Not another single person at the birthday party blinked an eye when a sleek black cat, unfamiliar to me, perhaps one of Aunt Juniper's newest four-legged friends, jumped up on the buffet behind the dining room table, skillfully landing on a stack of colorfully wrapped presents. With its back arched, its tail plumed out, twice its normal size, ears back, hissing, howling mournfully, it looked like a cat on a Halloween greeting card, and I fully expected it to fly across the table and dig its angry claws into the absolutely enormous chocolate-frosted birthday cake. 

Nine-year-old William, the son of Millicent, Mother's and Juniper's younger sister, had just come to live in Mill's Creek after both parents died in a boating accident, and Aunt Juniper, meaning well, coddled him, grossly overcompensating for his loss. The guests chatted noisily, balancing cups of punch and platefuls of pinwheel sandwiches, oblivious to the pounding, emanating from behind the flowery wallpaper. Shyly, William stepped up to the cake to blow out his candles, but before he could take in a deep breath, a gust of air, from nowhere, snuffed out the tiny orange flames, instantly hushing everyone's tongues. "Rose, please check the windows," urged Aunt Juniper. My taffeta skirts rustled as I checked every window, only to find everything locked up tight, and that no outside breeze was remotely responsible.

William nervously nudged his elbow into the cake's icing, prompting Aunt Juniper to whisk him upstairs to help him change shirts, discovering with her own eyes, unearthly red scratches all over his back, in places he couldn't have reached himself. Quietly summoned upstairs by Juniper, I patted William's head, slipped a silver cross around his neck, and told him not to worry, secretly planning to set bowls of water near the windows, to sprinkle salt in the thresholds, and to tuck charmed poppets here and there to banish William's tormentor.

According to a diary, hastily abandoned by the previous mistress, it seemed likely that the wicked spirit belonged to her son, nine years old on the day he died; a hateful child who chased his mother's cat up the gnarled oak, climbed up himself, shaking the branches, violently, until the cat lost its balance and fell to the ground. As the cat's neck snapped, the limb broke, spitting the boy, justifiably, to the ground; two broken necks in one afternoon.

I calmly announced my plans for exorcism to Aunt Juniper, explaining quite explicitly, the critical nature of ridding her home of this restless spirit, restoring peace, thus ending William's torment and allowing her shiny black cat to slumber in peace, and to my surprise, Aunt Juniper asked, quite perplexed, "what black cat, my dear?"