The Mind of T. H. Cooper

By Thomas H. Cooper

I call these stories macabre humoresques. The macabre part is about death, but the humoresque part is borrowed from a form of music that is whimsical or fanciful. Many of these stories are about death, but more often than not, the subject is dealt with tongue in cheek. They are not for everybody. They are not liable to appeal to those who enjoy stories written in the genre of horror that is very popular today. There are no complicated twists, no complexity of plotline, and there is very little blood or gore. But they are creepy storiestales you might read while seated comfortably in a nice, easy chair in front of a fire, with a glass of good sherry nearby. They are the kinds of tales one might hear around the campfire. They are the kinds of tales I used to enjoy reading in old books from the library or would chance upon in a bookstore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543464207

Thomas H. Cooper

Thomas H. Cooper is a life-long communicator who was a professional broadcaster before he graduated from high school. He has led a varied career in sales and marketing and public relations. Born and raised in Poughkeepsie, New York, Mr. Cooper inherited his gift or storytelling from his grandmother, Jenny, who loved gathering her grandchildren around her as she told them all kinds of wonderful stories. A retired college professor, Mr. Cooper resides on the island of Kauai, Hawaii with his family.

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Copyright © 2017 by Thomas H. Cooper.

Cover Art: Alease McClenningham

Foreword: Charles Easley

Illustrations: Sue Johnson

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5434-6419-1

      eBook      978-1-5434-6420-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/20/2017

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Introduction

Chapter 1 Animal Tales

A Very Loyal Pet

Prey

Chapter 2 Christmas Tales

A Visit From St. Nick

Jeffrey

A Practical Joke

The Staring Santas

On Guard

Chapter 3 Ghost Tales

Who’s Stirring The Pot?

The Strange Case Of Lt. Crittenden

The Tale Spinner

Miss Kyle

The Knocking

Round About Midnight

Chapter 4 Tales Of The Eldritch

A Lesson In Manners

A Very Important Date

Famous Last Words

Librarians

Michael

Missing Persons

Paradise

Richard

The Last Caller

The Life Of The Party

Chapter 5 Tales About Justice

On Catching Flies

Justice Delayed

Justice Denied

A Special Prosecution

Of The Wings Of Atlanta

The Expert

Judgment

Section C

DEDICATION

A S THIS BOOK is a testimonial, first and foremost it is dedicated to God who has made mine a rich and full life with all of the adventures and experiences that have made this book possible. Secondly, it is dedicated to my grandmother, Jenny Johnson Wright the tale spinner who gave me the gift of storytelling. Thirdly it is dedicated to my mother, Jean Frances Cooper, who instilled in me a deep and abiding sense of justice. Lastly but not the least of all, it is dedicated to my wife Hollyse and our daughters, Jennifer and Jeanne who have inspired me to write and be creative. I offer it as a legacy to our grandsons, Ewan and Ronan that they will always have something of Grandpa to last them a lifetime.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T HERE ARE SO many people who I need to acknowledge for making this book possible, and I hope I don’t miss any of them. First and foremost, I wish to acknowledge the dozens of readers who every year since 1995 have received (sometimes in dread) one of these stories. Thank you for your kindness and thoughtful comments. Among them were some who I can only refer to as my principal readers who had suggestions and ideas including Krysia Wall all the way from England; Joan Rand who trekked through the LaGrange Rural Cemetery on a sweltering August afternoon looking for the graves of my great grandparents. There has aways been the wit and wisdom of Mike Kelly, Linda Reynolds and Maggie Litzenberger who said: Why don’t you write a story about librarians, so I did. Les and Brenda Carter who prayed for my soul all these years; oh well. Thanks to my Pastor and Mrs. William M. Jordan, III. My thanks to Sue Johnson who patiently read and edited many of these stories and who helped make this book a collaborative process. To Judy Cumm for giving me the book, My Soul Has Grown Deep which inspired me as I sat reading it many a sleepless night in a Paris hotel room. Then there were members of my own family including my wife, Hollyse, our Daughters Jennifer and Jeanne, my sisters Cheryl and Diane, and nieces and nephews too numerous to mention. Marie Tarver my teacher who inspires me still. I owe a great debt of thanks to Charles Easley who has driven me these many months to get this thing done. Lastly, I must acknowledge Uncle Walter without whom none of this would have happened. Had it not been for those Christmas letters 20 years ago I probably would never have written a word of this. Thank you Uncle Walter wherever you are.

T.H. Cooper, August 28, 2015

Charlotte, North Carolina

FOREWORD

I GREW UP a fan of Sci Fi and movies of dark tales like those told by the master of freight, Vincent Price, including The House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum, The House on Haunted Hill, and The Raven . I most definitely had an early affinity for narratives that were suspenseful, thrilling, and danced along the edges of the supernatural. It was not until I grew older that I grew a bit restless in the genre because; although, the stores still explored the same themes that had captivated me in my youth, I rarely saw signifiers of my own culture or experience within these narratives.

I recall in the mid-1990s there was a film entitled Tales from the Hood. The film followed in the storytelling tradition of Vincent Price where a funeral director trapped three would be drug dealers and spun four tales of horror shared through very specific cultural filters. It was around this time I also found incredible writers like Octavia Butler who through incredible literary works like Kindred, Wild Seed, and Patternmaster began to redefine the genre of Sci Fi through the prism of the African-American experience.

Imagine my delight when I found yet another author, in plain sight, who carries on the tradition of redefining a genre through very specific, cultural filters. I met brother Thomas Cooper as a dynamic, intelligent and inspiring educator. We worked together for several years each influencing young minds in our own unique way. It was not until we were both liberated from our historical roles as educators that we revealed our creative and writer personas to one another.

It was like Christmas in July to discover an artist who possessed the bravado of Price; a more cerebral, cultural, griot style of storytelling that I admired in Tales from the Hood and the critical and cultural sensibilities to redefine a genre like Octavia Butler; all with the skill and precision of a literary surgeon.

I met him as Thomas Cooper, but it is my distinct honor to introduce T.H. Cooper and his collection of work that is suspenseful, thrilling, and macabre. I challenge you, if you dare, to experience The Mind of T. H. Cooper.

Charles Easley

INTRODUCTION

I CALL THESE stories macabre humoresques. The macabre part is about death, but the humoresque part is borrowed from a form of music that is whimsical or fanciful, and so many of these stories are about death, but more often than not, the subject is dealt with tongue in cheek. They are not for everybody. They are not liable to appeal to those who enjoy stories written in the genre of horror that is very popular today. There are no complicated twists, no complexity of plot line, and there is very little blood or gore. These are just stories—tales you might read while seated comfortably in a nice easy chair in front of a fire—a glass of good sherry nearby. They are the kinds of tales my grandmother used to tell us as we leaned in close to her. We were seldom frightened or terrified by any of them, but we liked hearing her telling them. They are the kinds of tales I used to enjoy reading in old books from the library or would chance upon in a bookstore.

One of my favorite authors is Ambrose Bierce who was a master of the macabre. He had a way of spinning a tale drawing the reader into a strange and eerie situation, but what fascinated me about Bierce’s writing was his ability to fashion the bizarre out of the ironic. I cannot think of one Ambrose Bierce story that frightened me or even made my skin crawl, but every single one was disturbing in a haunting sort of way. Mind you, Bierce never preached; he just told a story and laid it out as plainly as life itself in the manner of the newspaper man he was, and that was strange enough. What was one to make of the circumstance of two children trudging through the snow on Christmas Day and stumbling upon the frozen body of a man? But in The Applicant, Bierce unfolds a story with a moral twist worthy of Dickens. And so, in emulating Bierce, I hope you will find these stories at the very least haunting. And so, in Justice Denied, I create a scenario about what might happen when someone of a younger generation finds an old photograph of his grandfather and uncles proudly posing before the hanging body of a lynching victim.

Not all of these stories are object lessons. Some are just plain yarns about things that happen to people—strange things. Many of these tales are born of personal experiences. For example, the evening I was harangued by an obnoxious flatterer who repeatedly gushed about my fine manners and suggested that I might teach his sons how they should behave. This scene was recreated in the story A Lesson in Manners. Then there is the more whimsical tale, On Guard, stemming from the occasion when, as I returned to the house while loading the car for our Christmas vacation, finding my wife giving final instructions to a large Santa Claus figure standing in our dining room.

Many of these stories both whimsical and strange derive from the African-American experience. My ancestors believed that the souls of the dead could not pass over living water, which I relate in The Tale Spinner, and my people placed great faith in the notion that justice will prevail even from the grave as related in the ghost story, Section C.

Finally, I should point out that I wrote all of these stories for myself, but being an unselfish person, I wished to share them with others. I reread them often, and they afford me hours of entertainment, and entertainment is what I hope to achieve by sharing these stories with you. I hope you will be entertained by them.

Thomas H. Cooper

Charlotte, North Carolina

May 20, 2015

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CHAPTER 1

Animal Tales

I HAVE WRITTEN only two stories about animals. A Very Loyal Pet was the fifth story I wrote inspired by a cat owned by my wife. No, that’s not correct. No one ever owns a cat. I’m not sure where Prey came from, but for some reason it crept into my head while I was out walking, and it wouldn’t leave until I wrote it down.

A Very Loyal Pet – 2000

Prey – 2012

A VERY LOYAL PET

A FTER FORTY YEARS of marriage, Tony and Rose had reached what might be referred to as an accommodation. They were comfortable not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. They still lived in the small white frame house that looked like every other small, white, framed house in row after row of small working-class houses in this small, working class town. Tony’s father bought it just after the war, and Tony and Rose moved in with his mother just after his father died in 1955. No, comfortable was about where they were as husband and wife after forty years of marriage. There were no children—their only effort at it resulted in a still birth; by tacit agreement there were no further attempts. Whether it was this or any of the other things that cause a marriage to lose its savor over time, Tony and Rose lived more like boarder and housekeeper than husband and wife.

Absences due to frequent business trips (he delivered parts for his employer, a machine shop), had made Tony’s presence tolerable to Rose who enjoyed the companionship of her gray cat on which she had bestowed the dubious moniker of Little Puss Puss. Had the name been conferred by anyone but Rose, it might have been thought ironic, but irony was one of those elements of humor that utterly escaped Rose. The fact was she didn’t even posses a sense of humor. To Rose something was either funny or it wasn’t—no subtle or sublime implications could be attached to the things she laughed at or didn’t. All things considered, she would not have thought the term little as it applied to her cat, funny! Nevertheless, it was a vestige of a moment in time long since past when Rose’s gray cat could fit into that adjective; but no longer. Now it was a furry gray bag of fat—the result, in part, of the pleasure Rose derived from carrying on the long outmoded tradition of setting down a saucer of milk on the kitchen floor twice a day.

The animal’s bowl of food was never empty, and Rose never hesitated to share meat from her own plate—a forkful for Rose; a forkful for Puss Puss, a habit which especially grated on Tony who could barely stand the self-indulgent creature. Actually Tony despised all cats. He considered them self-centered, selfish, conceited, and just plain greedy. These feelings might not be considered odd—many people dislike cats for the same reasons—except for the fact that it was Tony who bought the once little gray kitten that had burgeoned into the object of his disgust. He had spotted it in the shopping mall pet store window as he finished up his last minute shopping one Christmas Eve. He thought it would be good company for Rose while he was away on his trips. He had kept it in the garage all night and couldn’t wait to see Rose’s face when she would, as usual, walk into the living room on Christmas morning to plug in the tree lights and open presents.

Tony had practically oozed out of bed that morning trying to avoid waking Rose. She would have been quite wide-eyed in amazement had she seen him throttle the banister sliding down it so that six particular steps wouldn’t groan under his weight. Tony’s big hand reached into the cage and closed around the tiny, mewing ball of gray fur. He placed the trembling kitten down under the tree and walked across the carpet to the living room doorway. As he started up the stairs, he was aware that he could not only still hear the mewing but that it had acquired a tone of some urgency, and it sounded close by. Tony looked down. There it hung by its little hooks in the pile of the first carpeted step. Tony admired its determination, but it was evident that his plan of having Rose find her small, furry gift under the tree just wasn’t going to pan out. He reached down and picked the tiny creature up and held it near his chest. Almost immediately the mewing stopped. Tony stuffed the minute fur ball inside his robe; its little head peeking out—at once it was as if he had acquired a second heart. It had been a long time since he had actually been close enough to a cat to feel it purr. This one was so small her purring felt like a small motor in one of those electric toys.

Tony tiptoed up the stairs as quietly as he could. As he reached those six troublesome steps—the ones Rose had been asking him forever to fix, he tried to take them three at a time. It didn’t work. Rose was calling his name as soon as the step next to the top groaned in complaint as the weight of his foot shifted onto it.

Tony, where are you?

Right here, Babe, he answered as he walked into their bedroom.

Merry Christmas, he greeted her as he leaned down to give her a kiss.

Merry Christmas, Tony, Rose replied with a smile on her face—her arms upraised to hug him. As he leaned down, a whisp of gray fur tumbled out onto the blanket. Rose was momentarily startled until she heard the squeaky, mewing sound.

What’s this—a kitten?! A little tiny kitten! Oh Tony, where did you get it?

At the pet shop last night. I thought it might be nice to keep you company when I’m outta town.

Last night! But where was it!?

Out in the garage.

Oh Tony, you left this poor little thing out in that cold garage all night! Oh you poor little thing. You must have been soooo lonely. Oh Tony, how could you!?

It wasn’t that bad; besides the garage is heated.

Oh Tony, she must have been so frightened all by herself, and she must be starved. You poor little thing—Mama is gonna take you right down to the kitchen and get you some nice warm milk.

The pet shop said not to give her milk; it will make her sick. They gave me some food.

Well, I don’t care what those pet shop people said! This is just a little baby, and she needs some milk! With that, Rose was on her feet, out the bedroom door, and down the stairs before Tony could get a word in edgewise.

Eight Christmases had passed since that morning, and Rose had been mother to her little darling ever since while Tony’s disposition toward the animal had steadily eroded from playful, to indifferent, to barely tolerant, to its present state of real loathing toward what he often called a fat, furry pig!

You know, if you dropped dead, she’d be eating you, he quipped finishing the sentence with a shoulder-shaking chuckle.

Rose didn’t think it was one bit funny. Despite hearing it almost daily, she still had to struggle to conceal her annoyance not wanting to satisfy Tony’s need to derive the pleasure he got at her expense. There was no doubt in Rose’s mind that her precious little darling would in any way be anything but sweet and gentle and loyal to her no matter what. Despite her best efforts, her irritation broke through as, with some difficulty, she scooped up her precious little darling and buried her face in its flabby, furry side as the cat grinned in satisfaction from the attention. One would have thought all that fat and fur would have muffled the noise of what had grown with the cat to resemble the tapping of a small compressor. But the sound of the cat’s contented purring always calmed Rose’s momentary ire.

Tony retired from the machine shop, but in retirement he was now even more of a guest in his own home than ever before. He spent his days on the golf course and his evenings at the veteran’s hall—home just long enough to eat the meals Rose placed on the table before him. She rarely ate at the kitchen table with him anymore, and when she did, there was total silence. Rose had let him know more by her actions than words that she preferred the company of her Little Puss Puss to Tony any time.

Tony’s retirement was cut short by a fatal heart attack. Rose’s grief was made bearable by her ever present gray, familiar. With Tony’s departure, visits from friends became increasingly infrequent. Over forty years the neighborhood had changed, and Rose, who seldom went out of the house, really didn’t know her neighbors. Her daily routine consisted of cleaning her house, watching television, and pleasing her cat.

Each morning the two of them would descend the stairs—the cat’s fat body making a rhythmic thumping sound as it hit each step—right into Rose’s spotless white kitchen. The first order of business was to the refrigerator for the carton of milk and then to the cupboard for a small pan into which some was poured and then onto the stove to be warmed. All this time Little Puss Puss performed veronicas and turns around Rose’s legs as gracefully as a matador. After a few minutes, the milk was transferred to the cat’s special saucer and placed gently on the floor. The very next office was to scoop two shovels full of cat food into a bowl that would have satisfied a Great Dane, and place it beside the saucer which by this time was being scoured for any lingering hint of its flavor. As soon as the dish of food was set down, allegiance was immediately transferred as the cat buried its face in the little brown nuggets—lifting its head occasionally to crunch the morsels with a very satisfied look—seeming to enjoy the sound as much as the food itself. It would even do a little shimmy—wagging its body from side-to-side head and tail in the air.

Rose was about to perform her ritual a little later than usual one winter’s morning when she suddenly felt as if she were being taken out of herself—a sensation which caused her to become disoriented and sink slowly to her knees—she felt weak all over and slipped onto the kitchen floor—in a few moments she was totally unconscious.

Rose came too unable to see anything clearly, but gradually things came into focus—first the white floor and walls of her kitchen. She was facing the doorway and realized she must be lying against the cabinets at the sink. How long have I been lying here, she wondered? She soon discovered she was unable to move her head or any other part of her body except her eyes. Her vision roamed across the floor and out the doorway. As she saw the sunlight streaming in through the living room windows off in the distance, she figured it must still be morning—the only time sunlight came in those windows like that at this time of year. But it couldn’t be the same morning—the sun had long since moved from that position when she came down and started fixing her precious’s breakfast—it must be another whole day—oh, poor little precious; she must be starving, she pondered. Rose tried to call but couldn’t make her mouth or tongue do anything. Then she heard her Little Puss Puss—not very well but enough to know the poor thing was terribly upset. Oh my poor little precious, Rose thought again—how will she ever get anything to eat. She’ll starve to death, she thought. Rose’s own distress and fruitless exertions to move soon tired her out, and that feeling of weakness came over her again as her eyes closed.

Gradually realizing that she was awake again, Rose was startled by her inability to see. I’m blind, she thought. No, her vision seemed to be blocked by something—she could hear breath sounds; sniffing—it was her Little Puss Puss—her large furry face up against Rose’s sniffing and licking. Rose could see the animal’s tongue moving, but she was unable to feel the licking that soon turned to little nips and then bites. Rose wondered what her precious little kitten was doing. She seemed to be eating something, but what?! And where was she getting it from?! Now the cat was making sounds familiar to Rose that indicated it was busy with something!

Tugging on a jagged piece of skin sticking up from Rose’s cheek just under her left eye, the cat pulled a long strip across her face! Reaching the ear, the lengthening strip of flesh took the path of least resistance and tore along the rear edge of the woman’s jaw bone and then down her neck exposing an artery from her ear down to her collar bone! The cat dragged the hunk of Rose’s face to a nearby chair and began eating! Still unable to feel the flaying, the invalid was, nevertheless, becoming suspicious of the source of her pet’s meal! In her exertions to speak and move, her heart began to race and her pulse to quicken. At that same instant, the cat spotted the throbbing of the exposed artery at the woman’s temple. She crouched down. Her body made a heavy plop as it hit the kitchen floor. The end of her tail flicked from side-to-side—her eyes fixed on the swelling blood vessel. Slowly the cat stalked its prey coming closer and closer to Rose’s head. Suddenly she pounced landing on the woman’s chest—eyes still fixed on the pulsating artery. She batted at it with her paw causing the object of her attention to squirm which only heightened the creature’s natural instincts. The other animal was swelling and shrinking more rapidly arousing the cat’s instinctive behavior that much more! She swatted at her prey this time with claws unsheathed! One of the needle sharp talons nicked its flesh opening a gash freeing a red fountain that spurted half a foot into the air then settled down to pulsing gushes streaming red down Rose’s chin and cascading onto the kitchen floor. The cat reared back in surprise at the initial spurt and then focused its eyes on the red fountain pouring out of the woman’s neck. Rose stared in fascination as the head of a red serpent slowly crept