Sunday Whatever – They Don’t Walk Alone by M.D. Smith IV

(Editor’s Note: This fine work by M.D. appears on a Sunday because it features what we refer to–often derisively–a Talking Untalkable. We seldom go for that sort of thing unless it is done with elan or in a well done fantasy. Both are the case here. Just a sweet little reminder from the Eds. that such items, unless loaded with charm, will be met with scorn, Bull Terriers and life insurance pitches–the Eds.)

They Don’t Walk Alone

I smelled the house before I ever saw it. Spirits inside—too many for comfort. Dust so thick it clung to the tongue. Beneath it all drifted the faint electric tang of souls stretched thin by years of being ignored, like old copper wire humming with frayed insulation.

Tarantulena, my witch, my human, my endlessly curious troublemaker, called it “character.”

I called it a litter box full of bad decisions.

But I’m Bright Eyes, her black cat. I follow where she leads.

The moment my paws touched the warped porch boards of that 1895 house, my fur rose like roots pushing up through concrete. Something inside. Something ancient, or angry, or simply bored, breathed through the wavy-glass windows. Watching. Waiting. Wondering if we were food, or friends.

Tarantulena plucked a paper note from the brass door-knocker. “Beware. They don’t walk alone,” she read aloud.

I flicked my tail hard. Ghosts in the floorboards stirred. Some curious. Some resentful. Some simply cold. I meowed at her to ensure she knew the situation.

She just smiled. “Witches and ghosts get along just fine.”

News to me.

Inside, the rooms sagged with old sorrow. The wallpaper wilted like it had overheard too many last words. Every board remembered something tragic and whispered it beneath my paws.

I tasted it all:

A patriarch poisoned at his own mahogany dining table. A mistress suffocated under a pillow by a jealous hand. A little girl shot by her younger brother—an accident, but accidents stick to a house like mold. A boy in the basement, taken by spiders with more venom than mercy, and two other adults.

Pain layered on pain, until the air felt like burned tuna on my tongue, bitter, metallic, wrong.

They walked at midnight. All of them.

On our first night, I heard them before I saw them. Gliding footsteps that didn’t belong to anyone living. Shy breaths at the stairwell. The faint scrape of fingernails along the baseboards. Ghosts testing the shape of our presence.

Then, as the clock struck twelve, they drifted out of the walls like fog being exhaled. Six of them gathered with brittle, hopeful eyes, carrying their tragedies like old coats they couldn’t take off.

The workshop boy, flickering like a candle in a storm, hovered closest. Tarantulena had set a plate for him at the table along with a dented tin fork and a small napkin, a gesture of welcome. There were settings for the other five, too.

I leapt onto my stool beside her. My tail curled around my paws; my glowing eyes held the ghosts steady. They might not fear witches, but cats? Ghosts weren’t sure about cats. Too many old stories about us seeing both sides of the veil.

Tarantulena spoke first with her warm voice, soft magic threading through her words. She talked the way she did when coaxing a stray bird from panic, gentle and patient.

The ghosts hesitated, drifting closer in uncertain shivers.

Then one spoke.

Then another.

And another.

Tragedies spilled into the candlelight like spilled milk—messy, sad, impossible to clean up completely. But Tarantulena listened. She always listened. And somehow, that made the room feel less haunted and more… inhabited.

When the workshop boy trembled too hard to finish his story, I pressed myself against his flickering shoulder. Purring low, deep, steady. Ghost children respond to purring more than you’d think. The sound reminds them of warmth. Of heartbeat. Of something they miss.

Soon, the house—this wounded, sagging, sorrow-heavy house—rang with laughter. The kind ghosts make when they forget they are dead. It is a fragile sound, like cracked bells. But beautiful, in its way.

We had done it.

We had tamed the lonely and made a place at the table.

But as the night deepened and the ghosts settled into their old patterns, wandering the halls, peeking from banisters, and humming tuneless songs. However, I noticed something new.

The house… exhaled.

Its walls unknotted.

Its air warmed like sun through autumn leaves.

Tarantulena stroked my spine. “Good work, Bright Eyes.”

I purred, though I knew the truth.

She had brought the magic.

I had kept the peace.

And together, we had given the dead something they’d forgotten how to crave:

Company.

Because in that old 1895 house, one truth lingered sharper than any warning on a door-knocker.

They don’t walk alone. Not anymore.

M.D. Smith IV