The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Cat’s Cradle
by Alex Grehy

I was patrolling the fairground when I saw her, the most beautiful child, elfin, maybe ten years old, standing over a basket of spilled and tangled yarn. She’s cute in her purple DMs and round-lensed sunglasses, but tears are running down her cheeks.

“What’s up, lovely?” I ask 

“Boys grabbed my basket and messed it up. If you hadn’t come I’d have lost everything.” she sobbed.

“But are you ok?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” she replies. I nod, relieved. Travellers, hell, anyone different, are seen as fair game for a beating by local ruffians.

“But how can I practice now?” She waves at the tangle of wool. 

I sit on the ground and reach for her hand. Her skin is so soft, almost downy, and she folds onto the grass with immense grace.

“Here, I can help you to sort this.” I pick up a ball of wool and unpick the tangled threads. “What’s your name and what are you practicing for?”

“I’m Amber” she replies and points at the sign propped against a showman’s tent – one of many offering arcane arts to lure the unwary. 

 COME WEAVE A CAT’S CRADLE

Fortune of Forfeit

“Sounds ominous.” I say.

Amber is weaving a cat’s cradle, deftly moving from one pattern to the next. “It’s not ominous if you know the secret,” she says.

“What secret is that?” I ask with a smile.

“This!” she says, tugging at a thread. The cradle instantly dissolves into a simple loop of yarn.

“Wow!” I say. My grandmother had tried to teach me the game, she’d hinted at a single escape move. But I’d never got the gist of it with my short, clumsy fingers. 

“It’s easy when you know how.” she shrugs, then leaps up. 

“I’m ready to play properly.” she says, turning towards the tent.

There’s something so vulnerable about her. I’m afraid to let her go into the tent alone. Likely it’s a fairground charlatan who’ll only steal her pocket money, but I’m thinking there should be an adult present.

“Let me come with you, to be sure they’re not cheating.”

She holds my hand as we enter the tent. The interior is dark apart from one spotlight in the centre where two straight-backed chairs face each other. One is occupied by a tall, willowy woman dressed in a cacophony of shawls. Her hair is long, raven black, but as she turns her head, I notice glinting bands of ginger. Her eyes are a bright, captivating green.

“Sit.” she says. I’m about to protest that it’s Amber who’s here to play, but the woman’s voice is a command.

“I am Madame le Chat. Weave a cradle with me.” She leans forward, a long loop of yarn hanging loose between her hands. She is close enough for me to notice her vertical, slitted pupils. Contact lenses, I think, but her gaze is disconcerting, hypnotic.

I look down, she has already formed the opening weave between her fingers. I am desperately trying to remember the next move as I take the cradle from her. Amber is standing next to me, miming a tugging motion, reminding me that I can get free any time. But it’s hopeless, Madame is a master, and I am fumble-fingered as ever, the yarn pulling tight and trapping my fingers. 

I sit back, defeated, only then noticing how the yarn has somehow wound its way round my body and is tethering me to the chair. I struggle, but that pulls the yarn tighter and the chair doesn’t budge. I summon some bravado.

“Ok you win. What’s the forfeit? I’ll do whatever but let the girl go.” I say, though my mouth is dry. I turn my head around and in the gloom at the edge of the tent I see several large carpet bags. My traitorous mind flashes to cobweb-cocooned moths, dangling helpless from the windows of my gloomy lodgings.

“Oh how sweet. Don’t worry, my daughter is perfectly safe.” Madame pulls Amber to her side and sweeps the sunglasses from the girl’s face. Identical green eyes smile at me. 

I slump in my cradle of yarn, relief that Amber is safe overwhelming my shame at being the biggest patsy of them all. 

“Mama, he’s so kind. Can I keep him? I’ll look after him, I promise.” Amber wheedles. 

Madame nods. “But just this one, we can’t keep every stray you find.” She looks at her daughter sternly, but Amber just giggles.

Amber tugs the string that binds me and in one move I’m free. 

“Thanks!” I say and turn to leave.

 “Please stay,” she says, looking up at me with her wide, winsome eyes. 

Amber leads me out the back of the tent to a Winnebago. She is babbling about how she’s going to take care of me, it will be fun, but I mustn’t try to run away or she’ll be sad. She shows me the little bed I’ll sleep in, where the toilet is, where she’ll be serving my food. I am mesmerised by her happiness. She sits me down and says she’ll start by teaching me how to play cat’s cradle properly. I think of how beautiful and fascinating my new mistress is. I want to be the best pet ever, to disappoint her would be a sin, but I look out of the window, feeling a faint tug from my old life, jobs to do, bills to pay. 

I feel a touch on my shoulder and turn. Madame Le Chat is standing behind me and she lowers her lips to my ears, caressingly, but I shiver as she whispers. “You’d better be good, Cats love to play with their friends and with their food, remember!”

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from author Alex Grehy:

Last Species Standing

Alex Grehy (she/her) enjoys writing quirky, thought-provoking horror and is a regular contributor to The Sirens Call and Ladies of Horror Flash Project. Her fiction and essays on being a lady of horror have featured in a range of publications, including Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora. Alex’s first poetry collection, Last Species Standing, which explores mankind’s relationship with nature and technology, is available on Amazon.

Available on Amazon!