by G R Jordan
Jane stopped. She listened. Her heart started to beat faster as she heard the faintest of movements. She strained to ascertain its direction. Hell, that’s behind me. She ran.
Jane and her trolley, wheels spinning fast, rounded the racking at the end of the corridor and almost crashed. With every muscle, she pulled back and stopped herself and the trolley from piling into the abomination ahead. For the briefest of moments her curiosity outweighed her fear and she inspected the nightmare before her.
There was a spider at its core, of that there was no doubt. But it was larger than any spider Jane could ever have imagined. Eight legs jutted out from its sides without meeting the floor, and another set of legs emerged from underneath the body; each was thin with three appendages at the end, like the leg of a robin. And from its centre, above the spider’s fangs and eyes, jutted out the head of a lizard. The whole mish-mash of animals was ten feet tall and Jane was taken aback by the vulgarity of the experiment. She fled, without her trolley, machete in hand.
In a state of panic, the mind will reach for the option that indicates the greatest safety. Jane was now in a full panic. She began to run around the warehouse, passing through small gaps in the racking, forcing the creature to take the longer route. Running was not a pastime Jane was well acquainted with and she soon ran out of breath. As she slowed down she felt the creature getting closer with each corner. Soon her lungs were gasping for air and she felt nauseous. She tripped and fell into the middle of a corridor. She looked up to see the creature hopping like a robin around the corner. Its fangs were showing. The teeth on the lizard’s head were gleaming, and there was malice in its eyes. Overcome by sheer terror, she vomited heavily onto the floor.
The bird legs folded up underneath the animal and it scuttled forward on its spider’s legs. As it rose up before her, Jane saw its fangs and, beyond that, a sharp implement. She realized that the weapon of capture was a paralysing spear, a spider’s stinger. As the appendage began to move, she covered her face with her hands and waited for her end.
Back From The Dead
They say that your life flashes before your eyes at the end. Jane Goodritch had no time to contemplate this as she watched a rapid movie of her days so far. Her happy parents playing with her at the beach, her grandmother’s funeral, her history award in secondary school, the death of her first boyfriend by a hit and run driver (an event which had kept her single since), winning the post of museum curator: all raced before her. And then the underside of the creature came back into view to terrify her one last time. So it ended like this.
The gunshot made her jump. And the second one. She heard a clicking sound followed by two more shots. Then she heard scuttling and opened her eyes to an empty corridor with no conglomerated creature in sight. Her body was overcome with relief and she started to cry loudly, the tension of the previous moments catching up with her.
“I wouldn’t sit there, ma’am. If you’ll walk towards my voice, I’ll be able to fend off that thing if it comes back.”
The voice was from the north of England, but the wording was precise and almost masked the accent. Maybe Cumbria, she thought, before shaking her mind and body into action. Jane walked backwards to the voice, keeping her eyes peeled for the spider creature.
“There’s an office behind us. The door is strong and has kept that creature from me since I got here. We’ll go inside and you can tell me what you’ve been shopping for.”
Jane could feel her breathing slow down with the calmness of the voice, and apart from the sick taste in her throat she felt strong again. Turning around, she saw a man standing in an office doorway with a shotgun in his hand. Jane started to ask a question.
“Not at the moment, ma’am,” interrupted the man, “let’s get inside the office first, shall we? There are no guarantees with creatures like that taking their fill of the place.”
Jane obliged and walked past the man into the office. Dressed in black leggings and a black top, he cut quite a figure, but there was something in his demeanour that reminded her of someone. She couldn’t quite place the similarity but she did feel safer with him around.
Once they were both inside with the door locked behind them, the man pulled over a chair and offered it to Jane. She saw that he had several severe cuts and his top was soaked with blood.
“You look in a bad way,” Jane said, waiting for an explanation.
“Yes, I do, don’t I. Sorry about that. Allow me to introduce myself. The name’s Wilson. And whom did I have the pleasure of rescuing?”
“Jane Goodritch, Mr Wilson. That’s right isn’t it? Wilson’s your surname.”
“Yes. My surname. What made you think that?”
“You have a way of speaking. I have a friend who speaks like you. Well, maybe had…” Jane broke into tears and Wilson stepped forward and bent down for her to cry on his shoulder. As she sobbed, she realized that Mr Wilson smelt dreadful. Maybe it was the congealed blood, but she thought there was the smell of mud and dirt there too.
Jane’s curiosity forced her to muffle her cries. Sniffing hard, she found herself able to ask a question. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Nothing much, really. First, let’s see what happened to you. I saw you enter the shop on the cameras over here. Rather a bizarre little shopping trip. The recent turn of events has deterred most from the summer sales.”
His manner was polite but searching. She felt that he was saying: I will have my answers but we can be civilized about it if you wish, or otherwise if there’s trouble. And getting the chair, very chivalrous. Of course. Arthur.
“Do you know Arthur?”
The man cocked an eyebrow. “Any particular brand of Arthur or just the common garden variety?” His grin was soft, easing her nerves, like Arthur. The man was also dapper like Arthur, but younger, maybe late twenties at most. His hard edge was concealed so well that Jane had nearly forgotten how he had handled a shotgun. Surely he knew Arthur.
“Arthur Havers. A friend of mine. Very practical man.”
Wilson barely flinched. But he was staring at her now like he had her under a microscope trying to determine some truth about her.
“How do you know Major Havers?” The tone was serious and even. After the previous friendly voice, this indicated a more professional urge.
“I was helping him. We were on our way to my museum when we were attacked by some kind of beetle monster and Arthur, sorry, Major Havers, was bitten by snakes. He was paralysed, his arms, so I took him and Mr Austerley to my museum. While we were there he hid us, and then we think he was taken by these ghosts. Now I’m collecting some items for Mr Austerley so that we can find out what’s happened to Arthur.”
“Mr Austerley’s here?” Wilson was suddenly right in front of Jane’s face. “Where?”
“At the museum. He’s a cripple and…”
“Yes, I know about the foot, Farthington took it from him. Is he alone in the museum?”
“Yes, I left him there to come and get the stuff he asked for.”
“But they’ll get him! You know what Mr Austerley is, don’t you?”
“No. Apart from a grumpy old man with a missing foot and a penchant for the occult.”
“It’s not a hobby, Miss Goodritch, he’s probably the foremost… did you say old?”
“Yes, he must be in his eighties.”
“Damn, they got to him. He won’t last. They were all dying at the care home.”
“The care home. Mr Kirkgordon went there. With the priest’s daughter.”
“Nefol with Mr Kirkgordon? I need to know everything, Miss Goodritch, and I need to know fast, because we have to get to Mr Austerley right away and protect him.”
“He’s safe, Mr Wilson.” Jane explained all that she knew to Wilson, including the secret hiding dimension Havers had set up for Austerley and herself. Kneeling in front of her, Wilson listened attentively, his face utter concentration. Jane was sure there was an engine running on full behind it. When she had finis
hed speaking, he drew away for a short moment before turning back.
“Mr Austerley seems to believe that these ingredients are required, so I think we should pick up the remaining items and get back to him. I don’t like the idea of you all running around in the open, so when we get to the museum it may be best to put you in a sanctuary with Mr Austerley and I will fetch the priest and Mr Kirkgordon. Are you up to walking?”
“Yes, thank you. I feel better now.”
“And I’ll take your machete. Not that it will do much good against the ghosts.”
“Oh, it works on them. The priest has a vault of weapons, apparently. Arthur brought this with him. This one and another. He still has that, I hope.”
“Good,” said Wilson, scanning the cameras. “That spider thing is in the top far corner of the warehouse, so stay quiet and then hopefully we can sneak out with the goods.”
Jane watched Wilson check the shotgun, making sure it was loaded.
“Do you have many more shots?”
“Just what’s loaded, ma’am. Still, stiff upper lip.”
Jane’s renewed vigour took a hit. Then a thought crossed her mind. “Mr Wilson. How did you get here? I have told you everything I know and have got nothing from you. How do I know you aren’t on their side? How do I know I’m not about to lead you straight to Mr Austerley as a hostage?”
“Very good, Miss Goodritch. Major Havers doesn’t choose his allies lightly. You have also handed me your only weapon. Not smart at all, but at least you got there in the end. All you have is my knowledge of your companions, my saving you from that spider and a little bit of trust. It’s very hard in our game, trust. Yet it is what keeps you alive, well, until you trust the wrong person. I work for Major Havers. I was his original man here in Dillingham, sent after the priest contacted him about some strange occurrences. But trust is all I can offer, Miss Goodritch. Let’s hope it’s enough.” Wilson walked to the door and opened it. “Shall we?”
Jane stood up and followed Wilson out into the warehouse. They could see the giant creature in the far corner of the room. It moved up onto its bird legs.
“He’s seen us,” said Wilson in a hushed tone. “Just walk calmly and quickly towards the trolley. I want you to push it. I’ll need to be free to defend us.”
Jane nodded and followed Wilson towards the trolley. The spider began to strut towards the trolley from the other side of the warehouse. On reaching proximity, the spider dropped back to its spider legs and scuttled to within ten metres. Jane had just reached the trolley when the creature started stalking forward, approaching slowly.
“The door behind me, Miss Goodritch. There’s a ramp beyond. Don’t wait for me.”
Jane turned the trolley and walked briskly for the door. She heard two shots and then Wilson cried out and something solid clattered into the racks. Breaking into a run, she was forced to halt abruptly as the spider dropped down from the racks above and blocked her path to the door. Terror struck her, and her protector was nowhere to be seen. The spider crept forward and its fangs moved ever so slightly. Jane retreated, but the spider kept closing in. She was transfixed by its evil-looking mouth and eyes, and as it rose up to reveal once more its puncturing, paralysis-inducing limb, she nearly fainted. Surely, this time she was finished.
A splash of liquid fell onto the spider from above. Several drums, high up on the racking, were on their side with their contents pouring out onto the beast. A human figure, difficult to perceive in the darkness of the roof, was igniting a small firework with some matches. The fuse fizzed and the firework fell. Before the spider could react, the liquid caught fire and the creature began to thrash in pain.
Jane turned on her heel and ran with the trolley towards the nearest door. She turned the handle and opened the door, pushing the trolley through into better light. There was a ramp down to the lorry park behind the building. She made for one of the large refuse containers and hid both herself and her goods behind it. With her heart pounding and at her wits end, she shuddered violently, the shock hitting her body with a vengeance. She felt a tap on the shoulder and tried to scream, but a hand clapped over her mouth before the sound could leave. Her head turned to see this new threat. She found herself looking at a smiling Wilson.
“Hold this,” he said, handing over the machete. “I think I’ve broken a finger.”
Jane took hold of the weapon and watched as Wilson took some tape from his pocket and taped his middle and ring fingers together.
“Are you okay?” asked Jane.
“Yes, but we need to move. I couldn’t stop the fire spreading. I imagine there will soon be investigations from parties we won’t appreciate. Time to go, Miss Goodritch. Time to go.”
Team Austerley
Austerley was annoyed. Jane had said she would be back in two hours and it was now an hour and a half since she had left. Technically she wasn’t late and he had no right to complain, but he desperately wanted those items. His deductions were complete and he needed the items to proceed further with his investigation. It also bothered him that he was skulking away in another dimension while a plump, middle-aged woman was leading the fight. Although Austerley’s passion for self-preservation was undiminished, his ego was taking a full broadside at this turn of events.
Anyway, thought Austerley, I need a leak, and Havers didn’t put a port-a-potty in this caravanette. The wonders of interspacial dimensions and the absurdity of being somewhere and yet not being there weren’t unnoticed by Austerley, but he had seen so many weird, wonderful and abhorrent sights that basic human functions had begun to outweigh them.
Hopping across the corridor to the door with the little man on it, Austerley entered and decided to sit down for his urination. It was funny how simple things changed just because you had lost an appendage. If they didn’t sort his foot out he sure as hell wasn’t going to stand like a flamenco dancer every time he wanted a piss. Sitting down, he swore at the broken lock and then stared inanely at the message imploring him to wash his hands when he had finished. He grunted. Never had he washed them after a pee. If the whole business was required then yes, but not otherwise. Even in the asylum they had never insisted on it.
Thinking back, he realized how happy he had been there. Yes, they had thought he was mad, but at least they had just wanted to feed him and help him, maybe even play some Scrabble. He used to piss off that nurse, what was her name, Calonoski? Every day she brought in the crossword and he would complete it when she wasn’t looking. Drove her mad. Which was alright, as she was in an asylum.
And the drugs had been good. Some cracking highs, he remembered. Some lows too, but at least they had been able to control his dreams. Actually no, they hadn’t. It was his separation from this dark world that had kept his dreams pure. Well, normal, anyway. Some of the ladies in his dreams were certainly not pure.
Standing on his remaining foot to reach the toilet roll and complete his ablutions, Austerley stopped dead as he heard the door of the museum open. There was no call, no hello, no welcome. It couldn’t be Miss Goodritch. She would have said something. And she would definitely have said something when she reached my hidey-hole and found me absent. Oh, hell.
Austerley was frozen in his standing position, trousers down around his ankles. This was not a heroic moment in anyone’s book. Something was fumbling outside and he heard doors open and close, then the cupboards were opened and he heard a few curses. It didn’t sound like any of the pirates, but Austerley wasn’t for opening the door to find out. If ever he had felt impotent, it was now. Maybe he should pull his trousers up.
The door opened. A bearded face with crusty eyes stared straight at Austerley’s face. Then it scanned him up and down. Then after a “sorry governor, I’ll wait” the door closed again. Pulling his trousers up quickly, Austerley opened the door and tried to grab the man’s shoulder. He missed and fell sprawling across the floor.
Two hands reached under his armpits and dragged Austerley to a chair. The bearded face returned to
Austerley’s eyeline and looked cautiously at him.
“You’re missing a foot.”
The statement was so obvious it caught Austerley unaware. His usual retorts were silenced and all he could do to reply was nod. The tramp lifted Austerley’s leg and examined the stump, showing no signs of embarrassment or humour.
“Did a rat get it?”
Austerley shook his head. “No, not a rat. It was a dragon.”
“He’s round here again. He’s been causing trouble for quite a while,” said the tramp knowingly. “What’s your name?”
“Austerley. I’m Austerley.”
“Parents mustn’t have liked you. Sounds like something a Yank would say by mistake.” The tramp continued his examination of Austerley’s stump.
“Do you have a name?” asked Austerley.
“Yes. Yes, I do. Thanks for asking.”
Austerley was dumbstruck by this response. For a man who could argue the relative merits of dimensional travel, or the intricacies of occult death rituals, these answers were just not acceptable.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking at your foot.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“So why did you ask?”
“I meant what brought you in here?”
“Your foot. I thought that was obvious.”
Austerley’s time inside the asylum had taught him one thing. Madness can often be dealt with only by madness. You had to get inside the other person’s world and stay there to communicate.
“My stump said you would come.”
“It is a splendid stump. I think it probably knows more than it is letting on, governor.”
“It needs your help. I think it wants you to be part of the team.”
“It did tell me that.”
Oh, thought Austerley, this could get complicated if my stump is talking. “I think it wants you to move it around. Did you see the wheelchair?”
