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  • Writer's pictureR.M. Callahan

The Dead Witch Post-Credits Scene

What did Spice and her feline accomplices do at the end of THE DEAD WITCH? Hint: it involves catnip. Enjoy!

Post-Credits Scene

Deep in the shadows of Dot’s cold, unfinished basement, we four cats—Dot, Libby, Cinnamon, and myself—lay in a circle.

“What I’m saying is—” said Cinnamon. “I mean—”

I didn’t expect her to conclude her sentence. She’d already tried about fifteen times.

“Pass me the mouse,” said Libby.

I obliged him by kicking the large, stuffed mouse energetically with my back feet, giving it a thoroughly enjoyable thrashing with my fully-extended claws. Only belatedly did I realize I was, in fact, kicking it farther from Libby.

“Whoops,” I said. “Sorry.”

“What?” he asked me, wide-eyed. His irises were only thin green rings around his blown pupils. His ears wouldn’t stop twitching.

“I mean—” said Cinnamon. “You know, it’s like—”

“Dot,” I said. “Dot. DOT. Give Libby the mouse.”

Dot pounced with brutal accuracy upon the toy mouse, looked wildly left and right, then seized it with her teeth and dashed up the basement stairs.

“No, Dot!” I yowled. “Stop! Bring it back!”

“Wait…” Libby blinked. “What happened?”

“She just bogarted the mouse!”


“Well,” I admitted, rather grudgingly, “it is her house. Her mouse. In the house.” I chuckled.

“Where’s the mouse?”

“We couldn’t use my stash, because of the baby,” I explained to Libby. It seemed, suddenly, very important to explain things to Libby. “Did I tell you about the baby? She has black hair. Her face is different from my baby’s. The first baby’s? The boy baby’s?” I pondered nomenclature for a moment. “Do I have to use their names now?”

“What I mean is—” Cinnamon proceeded stubbornly. She was lying on her side, but her butt was high in the air, and she kept whipping her long tail audibly against the concrete floor. “It’s just…um...”

“Do I know their names?” Abruptly, I felt frightened. I crouched low, resting my chin between my tensed paws, and stared wild-eyed into the darkness. “What are their names? What are the babies’ names?”

“What?” Libby asked.


Libby shook his head violently. “Sorry—I can’t,” he mumbled. “My ears won’t stop ringing.”

A clatter upon the stairs announced Dot’s return. She sprinted down the steps at full speed, the catnip-impregnated mouse still clutched between her teeth. I leaped up to intercept, but she dodged past my clumsy approach, and began running circles around us all.

“All I’m saying is,” Cinnamon began yet again—but at last, she managed to grate out the second half of her sentence. “Yeah. We’re all going to die.” With her rear elevated and her head jammed against the floor, she made an attempt to nod sagely at me. “You’ll see. Val always wins.” She giggled manically.

I felt compelled to intervene. “I’ll eat Val for breakfast,” I told her. “Like a mouse. A big...supernatural...human...mouse. That’s what you’ll see.”

That reminded me. “Hey, Dot! Give back the mouse!”

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