Caution: This Horror Content Contains Scenes of Feline Fury. Auntie Purl ain’t just huntin’ bodies; she’s sniffin’ out souls steeped in bad choices. Prepare for a journey into the darker corners of human folly, served with a side of lynx-like lethality and a growl that’ll rattle your bones. Readers who enjoy their horror with a dash of philosophical unease and a whole lot of sass, you’ve been warned.
Excerpt from the Enhanced Field‐Journal of Auntie Purl, She‐Lynx of the Shatagee Woods
(Now with triple the sass, nine lives of bad‐ass fury, and enough feline flair to make a mountain lion blush.)
Date: Ain’t no mortal calendar can track me
Place: Wherever the moon’s caught me snoozin’
Mood: Hangry, hepped up on mischief, and ready to pounce
Huh, they think they can trap me?
Wal, bless their naïve little hearts. I slipped past their Newhouse No. 3 like a whisper in the wind—one paw print, one shattered paradox, and poof! They were standin’ there scratchin’ their noggins, wonderin’ which way was up.
Trap lines? Please. I chew through iron like it’s dried twig. I ain’t just any ol’ critter—I’m Auntie Purl, queen o’ the Weirwood’s darkest secrets, prowlin’ these here woods with claws sharper’n a preacher’s tongue on Sunday mornin’.
Sniffed out a “fat Chateaugay Lake girl,” they said.
More like skin ‘n’ bones masqueradin’ as girth—a hollow pelt stuffed with vanity. Skinny dern’ it all Friday, indeed. I ain’t got time fer twig‐bheasts; I crave soul‐marrow, blubber steeped in regret an’ hubris, slow‐cooked in a cauldron of bad choices.
Them fool kids, Clem an’ Zenda
- Clem: Smells like damp socks an’ broken promises; thinks he’s sly, but I seen sharper wits in a stump‐jumpin’ squirrel.
- Zenda: Brainy as a spruce knot, tongue like a fine‐toothed comb—every quip’s a jab, every jab’s a feast of sass.
They prattle ‘bout “paradoxes” an’ “yesterdays,” like they read it in some dusty ledger. I’ll have ‘em twistin’ round my whiskers in no time—just gotta let their pride marinate till it sours.
Got a message from the Weirwood this mornin’:
“Feed her riddles ‘til she purrs, then shatter her illusions before supper.”
Cute, right? Except I am the riddles, an’ I am the shatterer.
Operational Plan (With Extra Sass):
- Moonwalk up to their trap—pretend I’m comfy as a cat on a sunlit porch.
- Sniff the bait—paradoxin’ moonshadow an’ regret—yawn.
- Swipe the trap sideways, twist the iron ‘round my claws, leave ‘em hangin’ in mid‐air.
- Growl real low, so’s it rattles their bones: “Next time ye try catch me, bring somethin’ with real substance—like your apologies an’ a platter o’ regrets.”
- Dip back into the shadows—vanish like last night’s dream—leave only the echo of my laughter.
On their grub:
- Clem’s spruce beer breath smells like soggy maze—no thanks.
- Zenda’s logic tangles my whiskers—intriguin’, but not fillin’.
I’d rather dine on a full‐grown weasel roasted over a bed o’ smolderin’ pine needles—crispy, juicy, with a side o’ existential dread.
Final Paws‐Up:
I’m prowlin’ these woods with nine lives’ worth of attitude, nine times the claws, an’ one immortal sass factory inside my chest. They can set a thousand traps; I’ll dance through every one like it’s a jig at a barn dance—light, lethal, an’ leavin’ ‘em wonderin’ if they’re mad or Mosquito‐crazy.
Hungry? That’s an understatement.
Bad‐ass? You bet yer flintlock.
Ready to pounce? Always.
Now, where’s that Weirwood whisperin’ its next big secret?
— † Auntie Purl, She‐Lynx of the Shatagee Woods †—
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?