Funk-N-Fiction

We’re finishing our day, and this year’s flash fiction event, with a tale (tail?) of warning from a returning favorite author, Tigris Eden.

Please be sure to check our full list of stories for this year’s event on our kickoff post!
Some have their own contests, and we have an overall event contest going. Plus… every. single. story. is full of seasonal fun. I hope you’ve enjoyed them!!
Happy Halloween, and Happy Reading!!

The True Tale of Purrfecta Noire
A Halloween Legend of the Cat Who Guarded the Wicked

They say that once—on a night so long it forgot how to end—a shadow slipped across the cobblestones of Hollowmere. It had the shape of a black cat and the glimmer of moonlight caught in its eyes. 

Her name, or so the old crones still whisper, was Purrfecta Noire. 

Some claim she was born from the dying breath of a witch, one who had tried to banish all evil from the world and failed. Others say she was the witch herself, cursed to walk in fur and silence until balance was restored. But the elders of Hollowmere know the truest version of the tale—one passed from mother to child, from hearth to hearth. 

When that witch’s final spell unraveled, it did not die. It breathed. 
And from that breath came Purrfecta—half woman, half cat, all shadow. 

No one ever saw her arrive. She simply appeared where wicked hearts stirred—on window ledges slick with frost, in the echoing halls of the greedy, beside the cradles of envy and hate. Her purr was a song of silk and smoke, the kind that slipped into your bones before you knew you were listening. 

They say she would ask in a voice both soft and strange: 
“What is it you wish for, darling?” 

And the wicked always answered. 

They wished for gold, for beauty, for power, for revenge. 
And she always granted their wishes— 
precisely as they asked. 

Never more, never less. 
But always at the price they refused to see.

In the days of the cruel Lord of Hollowmere, who taxed his people until hunger hollowed their cheeks, Purrfecta was seen sitting upon his velvet throne when the moon hung low and red. The servants fled at the sight, but the Lord—arrogant as all monsters are—laughed and stroked her fur. 

“I know what you are,” he said. “A demon in a pretty disguise. So grant me my desire—endless gold!” 

Purrfecta’s eyes glimmered like molten coins. 
“So be it,” she purred. 

By dawn, the wells and rivers of Hollowmere glittered with solid gold. The rain turned to metal, the fountains froze midstream. The Lord was the richest man alive—and the thirstiest. Within a fortnight, his body was found curled beside his golden well, lips cracked, hands gleaming. 

The villagers buried him beneath the frost, whispering prayers to the dark. And when they turned away, a black cat sat upon the grave, washing her paw. 

“Even thirst,” she murmured, “can shine.” 

Years passed, and she walked on—her beauty never changing, her purpose never questioned. Some saw her as a woman cloaked in black, barefoot and radiant as moonlight on ink. Others saw only the cat, tail curled like a question mark, eyes knowing too much. 

In a distant city, a vain sorceress built a hall of mirrors to worship her own reflection. They say she summoned Purrfecta one night, her voice trembling with both greed and delight. 

“Make me young forever,” she demanded. “Make me adored beyond time.” 

Purrfecta tilted her head, her claws glinting in candlelight. 
“Eternal beauty must feed, my sweet,” she said softly. “Shall it feed on you—or another?” 

“Let it feed on others!” the sorceress cried. 

“So it shall.” 

And from that night onward, her reflection grew lovelier with every dawn—while those around her aged and crumbled like dust. When her sister turned to ash before her eyes, the sorceress shattered her mirrors and begged for mercy. But it was too late. 

From the broken shards, a single reflection remained—Purrfecta’s. 

“You asked to be adored beyond time,” purred the shadow in the glass, “and now time alone adores you. The rest have left you behind.” 

You can still find that ruined hall on a lonely hill beyond the woods. The mirrors are long gone, but if you listen when the wind passes through, you can hear faint weeping—and the sound of purring beneath it. 

Centuries wound onward. The world forgot the witch and her spell, but the legend of the black cat who grants the evil their desires endured. Parents warned their children not to speak wishes under a blood moon, lest Purrfecta hear and answer. 

But one Halloween night, something changed. 

A small child sat alone beside a dying fire, whispering softly—not a wish, but a question. 

“I know you’re real,” the child said. “People say you punish bad people. But why?” 

The shadows stirred. From them stepped Purrfecta Noire, fur glinting like starlight caught in ink. Her eyes were bright and ancient. 

“Because evil grows wild when left alone,” she said gently. “And goodness… goodness must be protected.” 

The child thought for a long while. “Then why don’t you help the good instead?” 

Purrfecta’s smile was tender and sad. “Because the good never ask.” 

The little one looked down, thinking hard. Then she said, “I wish they never have to meet you.” 

The room fell still. Purrfecta’s purr softened until it sounded like a lullaby. She touched her paw—no, her hand—to the child’s heart. A faint shimmer of silver bloomed beneath her fingers. 

“A pure wish,” she whispered. “And perhaps my last.” 

Then she vanished like smoke in wind. 

From that night forward, no one saw Purrfecta Noire again. 
The wicked met their ends by their own greed. 
The good prospered quietly, unaware of the shadow that had guarded them for centuries. 

But every so often, when the moon grins too wide and the wind hums through the trees like a whispering cat, folk in Hollowmere swear they feel her presence still. 

A brush of fur against the ankle. 
A gleam of gold and green in the dark. 
A soft voice, low as a sigh: 

“Be careful what you wish for.” 

Evil always asks for more than it needs. 
Goodness never asks at all. 
And balance—like a cat—always lands on its feet. 

They call her the Purrfect One still—Purrfecta Noire, the Witch’s Last Breath. Whether she was born from spell, sin, or sorrow, no one truly knows. But if you find a black cat watching you beneath a grinning moon, tip your hat, whisper thanks, and keep your wishes locked behind your teeth. 

For she may just be listening.