by Ninie Hammon
Have to hide! Have to find a place to hide!
I flung open the screen door; the back stairs door was standing open beside it and I flew up the stairs. I leapt out of the staircase into the studio and raced past Petey’s cage to the door.
Hide!
Where?
I darted across the hallway to my bedroom, slammed the door shut behind me and leaned against it gasping for breath. The front of my T-shirt jumped with the staccato hammering of my heart. My bedroom was on the front of the house, but out the window I could see smoke billowing over the roof. In the distance, I could hear a siren.
What if they put the fire out and some of the spiders are still alive! What if the big one …?
I felt above the door frame for the skeleton key. Somehow, I managed to fit it into the hole in the big lock, turned it and heard the bolt slide into place before the key flew out of my shaking hands and landed with a plunk on the floor. But that wasn’t enough. That wouldn’t stop the big boy! I had to block the door.
My antique claw-foot, four-poster bed was on one side of the door; a matching armoire on the other, six feet tall and probably five feet wide. It was solid oak and full of my clothes, but with sudden, amazing strength, I shoved it down the wall and across the door until it struck the door knob. Then I grabbed the foot post of my bed and dragged it sideways across the room until the bed rested crossways behind the armoire in front of the door.
I stood back, gasping for breath.
Hide!
I ran into the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind me and crouched down in the shower stall, scooted tight against the back wall, my eyes trained on the crack under the bathroom door. That’s how they’d get in. Under the door. I reached out of the shower and grabbed a metal trash can. I could use it to smash them, crush them before they got to me.
The memory of the spiders crawling on me, the feel of their hairy legs on my skin and the pain of their savage bites filled my head with a halogen-bright light, and I started to scream. But I clamped my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. I crouched against the cool tiles, screaming soundlessly, clutching the trash can as my only weapon against unspeakable evil.
The siren got louder and louder until it was wailing right under my window. Then I heard Bobo, calling my name, banging on my door.
I got up, carefully opened the bathroom door and peeked out. Smoke had wafted in my open window and everything smelled of burning wood.
“Anne, Anne are you in there? Anne, the garage is a’burnin’. Annie!”
There was a hysterical ring to her voice and I called back, “I’m in here Bobo,” amazed that I could actually speak.
“Annie? Annie, open the door.”
“No!” I shrieked. Then more controlled, “No, I can’t open the door.”
“Why not? Annie what’s wrong with you? Why won’t you open the door? You got to come out here. The garage is burning.”
I couldn’t tell her about the spiders. What would a fragile old woman do if she found out there was a nest of giant tarantulas right by her back door, that they’d attacked me and tried to kill me. She’d have a heart attack or a stroke!
I balled my hands into fists as tight as I could, gritted my teeth and forced myself to calm down. I looked all around the room, carefully scanned the floor, then crossed to the side of the armoire and spoke into the crack between it and the door.
“Nothing’s wrong, Bobo. I’ve just … got a migraine headache, that’s all. Please stop shouting at me. Just leave me alone.”
“But Annie, the garage …”
“I know!” A little squeak of hysteria escaped along with the words but I didn’t think she heard it. Steady. Softer. “I know. The garage is on fire. You said that already. But the fire department’s here. You don’t need me. I’m sick. My head is splitting. Please, please, just leave me alone.”
She must have heard the desperation in my voice that time and mistook it for pain.
“OK, Anne. I’ll leave you alone. I got to go …” She paused. “Do you smell something burning?”
I turned and hurried back into the bathroom. I caught a fleeting glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sink. My hair tangled, my face dirty, my eyes wild. I yanked a towel off the rack and hung it over the mirror. I knew what I’d see behind me if I looked full into it. I’d see eyes, hundreds of little eyes, pools of pure hatred burning fiery red holes in the darkness.
Then I shut the door and got back into the shower stall.
Time passed. I didn’t know how much. I could hear muffled sounds through the bedroom window, voices, the low hum of a crowd of people, men shouting. The smell of smoke had even seeped into the bathroom. But it was a good smell, I liked it. It meant the garage was still burning.
Gradually, the smell and the sounds faded away.
Then there was a knock on my door. Not Bobo’s timid tapping. A strong, purposeful knock. A voice called my name.
“Anne!” Not Annie. It was Dusty. “I need to talk to you, Anne.”
I opened the bathroom door. It was late afternoon. I had been crouched in the shower stall for hours. I didn’t trust my voice, but I had to say something. I carefully checked out the floor, then quickly crossed the room and spoke into the crack between the armoire and the door.
“Not now, Dusty. Maybe tomorrow. I’m not feeling well.”
“I need to talk to you now, Anne. Bobo’s worried about you.”
I heard him try the door knob. The door was locked, but all he had to do was get a key from one of the other bedrooms. All the locks were the same. If he unlocked the door and tried to open it … no, I couldn’t let him do that.
“I have a migraine headache.” The tremble in my voice made me sound weak, in pain. “It’ll ease off in a few hours if everybody will just leave me alone.”
I was surprised at how reasonable, and how sick, I sounded.
“You know about the fire, you know the garage—”
“Bobo told me. Please, Dusty, it hurts to talk.” I sounded like I was about to cry. And I was. “Noise and light make it worse. Please, don’t knock anymore. I’ve taken medicine. Just leave me alone until it has time to work.”
“OK, Anne. I’ll be back to check on you later.”
Then there was silence outside my door again.
I ran back to the bathroom, sat down in the shower stall and watched the door. But the terror was easing. I didn’t expect that any second I’d see black hairy legs poking under it like fingers. I was alert, ready to smash the trash can down on anything I did see. But the tension was easing. Slowly, I began to relax.
Maybe I got them. Maybe I actually killed them all.
Bobo called to me later through the door. She didn’t knock. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw that it was dark outside.
“Annie, are you all right in there, Sugar?”
I went to the door and spoke through the crack, trying to sound all right and sick at the same time.
“I’m OK, but it still hurts. The medicine I took hasn’t done any good yet. Sometimes nothing works. The only thing that helps is quiet. Dark and quiet.”
“Don’t you want no supper? I could bring you a tray—”
“I couldn’t eat, Bobo. Food would make me sick.”
“Can’t I get you nothing to make you feel better?”
“Nothing. I just need silence.”
I heard her feet shuffle across the hardwood floor. Wait, I needed to know—
“Bobo!”
She hurried back to the door. “What is it, Hon? Just open up the door and—”
“I just wondered …" I tried to sound only mildly interested. “The garage, did it burn down?”
“Sure did! The fire department come, but they couldn’t put it out. Somebody poured gasoline on it and set it a’fire on purpose! All the firemen could do was squirt water all over them trees to keep the fire from spreading. The hedge got singed pretty bad behind the garage. It was easier to get water to the side, though, and it ain’t
burnt hardly at all there.”
“The garage burned all the way down, it’s gone, all gone?”
“Nothing left but ashes. That old wood burned like a match stick.” She sighed. “Honey, open up the door now, and I’ll bring you a cool cloth to put on your forehead, that’ll make you feel—”
“No, Bobo. Quiet. Just silence. Give me that and I’ll be fine.”
“OK. If you say so. I’ll be back 'fore bedtime and see how you’re gettin’ on.”
I said nothing. She shuffled away and apparently forgot about me because she didn’t come back again.
I spent the night in the bathroom with a towel jammed under the door. I dozed a little, sitting in the shower stall. Then I’d jerk awake, my head coming up so violently it almost gave me whiplash, and I’d bat at my clothes, my heart pounding. But there was nothing crawling on me. I was safe there in the bathroom.
I got them. I think I killed them all.
From a great distance I heard something knocking, and I was instantly alert. I had fallen asleep, curled up in a fetal position in the shower. I jumped up and looked all around. Nothing but clean white tile.
Another knock and Bobo’s voice.
I opened the bathroom door.
“ … all right? Please open the door now, you got to open the door, Sugar. It’s been a whole day and I’m worried 'bout you.”
I checked out the bedroom floor carefully and saw nothing, then crossed to the armoire jammed against the door.
“I’m here, Bobo. Please don’t knock so loud.” I no longer had to try to sound sick and tired. That’s how I felt.
“Let me in now, Sugar. You need some breakfast and some—”
“Bobo, I know this is hard for you but you have to stop fussing over me. I had a migraine right after I got here, remember?” She said nothing. “I’ve had migraines all my life.” I stopped. “I guess. Did I have them when I was a little girl?”
“Not that I recollect.”
“Well, I’ve had them as far back as I can remember. Sometimes, they ease off by themselves in a couple of hours. Sometimes, they knock me out for days. The medicine isn’t working this time. All I can do is lie very still and quiet and wait.”
“Don’t you want nothing?”
“Not so loud, Bobo! Please.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I won’t let Julia anywhere near that vacuum cleaner. You just lie still and get better.”
When I stepped back away from the armoire, I got a whiff of my clothing. I reeked of day-old sweat—and gasoline! I undressed quickly and used shampoo to wash my jeans, T-shirt and socks in the sink, wrung them out and hung them on the towel rack to dry.
Then I got into the shower where I had spent the night and turned on the hot shower. As soon as the water hit the top of my head, I jumped back in pain. I reached up and gently felt around. The cut wasn’t hard to find. It was crusted over in dried blood that made my hair stiff. Shallow, but at least two inches long, it stretched the whole length of a huge lump.
Where in the world …?
The old iron rake. It was lying on top of me when I came to. I must have jarred it loose when I fell backward and hit the wall. That’s what knocked me unconscious.
I washed my hair carefully, wincing from the pain of shampoo in the cut. Then I turned my face up into the steaming water and just stood there, letting it wash the filth and some of the tension away.
Cleaning the wound started it bleeding again, and I held a dry washcloth to the cut after I got out of the shower. When I took the towel off the vanity mirror and checked out the injury, it was obvious I needed stitches. But that wasn’t going to happen, so I fished a couple of Band-Aids out of a can in the cabinet and bandaged it as well as I could, rubbing my hair dry on top with a towel so the bandage would stick. Then I lifted my nightgown off the hook on the back of the bathroom door and pulled it carefully over my head.
As soon as I stepped out into the bedroom, I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye. Black, as big as my fist, hiding behind the bedpost on the floor on the far side of the bed. Panic rose like vomit in my throat. I resisted the urge to run back into the bathroom and slam the door. I had to find it and kill it. Or it would hide, come for me when I wasn’t looking, crawl up my leg and …
A shudder of revulsion ran through me so violent it was almost a convulsion. I reached back into the bathroom for the metal trash can and edged around the side of the bed. My heart was pounding and each beat sent shock waves through the lump on my head.
There, beside the baseboard! I lifted the trash can above my head, poised to slam it down like a hammer on the big, black … sock. It was just a sock lying on the floor. I was weak with relief. Then I was suddenly just weak period, exhausted beyond thought. The hot shower had drained the tension away, and I was so utterly spent I could barely stand. The bed looked so inviting.
But could I? Did I dare lie down?
Whether I dared or not, I was either going to lie down or fall down. I pulled the quilt bedspread and the sheets off the bed and piled them on top of the dressing table beside the bathroom door. I had to be able to see under the bed. Nothing there. Then I lay down carefully on the bare mattress. And the world went instantly dark.
A knock at the door woke me. I jumped, suddenly hyper alert, looking all around. My eyes darted from one corner of the room to another, searching, checking.
“Anne, it’s me, Dusty. Can I talk to you?”
“Not yet, Dusty. I’m still not well.”
“Anne, you need to open the door now. OK?
This wasn’t Dusty-my-childhood-playmate. This was Dusty-the-sheriff. He was speaking to me like I was a four-year-old. Or a drunk. Or crazy. I knew if I didn’t open the door, this time he’d unlock it himself, and when it wouldn’t open, he’d break it down.
“OK. But you’ll have to give me a minute. I need to put something on.”
I had to move the armoire and the bed and hope Dusty couldn’t hear them scraping across the floor. The bed was much heavier than I remembered, but the claw feet were smooth on the bottom and once I got it moving I managed to scoot it across the hardwood floor back into place. Then I set my shoulder against the armoire and tried to do the same thing. The huge oak wardrobe wouldn’t budge. It was like trying to push an anvil. Where on earth did I get the strength to shove it down the wall? I strained as hard as I could, felt blood pumping thud-thud-thud in the lump on my head. Not so much as an inch. I’d need a forklift to move the thing.
“Anne?”
In desperation, I grabbed the back of the armoire with both hands, set my foot against the door, pulled with my arms and back and pushed with my leg. It gave a little. An inch. Two. Three, four, five. Another mighty tug. Six. And that was it, game over. My strength was gone. But I had a six-inch gap to work with. It would have to do.
I looked around on the floor for the key, found it, inserted it in the lock and turned. Then I opened the door a few inches—as far as it would go—and peeked around it, like I didn’t want Dusty to see me in my nightgown.
He was in his uniform, pressed and creased, with his hat in his hand, stern. He looked very official.
I offered him a weak smile and stern turned instantly to relief.
“Hi, Dusty.” Even my voice was weak. I didn’t have to fake that. I had screamed my throat raw. “I really can’t talk to you right now. I have a migraine and sometimes they last for days.”
My appearance testified as an expert witness on my behalf. A deathly pale, hollow-eyed wreck, I looked like a very sick woman. And I was. Sicker than Dusty ever dreamed. Then he noticed the crosshatched Band-Aid bandage on the top of my head. Maybe he could even see the lump under it.
“What happened to your head?”
I reached up reflexively and touched it, and winced from the pain.
“It told you I had a headache, ”I said, trying to sound whiney. "This is how it started. Right after I got up, I went downstairs and paid Billy for mowing the grass—$20 and that was
too much.” The best lie incorporated as much truth as possible. “I was determined to finish putting that Ikea storage unit together.” More truth. “So I”--here’s where I go off the reservation--“I went into the studio to get the assembly instructions. I’d left them on top of the bookcase and I reached up and pulled them off. Only I forgot I’d left the hammer on top of them.”
I watched him flinch at the mental image.
“Ouch!” he said.
“Yeah, ouch is right! Almost knocked me unconscious. I sort of staggered in here to the bathroom, tried to bandage it, and the pain just spread. Down into my temples, behind my eyes, the back of my neck. Migraine!”
“Bobo’s very concerned about you.”
I tried to act annoyed and in pain at the same time.
“Why can’t you guys just leave me alone? I have a headache. Why is that such a big deal?”
“Your garage catches on fire and suddenly nobody can find you. And when we do find you, you’re locked in your room and you won’t talk to anybody.”
“I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other.” I leaned my head against the door frame, squinted and wrinkled my brow the way you do when it hurts inside your skull.
“Annie, somebody set your garage on fire yesterday morning. Somebody poured gasoline on it and set it on fire.”
“Do you think I did it?” I was impressed by how stunned and indignant I managed to look and sound. I put my hand to my forehead and covered one eye, like the pain in it was excruciating. “Why on earth would I set the garage on fire? I have a migraine; I’ve been so weak I couldn’t even strike a match? I went downstairs yesterday to pay Billy, and I’ve been in bed ever since.”
“Bobo said you were downstairs a long time yesterday morning. She didn’t see you, but she knew you came down and ate breakfast because your dirty cereal bowl was in the sink.”
Dusty had been asking questions. Trying to piece together what happened. If he found even one piece that didn’t fit, he’d never stop digging.
I looked directly into Dusty’s light green eyes for just a moment, then cringed at the pain it caused and looked away.
“Bobo said she found my cereal bowl? Dusty, this is the woman who wanted to file a missing person’s report on a guy who lost 300 pounds and had 10 feet of loose skin.”
