Douglas, Nelson - Cat with an Emerald Eye

Some might suppose that I have allowed myself to be herded here by the out-of-body agitation of Karma. And I admit it looks like that. In fact, the Light of my Life appeared to me in a dream, demanding that I show up for this all-feline folly of a seance.

But the fact is, when Midnight Louie is seen to do something that is apparently against his better judgment, his better judgment has a better reason for doing it than is readily apparent.

Got that? I hope so. I am not going to produce that sentence again.

My higher reason tells me that although the psychic powers attributed to my kind may be a lot of Huey, Dewey and Louie Duck, who am I to point it out? If I go along, I may pick up the odd admission amongst the claptrap that will lead me to some legitimate line of investigation. In other words, I am big on psychology though skeptical of the psychic, at least the kind of psychic phenomena that come when called. Such ghosties strike me as too canine to be believed. Now Jersey Joe Jackson, at least, is refreshingly arbitrary about his appearances, which makes me tend to think there may be more than ersatz ectoplasm there.

But I no more expect these earnestly humming feline hoodoo seekers to come up with something than I believe that anything genuine manifested itself at the Halloween seance, other than the cameo appearances of Amelia Airheart, Elvis Presley, et al. Certainly the so-called Houdini in the chimney was a humdinger. I had been down that chimney in person not many minutes before, and I can testify that more than cobwebs lined its length. My unsheathed razors twanged a few taut fish lines as I shimmied down, and may have messed up the appearance, for all I know.

What psychic powers I do attribute to my own breed include supernaturally sharp sets of ears and a knack for knowing the human bent for evil. So these cats sitting here in a circle on the empty seance table may look like a bunch of tail-twitching half-wits, but I believe that they know more than they think they do. I am here to eavesdrop on any meaningful tidbits among the trivia.

Also, the presence of at least two cats of midnight color is required for a proper feline seance, and I feel I must honor my heritage and participate in the folderol, if only to uphold tradition. Especially now that I know Midnight Louise has not been invited, to my great relief, although she would claim that her exclusion is a matter of gender bias. I can assure everyone that only male cats were invited because they just happened to be the nearest, bravest, smartest and strongest, see? No prejudice allowed here. What you see here is what you need.

(If a seance were what it is supposed to be, which it is not.) Now that the who, how and why are clear, the what should unfold in its own sweet time.

And that time is turning pretty sour, to my mind. I soon tire of hearing the first note of

"Melancholy Mewser" held ad infinitum. I break ranks (or the rank hum) long enough to tell Ingram so and am told, "Shhhh."

So we go on making like a one-note organ on eternal hold. I begin to wonder when we will attract some unwanted attention of a purely temporal nature.

And sure enough, the pinprick of light that is Karma flashes over to one glassy wall. The dark beyond us is indeed lightening. I watch the growing haze broaden as it nears. The hums around me grow louder and more fervent, and the tail-twitch is practically electric. I twitch my personal extremity out of the hysterical circle. Have not these ninnies heard of night watchmen, with flashlights? And guns?

I check for my old man down the circle, hoping he has seen the light and drawn the same life-saving conclusions as I. But, no, he is thrumming along with a deep basso purr, his eyes half-shut, lost in the rare joy of a community sing.

I always preferred solo gigs. Maybe that is why I am a city cat and he is a seaside cat. Or why he works at a restaurant and I work at the big, year-round buffet of bad behavior that is my beat. Las Vegas at its best is always at its worst.

It also may be why I look out for Number One (that is, my first life) as if it were my last. So, as I edge outside, the circle closes upon me, its participants so transported that none notices my absence, nor mourn it.

Their loss. I leap down to the floor, where I can observe unnoticed. If any shooting starts, I can at least knock some sense into my old man. Which I will do by leaping up to drag him down before the lead flies and finds any convenient holes to fill in the heads here gathered (in which there are quite a few holes, by my count).

I watch the light near, wary of any sudden changes. I know that if I were the shade of something from Beyond, manifesting myself as a warm, glowing light, I would be ready to cream the creators of the current dissonant, monotonous hubbub. Why any lost spirit would head straight for such a clamor is beyond me.

I am right. The light does not head straight into our happy humming midst. Instead it pauses at the window. I flatten my ears, so they should not get notched by any stray bullets, which also has the happy effect of somewhat deadening the humming. Perhaps "deadening" was the wrong word to have in mind.

For, lo! What image breaks in yon window but that of a deathly pale human with haunted, drawn features and thin, elongated hands. In fact, this personage looks as if it has been drawn on a balloon that is inflating, for soon the faint outlines stretch into thin air and vanish.

A pathetic mew of triumph underlines the humming above, which has the table legs practically vibrating. But Midnight Louie knows that what others see and accept as paranormal is merely some cheap trick built into the Hell-o-ween Haunted Homestead's seance chamber. The light is still there, hanging in air (another old trick). It is still outside the window, a dead giveaway, if you ask me. What self-respecting spirit would ignore getting a few easy horrified gasps by doing something so simple as gliding through glass?

Apparently the bearer of the flashlight agrees, for the light slowly dies, as if ashamed.

Now we will see the night watchman.

But all is dark, and remains so.

The feline hum increases in intensity. Poor desperate fools, trying to lure danger and death in all too human guise!

And ... and there he is! The watchman.

I can see his form quite clearly now. Dark. Portly. Garbed in a brimmed hat and cape. Cape?

Who does this bozo think he is? An escapee from that famous Rembrandt painting of night watchmen? I have seen a Work of Art or two in my day, when Miss Temple's television set was accidentally turned to an educational channel. Of course, this is a haunted-house attraction. It only stands to reason that the night watchman should dress the part. I wait anxiously to see if the face appears from the shadow of the hat brim, and if it is green. Or has fangs. Or fallen eyeballs to match the fallen arches this heavyset house dick must have.

More is coming into focus. Ah! By the hair of his chinny, chin, chin, this antique figure has a beard under that hat. A disguise? A beard and broad cheeks (naturally; he probably spends most of his time guarding the kitchen, not that I would do any differently). And eyes. Merry, twinkling eyes under un-groomed brows. Is Saint Nick working a night job until he gets busy in a couple of months? Then on with the red suit and off with the reindeer?

The would-be apparition's face leans close to the glass. (Here is where he will give himself away; if his nose or chin should touch glass they will pool against it, proving a corporeal presence.) The man grins and looks right at me. That is correct, at me and at no one, nothing else. He puts a chubby finger to his lips, just like jolly old so-and-so. Except his expression is not jolly now. It is pleading. It is conspiratorial. It is urgent.