It happened a couple of years ago in a suburb of Boston. The houses there were all big and beautiful. They were old houses, but well kept by the owners, all except the Taylor residence.

Mr. Taylor was an old man in his late sixties. His house must have been a beautiful estate in its time, set up on a hill in the wooded section of the neighborhood. It was a big brick house with a large carriage house next to it. In front was a circular driveway with two old cars covered with blankets.

The house, now, was in shambles. Many of the windows were broken or boarded up and trees were uprooted all over the property, due to previous storms. Mr. Taylor had a very dark house and only one room was ever seen with a light on. His house was the scene of many little kid's ghost stories. His property also became the Saturday night hangout for the teenagers of the neighborhood.

The strange thing about Ben Taylor was that he had lots of cats. He had thirty-six to be exact. They weren't pleasant cats, but who could blame them, for Mr. Taylor took very bad care of them. He kept the cats in the carriage house and would leave out only three dishes of food a night, which was often eaten by other neighborhood animals. Mr. Taylor mistreated all of his cats, except for Chessie the Cheshire cat. She was a black and orange striped cat that seemed to be the leader of all of the others. It was sometimes said that Taylor trained his cats to kill.

Mr. Taylor's cats often died on the neighbor's lawns. They would have to call Ben Taylor to come and get them. The neighbors would always plead with him to take better care of his cats because "Cats don't have a tolerance for cruelty," said Mrs. Clark, his next door neighbor. He never listened to anybody, though, and he still mistreated his cats. Even Chessie was beginning to look skinny and sickly. Every time the neighbors found a cat they were sure that it was the last, but then a week later they always found another one.

One day Mrs. Clark found a dying cat on her lawn. She brought the cat in and called Mr. Taylor. There was no answer. She called again later that night, still no answer. He never left the house for more than two hours, only to go food shopping. Mrs. Clark decided to go over to house herself and bring the cat to Mr. Taylor.

That night Mrs. Clark headed over to the Taylor house. When she got there, she knocked on the ripped, splintered screen. There was no answer. She decided to let herself in.

On her way through the dim corridor, stacked with old newspapers and magazines, she noticed the cat she was carrying wrapped in a towel had died. She gently put the cat down on a stack of papers and proceeded into what appeared to be the living room. When she got there she let out a blood curdling scream! On the floor she saw Mr. Taylor apparently dead and on the mantle she saw Chessie, his cat, sitting down with a grin on her face.

"No, it couldn't be?" thought Mrs. Clark and she left to call the police. Chessie then hopped off the mantle and strutted out the door, taking her secret with her.n