Curiosity took over as she learned they built haphazard cave-like webs. After laying eggs, the mother spider sometimes killed her mate in hunger, earning her the strange name.
The black widow was most dangerous when protecting her young. The mother spider would take on anything, defending even to her death. Diligently she caught prey, wrapping it so her babies had something to eat when hatched.
When she got home she could hear her sister moaning in the closet. Napping on the couch, her mother snored loudly. The constant voice of the TV was her only welcome.
She stared at her sleeping mother.
Why doesn't Mommy ever protect me? Why does she want the spiders to bite me? I can't ever remember when she kissed me or was nice to me. She always tells me she wishes I wasn't here. Her thoughts, like stones in a rock tumbler, grated and thumped.
She'd survived on fear for so long she had no room for any other feelings. Thinking back, remembering the kicks, cursing, nights of terror and hunger, her bitterness turned to anger that clawed at her. Tears welled at the searing pain of being unloved, unsafe.
Why doesn't Mommy love me? Spiders love their babies; they protect them.
She wandered outside to the tree with the bench. The trash over flowed, several jars lay on the ground. She hugged her ribs, tears rolling down as she tried to ease the heartache.
Fall was the time when the spiders were the most aggressive; babies soon would be hatching. Her pain and curiosity drove her forward. She searched the dilapidated garage, finding a greasy work glove; she gathered the jars and soldiered off into the forbidden land.
With a stick she gouged into the soft cotton. The black widow came out fighting, her front legs raised. She tried to duck back to her egg sack to protect them. She watched in fascination at the ferociousness of the little spider. The black widow attacked again, clinging to the stick and she pulled it out. Knocking the stick against the side of the jar, the spider dropped to the bottom, then crouched in a fighting stance again.
Her skin tingled, crawled; she ignored it, and moved on with determination to the next cottony patch to repeat the process. She'd collected three jars of spiders when her mother hollered for her. She sat the jars under the weathered bench, not sure of what to do with them.
Next day she immediately knew she had walked into one of her mother's dark moods. She screamed and kicked at her for not changing out of her school clothes fast enough. Her dinner was soup with left over applesauce her mother had canned.
She stirred the sour-smelling brown mass , seeing bits of things she didn't want to know about. Though still hungry, she dumped it down the sink .
After dinner her sister once again spilled her milk. Dragging her screaming into the closet, her mother kicked her until she lay moaning, no fight left.
Don't fight back; just lie down and go to sleep, she thought silently towards her sister, hiding in the safety of the bed. She'd learned fighting back only made things worse. Her sister's horror-filled eyes locked on to hers as the closet door closed. Her mother stomped to the doorway, flipped the light switch off, and slammed the bedroom door shut as usual.
Desperate whispers came from the closet, 'Go away, go away, no, no....'
She knew her sister's terror, remembering the ghostly tapping of spidery legs. Anger coursed through her.
This needs to stop. I have to protect her. Head pounding with rage, she knew how the fighting spider felt.
She crawled out of bed, creeping to the patch of moonlight on the floor. Casting enough light to create a silvered daylight outside, the glass jars glinted under the weathered bench.
She listened, and then quiet as a ghost, slipped out through the back kitchen door. Her heart beat so loud she knew it was going to give her away. She gathered up the jars. They made soft, eerie clinks as she carried them in her arms.
In the darkness, she heard rasping breaths; fear shot through her. What if her mother woke up and found her creeping around her bedroom?
She froze; the glass jars smooth in her hands.
They are good mommies; she is not. Mommies love their children, mommies protect their babies, but my mommy doesn't . I hate her, they will protect me, they understand.
Blinding anger tore through her--she imagined herself rearing back, fighting. Tears scalded her face, her heart jackhammered in her chest. With trembling hands she shook the jar and let loose one angry spider after another.
The next morning the gray sky spit rain. The social worker's arms around her shoulders felt warm and safe.
Messy curls framed her sister's wide, blue eyes that watched the policeman direct traffic through the little house.
Hushed voices talked about things like a heart attack , allergic reaction , muscle spasms , and possible food poisoning .
The rotund social worker left them to scrounge a few sparse belongings together. When she came back she looked at them with pity.
'That's everything, I think. Is there anything else you girls want?' Her sister ran to the bedroom to get her Barbie.
Everyone stared at them with such sympathy, but she felt nothing. The social worker reached down to tug at her. 'Sweetheart, what do you have in your arms?' Her eyes widened when she viewed the contents of the jar. 'Honey, why don't you leave that here?'
She clutched the glass jar closer and shook her head. She took a deep ragged breath. 'No, this is my friend,' she said in a broken whisper, 'She protects me.'
Table of Contents
Bitten
by
Nomar Knight
Mild-mannered Rob Compton took a wide stance and heaved a meat cleaver down on a bloody, dinosaur-sized rack of ribs, putting his two hundred and fifty pounds to good use. His love for food began taking its toll on his weight ever since he got married to Clara. In spite of a sturdy, long chin and baby blue eyes, Rob considered himself wanting in the good looks department. He hated his fat nose and pointed ears. He wondered why a beautiful blonde bombshell like Clara had married a klutz like him.
Daylight sprayed warm rays through the kitchen's oval windows. Rob reached over his head and grabbed a pan from the pink pantry. He loathed the feminine color but his wife always got her way. Each time an argument ensued, she'd remind him of his inability to contribute with finances. Being one of many unemployed people in America, he despised giving Clara the upper hand.
As he chopped down on another section of ribs, Rob glanced at his best friend's dish. Dog food remained in the bowl as if never touched.
"Shotgun!" he whistled, waiting for the usual enthusiastic greeting from his loyal pet. None came. With meat cleaver in hand, he made his way out of the kitchen and into the living room. Again Rob whistled and got no response. He opened the front door, shouting for his German shepherd. "Shotgun! You better not have jumped the fence again."
He scanned the neighborhood. All seemed quiet for a Monday morning in Dolphin Island, a beach community on the Alabama Coast. "Damn it!"
Rob closed the door and jumped, startled at the sight before him. A beast emitting a low growl, wearing Shotgun's collar, stared at him. Its transparent pupils highlighted a menacing scowl. A yellow liquid oozed out of its irises like puss exploding out of a pimple. He frowned at the large gobs of foam drooling from the dog's mouth. His spine tingled when he realized something dreadful had happened to his favorite companion. The beast took on a stance ready to pounce, stunning Rob out of a frozen silence. He puzzled over his best friend's appearance.
"Shotgun? What happened to you, buddy?"
The corroded animal continued its menacing growl, raising its head in an awkward manner. Not with the fluidity of a canine, but with a mechanical, spasmodic motion.
Rob raised his empty left hand, trying not to seem threatening to the beast before him. Shotgun barked with vigor so Rob spoke using a soft, soothing tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's me." He opened his palm to demonstrate he was not a threat to the dog. "Don't you recognize me?"
The beast inched toward him, growling, barking.
Even though he saw it coming, his emotions affected his judgment, slowing down his reaction. The crazed monster attacked. Rob's hesitation, coupled with the desire not to hurt his pet, made him steer the dog's charge from his throat downwards, getting his leg instead. Rob's howl mimicked an injured canine as Shotgun bit down hard. He crashed to the floor, knocking down a gold-rimmed umbrella holder, scattering its contents. With its jaw locked in place, the beast shook its head in an attempt to tear the leg out of its socket. Even though he did not have the proper balance like when chopping the ribs, Rob swung the meat cleaver with all the speed his arm could produce. A deafening crunch, followed by a short squeal, ended the beast's attempt to feed on its owner.
With hands shaking and bronzed hair disheveled, Rob pushed what was once his beloved pet off his injured leg. A large gash in his pants revealed bone. He ripped a piece of fabric from his bloody jeans and tied a knot around the wound in an attempt to stop the blood flow. He sat up next to the beast's remains, his mouth hanging open. A guttural mewling sound escaped. He did not dare shut his eyes, although never in a million years could he picture his best friend becoming crazed enough to attack him. Shotgun's eyes continued releasing puss as thick goo dripped onto the pink, tiled floor.
Rob reached inside his pants pocket, pulled out a cell phone and in spite of blurred vision, punched the keys to Clara's number. He gagged when the stench of rotted meat permeated from the dead dog. Clara answered on the fourth ring, "Hello Rob. What's so important you had to interrupt me at work?"
"Shotgun," he grimaced as each breath felt like liquid tightening in his chest, "attacked me."
"What? Are you alright?"
The phone slipped from his grasp, shattering on the floor. It was then he caught his reflection on a mirrored coffee table. His glassy eyes, surrounded by yellow, had changed from blue to violet. Blood spilled out of his nose. He noticed gaunt cheekbones and a clear liquid coming out of his ears. Sudden spontaneous impulses moved his injured leg. He did not understand why the pain had ceased and a cold numbness ran throughout his body. His stomach growled as his heartbeat slowed. He rose and limped his way into the kitchen. His olfactory senses honed in on the raw ribs in the pan. In seconds, he ravaged the meat and licked the bones dry. Again he caught sight of his reflection on the glassed pantry door. He did not recognize the strange thing staring back at him.
Decay reached his nostrils, but this time, the stench came from him. A siren hollered in the distance. Instinct told him danger approached. He must run and hide. He reached a door that led to the garage. Tires screeched outside the main entrance. He entered what used to be his sanctuary, his escape from his nagging wife, and waited for two men in blue uniforms to enter his home.
Hunger. Hunger pains still gnawed at his insides. He was tempted to reveal himself and feed on the policemen, but a part of him urged for an escape. He felt something unnatural pumping through his veins when small lumps raised portions of his skin like fish scales.
Thoughts of his wife dangled before him. He hissed, "Clara." He recalled their latest argument. She had threatened divorce. Then he remembered her strawberry scented hair. Images of fruits changed to the fresh odors of cologne and sweat. He smelled the policemen. "Meat." He suspected somewhere deep inside he was losing control over himself. He overheard an officer radio about a dead dog. Something trickled down his right cheek. He allowed it to touch his swollen finger. A grunt escaped him, for he suspected an amber teardrop was a bad omen. He traced his fat digit along his face and noticed his plump cheeks had sunken in. A sad longing lingered inside him for he knew life without…without… he forgot the animal's name. He rubbed his tummy and remained hidden, waiting for a safer opportunity to feed.
***
Clara Compton couldn't believe her luck. First she learned the dreaded animal she despised with all her heart had died at the hands of its beloved owner. She recalled the control she needed to pretend to care about Shotgun. She enjoyed the officers' sympathy, their attention, and their admiring stares. Imagine her surprise when they informed her Rob was missing. She wanted to pirouette on the spot, but again, she demonstrated an enormous amount of willpower to keep her emotions in check.
The officers left when her best friend, Amanda Stiles, arrived. Amanda was a three-time widower living it up with the proceeds of her last two late husbands' life insurance policies. Their mutual friends called her The Black Widow but she brushed them off, dismissing them as jealous wannabes.
"Honey, what are you going to do if they don't find Rob?" Amanda's southern drawl squealed with a feigned sadness.
"Well I hope he doesn't come back." Clara waited for Amanda to gasp before she continued, "Last night I asked him for a divorce."
Amanda grabbed Clara's arm. "Really?" She sported a wide grin. "What did he say?"
Clara placed her right hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side as she spoke, "The idiot apologized, admitting he doesn't have a supermodel's physique or handsome face."
Amanda shook her head in disgust.
"Dear," Clara said, and brushed her hair away from her eyes, eager to change the subject, "would you be a doll and take me to a hotel? I can't sleep in this house tonight. Besides, he might come back."
"Of course, darling. I'll take you on one condition."
"And what might that be?"
"My boyfriend, Harry, has a delicious friend, Armando. I'd love for you to join us for some fun tonight."
Clara smiled. "I'm going to enjoy being single." She sighed, picturing what Armando might look like.
"I'll pack my bags."
"Great, I need to use your bathroom." They both hugged, laughing with delight before parting.
***
Amanda sat on the porcelain throne, grimacing at the gooey spilt toothpaste inside the bathroom sink. She was about to pick up one of Rob's auto magazines when she felt a draft coming from the overhead window. A trail of yellow liquid, alongside a smudge of red, smeared the tiled wall. She glanced at the closed shower curtain and noticed it had similar marks. She didn't spot any of the strange stains on the closed bathroom door.
She shook her head, glancing at the floor, ashamed for having spooked herself. She repeated in her mind that her fear was unfounded.
The police had checked the house. Hadn't they? She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and cleaned herself silently as fast she could. She stopped when she thought she heard something.
"Who's there?" A low growl, followed by slow, heavy breathing confirmed she wasn't alone. She rushed her panties back on and rose, knowing she had to get out of there.
She glanced back at the stains and wondered if the dark smear was blood.
"Mmmeeaatt."
"What the hell!"
She realized she had a huge problem. There were only two ways out of the bathroom. The first was through the door she had entered, a route that would force her to pass by the curtain. The second way was to climb out the open window overhead. It was high, but if she climbed on the closed lid and pushed herself up, with her petite waist, she'd easily escape.
"Meatttt."
Her legs trembled to the point her knees bounced off each other. She wobbled to her feet, closed the toilet lid, stepped on it, and grabbed the window sill.
"I, I, I, I, want…." Hideous panting emanated from behind the curtain.
Something hissed a phrase she understood. She fought off the desire to scream, but she held on. She held on, even though a terrible stench reached her nostrils. She glanced back towards the shower curtain when she heard the curtain sliding, opening. Daring to look in the direction she desperately wanted to avoid, she gasped when a swollen, grimy hand pushed the curtain aside.
"I, I, want, want, mmm…."
Her hands slipped on a gooey substance, causing her to fall back on the lid.
"I want meat!"
Amanda saw the source of her fear. She saw a wide, hideous creature with a skeletal face. She couldn't believe her eyes. "Rob?"
Thoughts of spr
inting past the big guy faded. She opted to stay away from him and leapt back up towards the window, but Rob grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her back inside. "Hungry!"
She screamed! She clawed at his face, but the maniac didn't budge. She kept screaming until Rob bit off a chunk of her throat. The last thing she saw was her larynx in his mouth and so much blood.
***
Clara had finished putting her favorite negligee inside her pink suitcase when she heard a noise. It sounded like someone had yelled her name from downstairs. "I'll be right there, Amanda." She hated her friend's constant badgering and her suffocating desire to rush through the mundane things in life.
She heard another sound, only shorter than the last one. The second noise she thought sounded too much like a scream. "Oh no. Rob might be back. He must have walked in on her in the bathroom." A part of her hoped to confront him one last time, to see the look on his face as she walked out of his life, at least until the divorce proceedings.
She smiled. A tingling feeling made her happy, as if she had a sixth sense telling her the freedom she craved the past ten years was at last within reach. She pictured herself on a beach in Hawaii with her imaginary version of Armando, making love under the moonlit stars. She despised going to the beach with Rob. He was always conscious of his keg-sized belly. She mumbled, "You should've been a vegetarian like me."
As she placed the suitcase on the floor and pulled out its handle, a foul odor got her attention. She sniffed, trying to find the source of the rotten stench. Then she recalled Rob's preferred companion: the dead dog, Shotgun, whose remains were taken by animal control. She smiled, thinking happy thoughts, knowing she'd leave everything for Rob to clean up. She pushed her pink suitcase, wondering how long it would take Armando to devour her.
***
A familiar voice emanated from the upstairs bedroom. Now that he'd fed, Rob felt more alert and incredibly strong. He wanted to say the word 'good,' but he heard himself say, "Gooo."
Playing with Fire (Anthology of Horror) Page 3
