Free Strange Happenings by Avi Page A

shoemaker's smallest toe. At first the shoemaker was not sure what had happened to Old Scratch. He began to think that Old Scratch was gone, that he had outwitted him. That was good, because he had begun to feel a tiny little itch right there beneath his little toe, quite the hardest place of all to scratch.
    The shoemaker tried to ignore the itch, hoping it would go away. The itch persisted. It grew worse. It began to crawl up and down along the sole of his foot with a prickly, stickly, tickly, highly irritating sensation that never ceased.
    As the shoemaker ran, he tried to stamp his foot down extra hard. The itch stayed. The shoemaker rubbed his itching foot atop his other foot. The itch stayed.
    Finally the shoemaker sat down. Was the itch gone? No! It was twice as bad as before. It was as if twenty little fingers with cracked fingernails were plucking, poking, picking, and tickling him.
    Desperate, the shoemaker began to take off his shoe. As he did he heard a laugh. As soon as the shoemaker heard the laugh, he realized that the itch was Old Scratch. The shoemaker began to run again.
    The itch would not go away. The more the shoemaker refused to scratch, the worse it got. It began to drive him crazy.
    He tried to run faster. That did not help. He tried stopping. No better. He plunged his foot in cold water. Nothing. In hot water. Nothing. He ran on ice. He ran on hot coals. Nothing could get rid of the itch!
    The shoemaker began to think that if only he could stop for
one
moment—just one small, tiny, infinitesimal moment—and get to that itch, all would be saved.
    He had to try.
    He stopped. He sat down. He set the foot with its itch before him. He bent over. He unlaced the shoe. He reached down. He counted to ten. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten! Fast as anything, he tipped off his shoe and started to scratch that itch!
Ahhhhh!
    No sooner did the shoemaker do that than Old Scratch jumped out of the shoe, became full size, and dragged the shoemaker away.
    "Now you know two things: why I'm called Old Scratch and that some things definitely
don't
change."
    But what ever did happen to that black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes? Why, she was back in the shoemaker's house. When she learned what had happened to the shoemaker—
how
she learned, I don't know—she took from beneath the floorboards one-half—not a penny more, not a penny less—of the money the shoemaker had made. For that was the exact bargain
they
had made so many years ago.
    Then the black cat, she with the lemon-colored eyes, went away. Where she went, I don't know.

Simon
    A S AN ONLY CHILD, Simon was indulged by both his mother and father to such a degree that he grew up to be someone who always assumed he was the center of attention. As Simon grew older, he found that he could charm anyone with his bright looks and sharp wit. Though he always managed to avoid doing anything that might be of help or use to his parents, he was quite comfortable in demanding and taking food, clothing, or pleasure—as much as he wished. It didn't matter to him that his parents had little money: No wish or whim of Simon's went unanswered.
    As Simon grew into manhood, his demands grew, too. Nothing but the finest would satisfy him. He constantly groomed himself. He dressed lavishly. No surprise that he came to believe people could do no better than admire him.
    To the question "What do you want to do with your life?" he would say, "I intend to have the world gaze upon me with admiration and envy."
    One of the things Simon had asked for and received was a rifle. From the moment he had the gun in his hands, Simon's chief desire was to become known as the best hunter in the land.
    Such were Simon's demands that after a while his parents grew quite poor. When the time came that they could give him no more, Simon became angry. "You are unappreciative parents," he told them. "I must have only the best."
    "Simon," said his poor father,