The Neighbour Stopped Visiting Granny Vera and Spread Rumours That She’s Lost Her Mind in Her Old Age, Claiming She’s Keeping a Wombat or a Werewolf at Home

Ill tell you a tale thats been going round the village of Bramley for a good while now. It all began when Mrs. Margaret Whitford, the widowed old lady who lives alone on the edge of the lane, stopped getting visits from her neighbour, Mrs. Emily Hargreaves. Emily started whispering that Margaret had lost her mind in her old age, claiming the old woman kept a wolverine or some sort of shapeshifter in the house.

The truth was far simpler. One rainy afternoon, while Margaret was tending her modest garden, a tiny, grey kitten strutted in out of the mud. Margaret, a kind soul, scooped the little creature up and tucked it close to her chest. The rain hammered down, but the old coal stove in her cottage roared merrily, the fire crackling as if it were laughing.

Soon enough the shivering kitten warmed up, sipping a saucer of milk that Margaret had poured with care. The old lady, who had been feeling the weight of loneliness, suddenly had someone to talk to. The kitten purred contentedly, listening to Margarets old folk songs while batting at a tangled ball of wool. Margaret spent her evenings knitting socks and even a pair of mittens, the kitten always at her feet.

Word of the knitting and the evergrowing cat spread through the village, and the little animal soon grew into a hefty tomcat. He became a proficient hunter, catching mice and rats, and he knew every nook of the garden like the back of his paw. Hed leap onto the apple tree and dart down again the moment he saw Margaret, never once causing her any trouble.

Margaret grew fond of calling him Tommy. Tommy answered every time, and the two became inseparable. One hot summer day, while Margaret was picking raspberries and blackberries in the back garden, she heard a hissing sound. Lowering her head, she saw a massive adder coiled on a garden stake, ready to strike. Her legs felt like jelly, and her age wouldnt let her rush to the table for a pitchfork.

Before she could think of anything else, Tommy sprang onto the snake. In a flash he snapped the creatures head off and then played with the limp body, even dragging it up the tall oak for good measure. The adder later fell near Emilys front gate, hissing like a piglet. Tommy, unfazed, snatched it back and ignored the neighbours shrieks.

From then on Emily refused to step inside Margarets cottage, spreading the rumor that the old woman had gone off her rocker because she kept a wolverine or a werewolf. Margaret paid no mind to the gossip; she loved her cat more than anything. She would stroke his soft fur while he curled up on the rug by her bedside.

Tommy loved roaming the thick grass, sometimes dozing there in the scorching heat, but he always returned home when night fell. One night, Margaret fell asleep with the bedroom window halfopenshe trusted Tommy to wander the yard if he needed to. Two local drunks, hearing that Margaret had just started receiving her pension, slipped in through the window, their faces halfhidden by scarves. They gagged her with a towel and tried to rattle her for money. The old woman, terrified, could only sob and shake, unable to speak with the gag in place.

One of the thieves lunged for the purse, but in a flash a massive, shaggy shadow swooped through the window. The intruder shouted, Boris, is that you? Did you find something in the neighbours? before the creature a wild, bristling beast with glowing green eyes clamped its jaws on his throat. The second man tried to fend off the beast, only to have it clamp onto his eyes, making him squeal like a pig.

The devil! someone cried. A cursed spirit! The beast, later known in the village as Dommy, snarled and hissed, its eyes flashing in the dim light. It leapt from one thug to the other, while Margaret, shaking off the gag, flicked the light switch. The room burst into brightness, and she recognized the two drunkards instantly.

Help! she shouted, and the lights flared in every window of the cottage. Neighbours burst in, finding a grim scene: the two intruders sprawled on the floor, one halfconscious, his face torn, the other clutching at his throat, both drenched in blood. Margaret sat on her bed, hugging Tommy, who kept a low, threatening growl.

The police were never called; the villagers decided to settle the matter among themselves. They retrieved the stolen pounds from the surviving thief, returned the money to Emily, and warned the rest of the culprits that a second encounter with Tommy or Dommy would be their undoing. One of the bruised men stammered, It wasnt a cat it was some a Mai Hun I saw on TV! Margaret snapped a sharp slap across his cheek and snarled, Youll learn to keep your filthy mouth shut about my cat, you scoundrel!

And that, my friends, is why the people of Bramley still speak of the brave old lady who kept a cat that could wrestle snakes, and of the mysterious shadow that defended her cottage on a night when trouble tried to creep in.