about and evaluated everyone’s costumes, particularly emphasising the injustice of Kelly Parker having won first prize with her crappy zombie outfit. Her dad was a councillor and the head of the village hall committee. We suspected skulduggery at play.

‘Corruption at its worst,’ Davey said, nodding, as if he’d know. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his ripped jeans.

We passed the bus shelter on Front Street and heard a distressed purring coming from inside. Peering into the shadowy brick shelter, we found a white cat sprawled on the floor beneath the wooden bench seat. Its fur was matted and its back leg was bleeding, perhaps skinned to the bone at the ankle. As soon as it saw us, it bared its teeth, staggered to its feet and darted out onto the road.

‘Poor thing must have been run over,’ Davey said. ‘We should catch it and take it to a vet.’

By now, the cat had made it to the other side of the road. It stood there like a chalky smudge against the night, injured back leg held aloft, and watched us. Beneath the gentle glow of the streetlight, its eyes were eerily opaque. Reanimated corpse style. Davey and I scampered across the road. But the cat fled from us again, leaving behind a worrying patch of blood on the pavement. Undeterred by its resistance to be caught, we followed. Each time we felt as though we were gaining on it, the cat would race off with alarming speed. It led us away from the well-lit streets towards the black tangle of trees at the edge of the village,