When I arrive in the library upstairs, I have still seen nothing unusual. I walk through the shelves and select a medical dictionary. I sit on the floor in the aisle, leaning back against the books, and scan through the heavy tome. It’s boring reading, as you would expect, but I do flip to a chapter about cancer. The compound used in all cancer treatments, which apparently cure all cancers, is called ecstonium. I’ve never heard of it. The medical dictionary doesn’t explain where it comes from.
I sit the book next to me on the aging carpet, left open at the relevant page. I stand up and search for books on geology or chemistry. Two aisles over there’s a long set of large books called Coombes’ Encyclopaedia. I pull the volume labelled ‘E’ from the shelf and again sit down, opening it to the index.
I hear something. At first I think it was the book making a strained, crisp note as it was opened. It may not have been read for a long time. But once the book is open, I hear the sound again. It’s a light tapping that sounds like paper on paper. It’s above me.
I look up. There’s nothing there. But then I hear it again. It’s above my left shoulder. I get to my feet and spin around, staring through the bookshelf. Nothing. I’m frozen, looking back and forth, my senses bolt upright and completely alert. Seconds tick past in my isolated surroundings and it dawns on me that I’m foolish for returning here. Roy conveyed the danger of these arachnids. I cannot be so reckless. There is too much at stake for me to risk my safety.
I step to my left, heading for the end of the aisle. I hear the sound again. A patter of feet. Scurrying. Then I hear a horrifying sound. The hairs on my arms are electrified. It’s a soft whistle, followed by an equally hushed whisper. Almost human. I can’t make out the words but there is an audible mumbling. The specific words elude me. Then another whistle. I still can’t see the source of the noise.
From the rows of bookshelves behind me comes more scurrying. Light tapping. Something moving at speed. I turn sideways, keeping both noises in my periphery. I back towards the end of the aisle that’s closest to the exit. As I round the end of the bookshelves I still can’t see anything. My heart racing, I begin to wonder if my imagination is conjuring this apparent danger. I take a deep breath and turn toward the open double doors of the room’s entrance. I’ll head into the hall, down the stairs and out of the building. I’ll find one of the city’s welcoming homeless shelters.
But then I see something that fills my body with dread. Something borne of nightmares. A shape is moving across the ceiling in the hall. Moving towards the library’s entrance. Like something from the depths of our darkest fears, an upside down creature slowly steps across the top of the room’s entrance, one long leg at a time. A spider, surely six feet wide in leg span, glides effortless across the ceiling. I can’t move for fear, but when I hear sounds behind me, whispered footsteps, I don’t turn. I dash to the open kitchenette to my left and slam the door behind me.
Frantic and pulsing with adrenaline, I find the light and illuminate the room. No arachnids. Just a plain, dusty kitchen. I lock the door and back away from it, hoping that it’s enough to protect me.
The sound of spindled feet tap slowly at the door, mimicking a human’s casual knock. I jump on to the kitchen bench and press against the corner. I then sit down and bring my knees to my chest. A huddled ball. The precise, sinister taps become more frustrated and frenetic. They become heavier, multiplying in eagerness. Maybe dozens of legs. They must be hungry.
I don’t feel any safer on the counter, curled in the corner, as I’m sure the spiders won’t struggle to overcome a metre-high bench. But a heightened attacking position is said to be better than a lower one. I spare a glance for the metal bars on the outside of the kitchen’s only window.
As images of being strung up and eaten alive by giant spiders become more apparent in my mind’s eye, the tapping stops. Instantly. It’s as if someone has muted all sound. I allow a few minutes to pass and the thought of opening the door and making a run for it seems like a possibility. But how do I know they’re not lying in wait? They’ve probably stretched a web behind the door. Even the relatively small spiders on Earth are still remarkably conniving when it comes to capturing prey. It’s instinctive. Killing is scrawled in their genetic code. These bigger creatures of Heaven, with their proportionally larger brains, must be accomplished in murder.
I let time pass. Maybe ten minutes. No more sounds come from the kitchen door. I decide to at least open it ajar and peer out. As I lower my legs over the edge of the counter to drop to the floor, it feels as if the bench beneath me shifts. As if it has moved with my weight. Out of inane curiosity, I rock my body to see if the bench is loose. But it’s not. A weight scurries beneath me. There’s something in the bench.
Recoiling, I jump to my feet on the counter. Four of the bench’s doors are forced open and giant spiders pour into the room, each of them easily a metre in diametre. Their bodies are almost black, mottled with orange-coloured flecks and as big as hors d’eurve platters. More cupboards are knocked open, right along the bench’s length, and extra arachnids step out. They completely cover the floor, moving up the walls and on to the ceiling. Each creature has a dozen dark, bottomless eyes. Cold and unreadable. There is a pair of black, obsidian fangs that jut below their head, like two daggers on each side of the mouth.
The realisation that I am going to die quite an extraordinary and horrible death inebriates me. I’m splintered between the desire to fight honourably or just close my eyes and pray that the end is swift.
The air is filled with the same soft whispers that I heard outside the kitchenette. It’s as if angels are mouthing soothing words of comfort. But while I can’t make exact sense of their murmuring, the chattered noise that these chill-inducing aliens emit sounds decidedly like English. They’re saying something that few humans probably live long enough to decipher.
I’m pressed into the corner. While I don’t count precise numbers, there must be fifty of them in my vicinity now, covering the ceiling, floor and walls. A dark, writhing renovation that whispers and taps with long, jagged spindles. Whispering. Hushed menace. One of them is covering the round fluorescent light in the middle of the ceiling, darkening the room and throwing an eight-legged shadow across the backs of the horrid creatures below. A particularly large arachnid is on the roof, upside down, no more than two feet from my face. Like the rest it shifts back and forth, just staring and examining with its polished gemstone eyes. I look at its furry mouth opening, which resembles the brush accessory you put on the end of a vacuum cleaner.
I slowly raise my fists in a defensive stance, deciding that if I can kick and punch quickly enough from my corner then I might have the strength to scatter them. But I am greatly outnumbered.
The closest arachnid creeps nearer and I brace, expecting it to lead the charge. But then I hear its whisper. This time I understand what it says. It’s softly spoken, but clear. It’s a gentle, child-like inquiry.
“What … are you?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Natalie drops me off in the alley behind my building. Before leaving the Pluie Tordue she instructed me to act normally inside my apartment. Apparently my home is not as private as I thought. It’s possible that they’re listening or watching me. Natalie says she will be in touch very soon. She gives me a safe number, on which I can privately message her, and drives away in my new car.
I let myself in through a small fire exit and take the stairs to the third storey, where I enter an elevator to the top floor. It’s near sunsrise, so I close the curtains in my bedroom and crawl on to the mattress. While my mind races for an hour or so, I do manage to fall asleep.
I wake to a voice. A soft female whisper. “Jack… Jack.” When my eyelids part I see the dying glow of the suns behind the blinds, registering as dusk. Sprawled on my stomach, under the blanket, I listen, waiting for the voice to return. A minute passes and I assume I’ve been dreaming.
But then, as clear as the chirp of the traffic below,
I hear a woman’s voice whisper, “Jack…”
I flip over, perched on my elbows. The shape of a woman stands at the end of the bed. Long blonde hair and a slender frame. I squint hard as the shape speaks again.
“I’m sorry to startle you,” says the woman, as she slowly steps around the side of the bed, moving toward me.
It’s Stephanie. She wears a silk robe pulled tight at the neck.
“Steph, hi…” I mumble, my brain still uncoiling and stretching from its subconscious state. “What brings you here? Was my door unlocked?”
“They let me in,” she smiles, still whispering. “They said you would want to see me. To approve and anoint me.”
“Oh… okay,” I say. “But I’ve always approved of you. You don’t need further approval… do you?”
“I do,” she smiles, reaching for the silk cord that synchs the garment at her waist. She slowly pulls on the knot and it unties. “I need for you to take me one last time.”
“I’m sure that you don’t.”
“Do you want to see my transformation?” asks Stephanie.
I can’t exactly say no. “Alright.”
In the dim light the corners of Stephanie’s lips curl in the hint of a smile. I lean over and switch on the bedside lamp. She slowly pulls open her robe, teasing it wider until it slips from her shoulders and cascades to the floor. Shock surges through me. My mouth open, I stare at her naked body. Her soft pale skin from collarbone to shoulders and down to her groin has been tattooed. Intricate, dense and demented imagery has been indelibly penned on her young body. There must be thousands of pictures within the tapestry of black ink, which hasn’t spared a single square inch of her torso.
“Do you not approve?” asks Stephanie, her face now tinged with disappointment and fear.
“No, of course I do,” I reassure her, forcing a smile. “Will you turn around?”
Stephanie smiles at my interest and raises her arms, slowly turning. The tattoo continues around to her back, up to the base of her neck and down across her buttocks, ending at the tops of her thighs. They’ve completely defaced her.
Stephanie completes her rotation and I beckon for her to lie next to me on the bed. She eases on to the mattress. When she’s close enough, I reach out and place a hand on her hip, pulling her against me. As her head hits the pillow I kiss her and Stephanie wraps her arms around my neck, holding me with thankfulness and relief.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, running my fingertips across her stomach.
“It hurts less every day,” she replies. “But it ached a lot when it was finished.”
“You’re very brave to go through with this,” I smile. “It must have been excruciating.”
“I wasn’t awake for most of it,” she replies, sheepishly.
“That’s okay. No shame in that.”
Stephanie beams at my comment. “I feel so safe with you,” she says. “I feel like nothing can happen to me when I’m around you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, of course,” she says, running a hand through my hair. “You brought me back to life. You delivered me from the arms of death.”
“I suppose I did,” I say.
“Now I hope that you will create new life with me. A new life inside me,” she whispers.
“Really?”
“I am a vessel for your bloodline. I am ready to carry your child.”
I smile at Stephanie, but my heart fills with sadness. If I had become involved in this dark chain of events sooner, I could have saved this girl’s susceptible soul.
“Stephanie, who let you into my apartment?”
“Just one of the guards,” she says.
“Guards? Do you mean the men in the lobby?”
“Yes, the guardians of The Disciplinary.”
“The men with the jackets? In the foyer of this building?”
“Yes…?”
“The Disciplinary?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you have this tattoo drawn?” I ask.
“Here.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“In The Disciplinary?”
“Yes… is something wrong?”
“No,” I smile, reassuringly. “No, everything is perfect, Stephanie.”
“Oh… good,” she says, uncertain.
“Any particular floor?”
“I was on the twelfth floor,” she smiles.
“Excellent,” I reply. “Now before I… I mean, before we… create a life together, I’m going to fix us a drink.”
“Okay,” Stephanie replies.
I crawl out of bed, leaving my visitor naked under the covers, and venture to the kitchen where I find a bottle of my strongest spirit. I then fill two glasses with ice and pour the spirit over the cubes. I open the cabinet where I keep my medicinal supplies and locate a tranquiliser. It’s a small white pill. It knocks its consumer straight out. I drop one into Stephanie’s drink and stir it with a small straw.
In the bedroom I toast to our romantic engagement and suggest that we waste no time in finishing our drinks. Stephanie, now sitting up in bed, removes her straw and takes a long sip on her beverage. She then swallows before taking another final gulp. Only ice is left in her glass.
“Wow, that’s very strong,” she says.
“It’s good, isn’t it,” I say.
“Yes…” says Stephanie. Her eyes linger on me for a moment before they slowly close. I take the glass from her delicate hand. A second later she slumps forward, folding over. I place our glasses on my bedside dresser and position her so she’s lying down, flat on her back, a single pillow propped under her head. I then check her pulse, which is slow and steady, and I watch her chest rise and fall.
I slide open my wardrobe and quickly pull on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, jacket and slip-on shoes.
All of the apartment doors on floor twelve look the same. I put my ear to each. No sound strikes me as unusual. I can hear televisions. Some music. People talking. Some are silent. I tread carefully on the soft carpet of the hallway. I pass a mirror on the wall, glancing at myself, eyeing my slender, but volatile, frame, poised for an unseen threat. I walk past another half a dozen doors, stopping to listen at each. There’s something different about the door at the end of the corridor. Like every other entrance, it has a spyhole. But this door has a second spyhole about one metre from the ground. A similar height to that of my neighbour.
I reach the door and crouch to listen. I can hear some muffled talking. Perhaps a female whimper. Then I hear a buzzing sound. A faint vibration. Barely audible. I decide to knock. Three sharp taps with my knuckle. I stand back so I am visible through both spyholes.
Silence. It’s as if the hallway has inhaled and held its breath. Finally there is a clicking sound and the door opens a fraction. There is no light inside the apartment apart from a dim red glow. A small shape, just a shadow appears around the open door.
“Hello, friend,” I smile.
Mr Roeg doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at me with his beady eyes.
“Jack,” says Mr Roeg, quietly, the high-pitched nasal tone of his voice unmistakable. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I thought I’d come down and surprise you.”
Mr Roeg remains behind the door, peering up at me. “Did… Stephanie tell you I was here?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “I heard a voice. I was just asleep and… my father told me to go down to floor twelve.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“He spoke to you?”
“Sure did. He’s not far away now.”
“Oh,” says Mr Roeg. He stands aside, the door creeping open. “Then you should come inside.”
I step into a hallway. Most of the lights in the apartment are out. At the end of the corridor is a living room and there’s a red lamp illuminating some furniture. A lounge. A coffee table. There’s soft carpet beneath my feet. Most of the doors in the hall are shut. One has a light
escaping its edges. Bright white lines, as if there’s a bathroom on the other side.
Mr Roeg walks somewhere behind me. “What else did your father say?” he asks.
I turn around and kneel, so that we are at eye level. “I heard his voice in my dream. I was lying under the suns and his words hummed all around me, clear as blue sky.”
“What… what did he say?” asks my stout host.
“Mr Roeg,” I smile. “He told me that judgement is coming. But it could not be him who has the final word on our souls. He said that it had to be me.”
“You?”
“Yes,” I reply, putting a hand on Mr Roeg’s tiny shoulder. “It is up to me to separate the insincere from those who are pure and ready.”
A young, female voice from behind the bathroom door, says, “Jack, is that you?”
I stand and slowly turn the handle. The door to the bathroom opens, the brilliant white light widening in an arc. Britney is lying in a bathtub, submerged to her collarbone. Her smiling cherub face looks up at me, floating clouds of suds protecting the most crucial aspects of her modesty.
“Britney,” I smile.
“I thought I heard your voice,” she says. “Are you here for moral support?”
“Moral support,” I say. “Indeed, I am. Mr Roeg and I were just discussing something. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Be quick,” says Britney. “My fingers are beginning to shrivel.”
I close the door.
I walk to the end of the hallway, into the living room. I look down to my left and there is a mattress on the carpet. On the mattress is a naked girl on her back, the third missing girl, asleep. Void of pubic hair. There’s a black tattoo, new and raw, on her left shoulder, creeping its way down her chest. Unfinished. Next to the mattress is a small metal contraption that I assume is a tattoo pen.
“You’re quite an artist, Mr Roeg,” I say.
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