‘Jennet?’ he called. Then, quieter again: ‘Rigwit, is that you?’
Silence the only response.
The chair scraped against the stone flooring as Thom rose to his feet.
The silence seemed brooding.
He looked around, searching for something to use as protection, a weapon of some kind. He went over to a drawer and took out a long carving knife.
He waited, eyes on the door, his breath held once more. The night seemed very still.
Lamely but loudly, he said: ‘Anyone out there?’
If there was, they were saying nothing.
This is ridiculous, thought Thom. Why be afraid in your own home? Because horrible things have happened to you here recently, his inner voice replied. And that made him angry. Little Bracken was always a wonderful place for him, a home filled with love when he was small, a sanctuary now. Nobody was going to terrorize him here.
Thom limped forcefully towards the door, bravado dismissing any other course of action. Without hesitation, he drew back both bolts, top and bottom (insecurity had made him use both earlier), gave the key a swift turn, swapped hands with the knife so that it was in his right, pointing like a dagger, and flung the door open wide.
There was no one outside.
But something had been left on the doorstep.
Before picking it up, he looked off towards the woods, which were merely a darker mass in the general darkness. The night, itself, was very quiet. Unusually so, for even at that late hour there should have been rustlings, leaves or shrubbery moved by a breeze or any nocturnal creatures on the prowl, or the hoot of an owl, or the squeal of its victim as the predator swooped down for the kill. The woods were always alive, both night and day; but tonight they were hushed.
Stars and the three-quarter moon were bright enough and the clearing around the cottage was a silvery-grey, its shadows deep.
Only when he was satisfied that nobody lurked close by did Thom cast his gaze down at the object on the doorstep. Light flooded out from the kitchen behind him and it was by this that he realized that the object was a jar. A jar whose glass was very grimy.
He sank to his haunches to examine it more closely and saw that it was sealed with a tin screw-on top. Cautiously, he reached out and tilted the jar, shuffling his body to one side so that he did not block the light. Because of the smeared dirt and grime it was still difficult to see what was inside.
Thom picked up the glass container as he rose to his feet and, with one last look around, he closed the front door and turned the key in the lock, bolting it again for extra security. Then he took the unsolicited trophy back to the kitchen table, and put it down, leaning over it for a more thorough examination.
Elbows on the edge of the table, he peered into the jar, but was still unable to penetrate the dirty glass. All he could see was what looked like a mass of brittle hair inside, but he couldn’t tell for sure. Wetting a fingertip with his tongue, he tried to wipe away some of the grime; it hardly helped, for the dirt was stubborn, as if it had clung to the glass long enough to be part of it. It was as if the jar had been hidden in the earth for some considerable time.
He stood up from the table, still pondering the dirty object, curious and fearful at the same time. It occurred to him that the jar might have been left by Jennet, or even Rigwit, some kind of gift to him. But then why hadn’t they handed it to him personally? And where was Rigwit tonight? The elf was supposed to be keeper of the cottage, a mystical guardian, custodian, whatever it was he like to call himself, so why wasn’t he on duty? Thom needed some guidance here, but apart from himself, the cottage was empty. God, it had never felt so empty.
Finally, it was curiosity that got the better of fear. Thom picked up the glass jar – it was surprisingly light considering it was packed tight – and began to unscrew its tin lid. He thought it might require some effort to open, but the lid turned easily and with a couple of twists it came off.
Thom yelped and dropped the jar back on to the table as its contents sprang out. It fell on its side and began to roll, stopped from falling off the table’s edge by the open book lying there. He backed away, horrified and feeling faint as the long-legged spiders poured out.
At first, they flowed like black liquid, but as they spread each one became individual. Tiny, horrid, scurrying creatures, their thread-like legs carrying them swiftly towards the edge of the table. Out they streamed, more and more of them, spreading, scuttling, pouring over the open pages of the book, running in all directions, hundreds of them it seemed, now not all the same size, some among them with huge furry bodies and legs, while others were small, beetles with many, many, short legs.
Very soon the tabletop was one circular heaving mass of blackness.
Not for the first time that day Thom felt nauseous. The sight of them made his hair bristle and his spine stiffen. He backed further away until there was no more room, a wall at his back.
And still they poured out, thousands of them it seemed, which was impossible, for the jar that had contained them was not that big. He realized that what had looked like brittle hair when he had peered into the few less grimy parts of the glass had been their massed network of legs, all packed together in one hideous interlocking knot. The opening of the jar had caused the knot’s undoing.
They spilled from the glass in a never-ending stream, fanning out immediately, joining the thick teeming crowds that were now overflowing the table, running down its legs or dropping on to chairs, then on to the floor to head towards Thom, who stood rigid with shock, his back pressed hard against the wall in a vain attempt to dissolve right through it.
They were not all black, these things. Their colours ranged from yellow, green, grey and brown to black and white striped. It was just that the predominant colour was black. Some, the striped ones, leapt or hopped over the backs of their companions. Thom felt his flesh crawl at the sight and the nearness of them.
His paralysis was broken when one of them sprang from the seething multitude on the table and landed at his feet. Automatically, he stamped hard on it, and although he must have been wrong, he thought he heard and felt the squelch. More were hopping off the kitchen table, while its legs were almost entirely covered by the descending little beasts. The stone floor around the table looked as if it were being laid with carpet, a black, holed, bubbling carpet.
It was impossible, but more and more surged from the cavern that was the jar’s entrance, as if its interior did not follow the natural laws of physics, was merely the opening from another dimension, like the book the spiders now covered completely, a portal from a different world. In the stillness of the night, Thom could hear the faint clicking of their stick legs on stone and it was a terrible – a ghastly – sound that added to the nightmare. Unbelievably swift, the hordes drew closer and, having squashed one from existence, he had no qualms about embarking on a spider genocide.
He used both feet, stamping hard, his boots and the cuffs of his jeans soon becoming flecked with blood. Yet still they advanced, none seeking to avoid his crushing feet, kamikazes of the arachnid species. With renewed horror, Thom saw that one of the larger spiders, thick spiky fur covering its obese body and legs, swelling its size, was clinging to his leg just below the knee, slowly and determinedly crawling upwards, its stalked eyes weaving to and fro as it came.
Thom didn’t quite scream, but the sound that escaped him was close to it. Timorously yet swiftly and giving himself no time to think, he brushed it away with his hand, just the fleeting feel of its hairy body enough to send shudder upon shudder through his body. It wasn’t as if Thom had ever been afraid of spiders or any other creepy-crawly creature – although he had always been repulsed by them – but en masse like this, advancing like an ever-increasing army, was enough to make a coward of any man or woman. He pressed back against the wall again, irrationally standing on tiptoe, as if height would somehow make a difference.
Another striped thing hopped from the pulsating crowd on to his leg, followe
d by another. Others were scuttling over his books, disappearing beneath the stitched hem of his jeans so that he could feel the tickle of their wiry legs on his flesh as they climbed. He beat at himself with the flat of his hands, hopping from one foot to the other, screeching in disgust and dismay. He felt the wetness of their crushed bodies, but even as he danced, others were finding purchase, clinging to the rough material of his jeans. As if from out of nowhere, he found still more settled on his sweatshirt, two or three at first, but constantly multiplying. He never stopped beating at his own body, splats of blood staining his sweater and jeans as he moved from foot to foot.
And the blackness continued to expand with each passing moment, rising up the walls, creeping across the ceiling, the spiders, joined now by millipedes, centipedes, earwigs, woodlice, bugs, arachnids of all kinds, spilling from the glass jar, which never seemed to empty, the hordes spreading around the room to fill every space, cover every surface, swamp everything in sight.
Thom felt them inside his jeans, under his sweatshirt, and no matter how much he beat himself, there always seemed to be more in other places. Even as he slapped and punished his own body, he was aware that the kitchen was disappearing around him as the dark legions swelled in numbers and he began to cry tears of frustration and panic. Without even thinking, he ran towards the door to the stairway, squashing tiny bodies as he went, almost slipping once on the slime that he, himself, was creating. Something dropped on to his hair and he bent forward, cuffing his head with both hands in an effort to dislodge whatever nestled there. But even as he did so, he felt others falling on to the back of his neck, so that he squirmed and writhed, reaching back to brush them away. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the spiders began to bite or sting his bare flesh, perhaps bloat their bodies on his blood, and the thought increased his panic.
He ripped open the landing door and rushed through, slamming it shut behind him. Even as he leaned against it, breathing heavily and continuing to brush himself with his hands, lifting his sweatshirt to get at the creatures, the ground floor landing lit only by the moon and stars shining through the window half-way up the spiral staircase, he saw the deep blackness flowing from the crack under the door like split blood. He pushed himself away and collapsed on the bottom few steps, looking at the sturdy barrier between himself and the spider army on the other side. Sturdy the door might be, but nothing could prevent the invasion through the cracks around the edges and the floor gap.
They swarmed through and in the moonlight it looked as if the wood was being eaten away at its borders.
‘Rigwit!’ Thom screamed in utmost terror. ‘Help me, Help meeeee . . .!’
But the only response was the quiet scuffling of the spiders as they passed through the barrier and hurried towards him.
MAKING HIMSELF as tall as he could so that his legs were able to take longer strides, Rigwit raced through the forest, crashing through shrubbery and scrambling over fallen trees, his little heart pounding, his arms pumping air.
He had left the Council of Elves without explanation, jumping to his feet so that the other eleven members rocked backwards in surprise. Although he had not heard his voice, Rigwit was suddenly aware that Thom was in terrible, perhaps even mortal, danger, for the subliminal cries for help were like stab wounds to the elf’s heart. Important though the council meeting was – sinister and evil doings were astir and gatherings between the faery clans were taking place throughout the woodland that night to discuss where the threat might lie and what its nature might be – Rigwit could not ignore Thom’s desperate pleas. Something dreadful was taking place at Little Bracken and it was Rigwit’s duty to defend and protect not just the property itself, but also the dweller within. Nocturnal prowlers raised their heads in alarm as he sped by, while other night-creatures scurried off and hid in the undergrowth at his approach.
‘BebraveThombebrave!’ he called out on the run ‘Bedare-soon, soonbedare!’
He might have worn wings on his ankles, so swift was his stride, and before long he had the moonlit clearing in view, the light in Little Bracken’s kitchen shining like a beacon. From outside and that distance, there seemed to be nothing amiss, but Rigwit’s pace did not slacken, for it was his instinct for the ominous that spurred him on.
Scarcely checking his speed, the elf plunged into a burrow screened by thick foliage, moving along on all fours, scraping past the odd tree root along the way, dislodging loose earth from the tunnel’s roof and walls in his haste. Although the secret passage, whose dimensions were big and wide enough to accommodate the biggest of badgers, twisted and turned to avoid occasional obstacles such as rocks and the more substantial tree root, its general direction was true enough, although it did become more and more narrow the closer it got to the foundations of the cottage, for this section was elf-extended. This was no problem for the elf: he merely allowed himself to become smaller and smaller so that eventually he was no bigger that the average dormouse.
In less than a minute since entering the burrow, he was climbing vertically and coming up through a hole in the cottage’s bathroom floor, one that was beneath the raised bath itself.
Thom thought he might easily pass out. His left arm and leg were lead weights, hindering his progress up the spiral staircase, a burden he had to drag along. He had tried to flee up the stairs earlier, would have taken them two at a time, but the moment he turned away from the mass of spiders filling the ground-floor landing, seeping through the cracks around and beneath the door like black oil, the clicks and rustling of their movement like a language known only to their own species, he had all but collapsed against the curved wall.
His left leg had given way and when he had tried to reach the newel post for support, he found he could only lift his arm a few inches. Like a hammer blow, pain had struck his head, almost paralysing him, and even as he fell he had time to fear the worst.
Not now, he had begged. Dear God, not now!
This was how he had felt when the stroke had cut him down the first time, although the headache had raged for at least twenty-four hours prior to the collapse at the wheel of his car. Lying against the wall, he had sobbed when he felt the light prickling sensation of tiny needle-thin legs on the flesh of his right leg, the only leg that had some feeling. Almost in spasm, he drew it up and beat at it frantically with his right hand, mashing the spiders against his skin, killing those on the outside of his jeans as well as those that had found their way inside.
‘Bastards!’ he had yelled. ‘Bastards!’
But in the moonlight he saw there were more on his other leg, some of them way beyond his knee. They were pouring over the lip of the first step, dark liquid, thousands of them – millions, it seemed – with nothing to stop them, an army whose size was interminable and whose movement was perpetual. They flowed forward, covering everything in their path, easily surmounting any obstacle.
He kicked out and although his left leg was clumsy, it still had some strength in it. He pushed himself upwards, using his hands on each step to lift his buttocks, like a toddler negotiating a stairway that was too steep. Black spots were arriving on his lap and sweatshirt, leaping spiders eager to get at him. Something landed on his face and he quickly brushed it off, afraid to even glance at the wall above him. The blinding pain in his head eased – or at least, adrenaline overrode it – and some power was returning to the debilitated limbs on his left side. Thom half-rose and, belly up, climbed more swiftly in awkward parody of the creatures that chased him.
Now the spiders covered every inch of floor space, with hundreds more on the curving wall and the newel post opposite, a thick advancing flood of long legs and tiny bodies that bristled and teemed, clicked and rustled, and in his despair Thom felt thousands upon thousands of minute greedy eyes on him, watching his every movement, impatient to engulf him, ready to defy nature and turn man-eater.
His shoulders were almost against the top step to the landing outside his bedroom door when the heel of his foot slipped off the edge of
a lower stair and he slid down towards the oncoming tide. Thom gave out a short screech, fearing he would slide all the way down, right into their midst, but somehow he managed to stop himself. Nevertheless, they swarmed over his legs, crawling over each other’s backs to get at him, and as much as he slapped them away, so more took their place.
In mere moments, they were up to his waist.
Thom’s chest was heaving with the exertion of breathing and his hands were slick with gore and pap. He tried to turn over on to his side, tried to push himself upright, but the stairs were slimy with the spiders’ juices, and he slipped again, slithering down even more stairs than before, one hand – his left hand, the weaker one – slapping against a higher step to halt his descent. He could only lie there for a second or two, trying to recover his strength and equilibrium, for his head was in a daze, the shock of his predicament making him dizzy, making him feel faint again.
Over the sound of his own fitful breathing and uncontrollable groaning, the combined quiet but feverish scratching of the spiders (nightmare muzak for the very afraid), there came the creaking of a door being opened, and even in his excitable state he knew it couldn’t be the kitchen door, for that one and the front door were smooth on their hinges, almost noiseless when opened and closed. He couldn’t see much because of the bend in the stairs, but the sound had to be caused by someone or something opening the cupboard or bathroom door. Oh dear God, what now? What fresh horror was on its way?
He heard light footsteps, soft scrunching of brittle-shelled bodies, like boots on snow, or faint squelching, bare feet crushing grapes, the sounds mixed inside his head and amplified because of the acoustics of the circular stairway and curving wall. Someone, something, was approaching.
A small shape appeared, one that seemed to grow in height, but not because it was mounting the stairs. It was becoming taller.
Thom knew it was Rigwit even before the elf spoke to him and even though the spiders and millipedes, earwigs, centipedes, countless others, climbed his diminutive body to cloak him with their mass, so that he was just a blackened shape in the moonlight shining through the high window.
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