Strange Happenings (7 page)

"Wh—what are you?"Jeff managed to ask.

"A student."

"A
student
? From ... where?"

"Very far away. What you people call outer space." The Alien's nose and horns lit up.

"What are you ... doing in that suit?" asked Jeff.

"I use it to study your world."

"
Study?
"

"To observe humans."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm here to learn about your natural habitat, your way of life. What you consume for food. Your social activities. That sort of thing."

"Why?"

"Curious."

"Are you the only ... student?"

"The only one in Rolerton," said the Alien. "But in other—what do you call them? ... sport parks—there are lots of us."

"You mean," cried Jeff, "all those mascots at all those baseball and football games ... they have ... things ... like you in them?"

"The perfect disguise," said the Alien as his nose lit up. "That way we get to see you at the activity and place that is most important to your lives—your fun and games."

"And you live right
here
?" asked Jeff. "All the time? Under the stands?"

"I don't think Rolerton would be pleased to know about me," said the Alien. "Too much the outsider. Too curious. So I stay. Everything I need is here."

"Everything? What about food? I mean, do you eat this junk?"

"I only eat once a year. Since I'm here just for the season, I'll be gone in a few days. Next season it'll be another student like me. Not that anyone will know about it—except you."

"But ... what if I tell?" asked Jeff.

"You won't," said the Alien.

"Why?"

"Because," said the Alien, "it's time for my annual meal."

And before Jeff could react, the creature's twenty-fingered hands shot out and grabbed him. Jeff struggled, but the Alien's grip was too tight. The costume zipper opened. Pink tendrils whipped out and wrapped around the boy. In a matter of moments Jeff was pulled into the costume. The zipper slid shut.

The costume bulged here, there, here again, and then ceased to move. Then the Alien went out onto the field for the game.

The Astros won.

Jeff was lost.

Inquiries were made. Rolerton's police chief was puzzled. The town didn't lose too many kids, hardly more than one a year.

Usually it was right around the last day of Rolerton's baseball season. Curious.

T
HERE ONCE WAS A POOR SHOEMAKER
who had little more than the tools of his trade. Not having a place to work, he searched everywhere until he found a very small and dilapidated house. But no sooner did he move in than he discovered the house was overrun with mice. They chewed holes in his leather, drank his glue, and made nests with his thread.

Frustrated, the shoemaker sat upon his front steps to ponder what he could do. After a while a black cat with lemon-colored eyes appeared.

Ah,
thought the shoemaker,
the very creature to do the work.

The shoemaker introduced himself to the cat, explaining that he was a poor maker of shoes who had recently moved into the house only to find it full of mice. "If you get rid of those mice," he said to the cat, "I'll pay you very well."

"How well?" asked the cat.

"Rid my house of mice," said the shoemaker, "and I'll share all my earnings with you."

"How about fifty-fifty?" asked the cat.

"Fifty-fifty," agreed the shoemaker.

"Forever and ever?"

"Forever and ever."

"Deal," said the cat, and she offered a paw, which the shoemaker shook with great solemnity.

The cat went to work. Within a week there was not one mouse to be found in the house.

"Wonderful!" said the shoemaker. "Now I can set down to do my work."

Not only did the shoemaker do that, he soon became quite successful. Each day, however, he waited until he was sure the black cat was sleeping, counted the money he had made, and hid it under the floorboards. He was quite certain the cat did not notice.

One year to the day from when the shoemaker and the cat had made their bargain, the cat announced it was time for her to receive what the shoemaker had promised—half of his earnings.

"Oh, don't be silly," the shoemaker said to the cat. "A cat has no need for money. Besides, you only worked a week. I've worked a whole year. You should be content with a sunny window and the saucer of milk I leave for you each day."

"What about 'forever and ever'?" said the cat.

"Things change," said the shoemaker.

"But a bargain is a bargain," the cat protested.

"Things change," repeated the shoemaker.

The black cat stared up at the shoemaker with her lemon-colored eyes, put up her tail, and went out for a walk. When she returned she did not speak of the matter. In fact, she never spoke to the shoemaker again—not once.

A few days later—it was evening—the shoemaker returned home after delivering some shoes he had made. All he wished to do was get inside his house, count the money he'd earned, hide it away, and then eat the splendid dinner he'd prepared for himself.

Much to his surprise the front door to his house would not open. He tried the rear door, as well as the windows. Nothing budged. He threw a rock at a window. The rock bounced away. Finally he called inside to the cat to open the door, but the cat did not come.

Frustrated, the shoemaker sat down on the front steps of his house and tried to think of what to do. As he sat there he heard sounds coming from inside. Putting his ear to the door, he listened. The shoemaker was sure
someone
was inside. He knocked on the door.

"Who's there?" came a voice from within. The shoemaker had never heard such a voice—it rumbled like a barn fire. All the same, he answered, "It's me, the shoemaker."

"What do you want?" the voice demanded.

"What do
I
want?" the shoemaker said. "Why, this is my house. I want to get in."

"You may do so."

"The door won't open."

"I have opened it," said the voice.

The shoemaker put his hand on the door, and this time he was able to unlatch it. He walked in.

Sitting at his table—the remains of the shoemaker's dinner before him—was the strangest person the shoemaker had ever seen. One moment the man was thin. The next moment he was fat. Then he became thin again. When first seen, the man seemed very tall, but within the space of an eyeblink he became quite short. One moment his hair was red, then gray, and then the man became bald. He had a beard. He had no beard. He had a stub nose. No, his nose was long! It was as if the man sitting behind the shoemaker's table was not one man but many men, yet in the end he was but one.

"Who are you?" the shoemaker demanded.

The man behind the table studied the shoemaker as if to evaluate him. Even as he looked, he changed into a hundred different shapes. But at last he said, "I am the Devil. But if you prefer, you can call me by my more familiar name, 'Old Scratch.'"

"Why are you called Old Scratch?"

"Oh, it's nothing you need bother yourself about, that," said Old Scratch. "Not
now,
anyway."

"Then why do you take on such different shapes?"

"Things change."

"Well then, Old Scratch, why have you come here? And, by the way, where is my cat?"

Old Scratch offered thirteen kinds of smiles, and said, "I have just been playing with your black cat. Lovely creature. Beautiful eyes. We shared your supper. But then we are good friends."

The shoemaker looked about. The cat was asleep on the stranger's lap—or was it his knee, perhaps his shoulder?

"You had no right to do so," said the shoemaker. "That's my dinner, and my cat."

"But you see," said Old Scratch, "my occupation is to go from house to house throughout the world and pick and choose as best I may."

"Why choose me?"

"Well now," Old Scratch said, "you're not a very important person. You can barely feed yourself and your cat. At least your cat told me you had no money. Is that true?"

"Absolutely."

"By the by, is this cat a partner of yours?"

"Nothing of the kind," said the shoemaker.

"I see," said Old Scratch, as he changed his shape, size, and look. "Well then, since you have nothing worth taking, I thought I should take your cat. Unless, of course, you want her. You could bargain with me. I'm always willing to bargain."

"I've already told you," said the shoemaker, "I've nothing to give. So if you must, take the cat."

"Ah, so that's how you care for old friends!" cried Old Scratch. "Consider my offer a test." As he spoke his head grew long, short, fat, and then thin. "And since you have failed that test, it's
you
I'll take."

The shoemaker became alarmed.

Old Scratch smiled—or was the smile a frown, or a grin, or a pout—and said, "Perhaps you would prefer some kind of bargain which will give you a chance to stay."

"Yes, a bargain!" cried the shoemaker, determined to outwit this changeable fellow.

"I'd like that," said Old Scratch. "You are a maker of shoes. From time to time—considering how much I travel—I need shoes. Would you be willing to try your skills on me?"

What a fool this fellow is,
thought the shoemaker.
If there is one thing I can do, it's make shoes.
He said, "That sounds like an excellent idea."

"Here's my deal," said Old Scratch. "Things change, so I shall visit you three times. I shall visit you small. I shall visit you tall. I shall visit you one and all. Each time I come, if you can find a way to put shoes on my feet, I'll not take you. But if ever you can
not
shod me, it's you and your soul I'll take."

The shoemaker, quick as anything, said, "I accept."

The bargain made, Old Scratch vanished.

As for the black cat, she woke up, stretched, and then looked coolly at the shoemaker with her lemon-colored eyes.

 

Days, months, years passed. After the shoemaker made his bargain with Old Scratch, his fortunes changed much for the better. He began to greatly prosper. He married well. He and his wife had healthy, happy children.

During all this time the shoemaker was not visited by Old Scratch. In fact, so much time went by without his seeing or hearing from him, the shoemaker began to think his bargain was nothing more than a dream.
There's nothing to fear from him!

As for the black cat—she remained.

 

One afternoon—it was a hot and lazy summer day—as the shoemaker worked at his bench, a fly began to buzz about his head. Finding it very annoying, the shoemaker tried to brush it away with his hand, but it didn't work. Finally the fly landed right before him on his workbench.

The shoemaker picked up a shoe. He was just about to bring it down on the fly when the insect called out: "Would you kill me, Shoemaker?"

The shoemaker was so startled, he could neither move nor speak.

"Why would you want to kill me?" asked the fly.

"Forgive me," said the shoemaker, thinking,
Where have I heard this voice before?
Then he said, "I didn't stop to consider you might have feelings on the subject."

"Things change," said the fly. "But no one likes to die."

"I apologize," said the shoemaker as he put the shoe he was working on aside.

The fly cocked his head and looked up at the shoemaker. "Does it mean nothing to you that I have no shoes and must go barefoot all the time?"

The shoemaker looked closely at the fly. It was true: The fly had no shoes. At that very moment he realized who the fly was: Old Scratch.

"Yes," said the fly with a chuckle, as if reading the shoemaker's thoughts, "this time, as promised, I am visiting you small. Can you make me shoes?"

The shoemaker remembered his bargain. Knowing he had no choice, he said, "Yes, I can make shoes for you."

"Then do so," said the fly. "And, as you can see, I require three pairs."

The shoemaker set to work. First he measured each of the fly's feet. They were so small he could hardly see what he was doing. Next he cut the necessary leather. What tiny bits they were!

The fly—promising to return when the shoes were done,
if
they were done—flew off.

The shoemaker worked with infinitesimal stitches to make the shoes. Three pairs. It took the shoemaker a year to make them. In addition, his eyes had become so sore as he made the shoes, he could no longer see: He had become blind.

However, no sooner were the shoes complete than the fly returned. "I'm back!" he announced.

The shoemaker fit the shoes to the fly. "There," he said with pride, for he had done what he was sure Old Scratch did not think he could do. "I've kept the bargain."

"Things change," said the fly. And he flew off.

As for the black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes, she slept in a snug and sunny corner, purring blissfully.

 

Though the shoemaker did not regain his sight, his skills had grown so much while he made the tiny shoes that he no longer
needed
to see. So great was the dexterity and preciseness of his work, he became very famous for making the finest, most delicate of shoes. In addition, he grew quite rich.

More time passed, so much time that the shoemaker began to think his bargain with Old Scratch had been fulfilled.

But one fine fall day—when the air was crisp and cool—while the blind shoemaker was working on a pair of shoes for a duchess, he heard a sound he could not identify. The sound was heavy and rough. Every time it came, the workshop floor shook as if it were atop an earthquake.

Because the shoemaker was blind, he could not see who (or what) was causing such a commotion. "Who's there?" he called.

No reply.

The shoemaker went back to his work thinking that perhaps he had dozed off and had only imagined the sounds. The next moment more crashing and thrashing interrupted him. Now the shoemaker knew something (or someone)
was
there. "Tell me what you are!" he demanded.