by Cross, Amy
I wait.
All I hear is the scratching of those little spider legs, deep in my sister's gullet.
“Or do only strong people come back after their bodies have died?” I continue. “Perhaps the death of the body only causes the death of the mind in a select few cases. Perhaps someone who is strong, or someone who is angry, can persist in some form?”
Leaning closer to Pippa's face, I listen to the sound of spiders scratching inside her throat. A moment later, I move down and press my ear against her belly, and I realize I can hear more spiders deeper in her body. There must be scores of them now, perhaps as many as a hundred. I suppose they're eating her from the inside, or making nests, or simply seeking heat.
“Perhaps it is too late to apologize to you, Pippa,” I whisper as I sit up, “but to the spiders who are making you their home now, I extend my most profound regret for what I am about to do.”
I hesitate, before reaching down and starting to rip the top of her dress, as a ruffian might if he were seeking to molest her body.
“I just need to make the attack appear more convincing,” I whisper. “You'd understand, I'm sure.”
I finish tearing the dress, and then I pull her undergarments aside to partially expose her bare chest. Taking a stick from the ground, I break it in half and then I use the sharp end to scratch Pippa's flesh. I cut a line up over her pale little breast and toward her collar, and then I cut the other side of her neck. I have to press harder than I'd anticipated, perhaps because she has been dead for several hours, but by the time I'm done she has several scratches that appear – at least to me – rather horrific.
“You shouldn't have made me angry,” I continue, feeling a tightening sensation in my chest. “What did you think would come of that, Pippa? Don't you remember when we were children, and your silly games used to make me become so very...”
I pause, thinking back to those awful times.
“Father chastised me,” I add. “You used to weep when I hit you, and that always caused Father to get angry with me. Which, on balance, was your fault. Sometimes, I think Father began to see me as some kind of monster, but fortunately I was able to change his mind. By the end of his life, Father had taken to me again, and he saw that I was simply strong and you were simply weak. I'm sure he'd accept that I had no choice, dear sister, other than to end your miserable life.”
Again, I leave a moment in which she might reply to me, but in my mind's eye I'm already remembering the days when she and I would play on the lawn. I was only eleven years old when I realized that Father was worried about me dominating my little sister, but I quickly learned how to make him love me again. By the time he died, I know I was his favorite. He preferred me to Pippa, and to Mother too.
“You were very pretty,” I tell Pippa's corpse, as I stare down into her glassy, dead eyes. “Nobody would believe that you'd been killed and not molested in some way. Why, any man who chanced upon you and killed you, would surely have his way after.”
I hesitate again, before reaching down and tearing her dress around the hem, pulling the fabric aside to expose her private parts. I flinch, hating the fact that I'm having to do such a wretched thing, but I know deep down that I cannot afford any half-measures.
“What would a maniac do?” I whisper. “A real madman? A monster?”
I hesitate, before starting to gather a bunch of rotten twigs. I snap the ends off some, and then I add a few more until finally I have a full bouquet of sharp little sticks. I know what I have to do next, although I must confess to some feelings of regret. Pippa had some good qualities, and she wasn't entirely a fool. At the same time, she ultimately let me down rather awfully, and she should have known that my temper would flare. Perhaps she thought age had mellowed me entirely, perhaps she missed the fact that I was constantly having to keep myself under control. If so, she made a fatal miscalculation.
“This,” I tell her finally, “is just for the sake of appearances.
With that, I tighten my grip on the bouquet of twigs, and then I get to work. It takes a few minutes before I'm finished, and then I sit back and stare at the ravages I have caused. More spiders are arriving and crawling into her gaping mouth, and I can hear their little legs scratching all through her insides. Other than that, however, the moonlit scene is rather quiet.
Early the next morning, shortly after Mother has left the house for her morning constitutional, a horrified scream rings out from the forest.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Owen - Today
Opening my eyes, I see the stars bright above me. For a moment, I don't quite remember where I am or how I got here, but finally I realize that I fell from the ruined church.
Suddenly something touches the side of my face. A hand. I try to turn and look to my right, but there's a tight, tense pain in my neck and a moment later I feel another shot of pain arcing through my shoulders.
I let out a gasp, before my eyes slip shut again and I drift back into darkness. Someone's here with me, though. That much is certain. I guess Charlie must have come back. I'm not alone.
***
It's the pain that finally wakes me properly. Searing, agonizing pain that throbs through my left leg and brings me gasping from the depths of unconsciousness. I instinctively try to sit up, only for the pain to flare a thousand times worse, and finally I settle back against the bed.
I try to draw breath, but I can barely get any air into my lungs at all. Instead, all I feel is a thousand tiny blades slicing through my chest, filling my throat with a squirming mass. I tilt my head back, choking hard and trying to cough some of the blades out, and after a moment I feel several tickling sensations scurrying up into my mouth. I cough again, this time managing to blast some of the little creatures onto the inside of my lips, and finally I realize what they are.
Spiders.
Hundreds and hundreds of spiders are crawling through my body. Some are in my lungs, some are in my throat, and some have torn through curtains of meat to get closer to my bones. Still barely able to breathe, I focus on coughing over and over, and each time I manage to bring more and more of the little bastards up into my mouth. I feel fuller than ever, though, and now I'm certain that some of the spiders have even managed to make their way into my bones, where they're digging through the marrow.
“Help me,” I try to gasp, but all I'm able to get out are a few guttural clicks. “Help -”
Suddenly I see her. The bride is sitting next to the bed, staring down at me through her veil. I try to ask her what she's doing, but she seems strangely calm, and after a moment she leans a little closer. I can just about make out her unblinking eyes, and she tilts her head to one side before reaching up with bony, thin-fleshed hands and lifting her veil. Finally I see her wretched, rotten face, with burned patches of skin clinging loosely to the bone beneath. She tilts her head a little more and opens her mouth, revealing rows of discolored teeth, and then she lets out a slow, lilting hiss as she begins to smile.
“No,” I stammer, trying but failing to get up. I cough again, bringing more wriggling spiders into my mouth, but the bride is leaning closer and closer until she presses her lips against mine. It's almost as if she's trying to give me a very delicate, very chaste kiss.
And I can smell her. The stink of decomposing flesh fills my nostrils, bringing me to the point of nausea.
“Please,” I gurgle, “let me out of here...”
“Mine,” she whispers, letting her lips brush once more against mine. “My darling husband. Forever and ever, 'til death do us part.”
“No!” I scream, and suddenly I find the strength to sit up My heart is pounding, but the bride is gone and somehow the light of the room seems different now. I look around, startled, but I can breathe properly and the sensation of spiders in my body is gone. A moment later, I feel something brushing against my lips, and I brush one more spider away.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
Even though I can still feel the pres
sure of her lips against mine, and even though my heart is thumping in my chest, I force myself to focus on the fact that I must have been dreaming.
Nearby, a fire is roaring in the fireplace, filling the otherwise dark room with constantly shifting patterns of light.
I don't remember starting a fire.
I don't even remember coming back into the house, but I guess someone must have carried me. I can feel my head throbbing with each beat of my heart as I sink back down against the bed. I'm far too exhausted to stay sitting up, even for a moment longer.
“Charlie,” I whisper, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Charlie, where are you?”
No reply.
I blink, and for a fraction of a second I think I see the bride's rotten face again. She fades quickly, but the image is enough to send a fresh burst of panic through my chest.
I try to turn my head, but the pain is intense. I take a deep breath, focusing on the fact that I need to see what's happening, and then I try again. This time I force myself to turn until I can see the open doorway, but there's still no sign of anyone. All I see is is the corridor outside, and it's clear that somehow I was carried all the way up the stairs and into my room.
I start coughing briefly, unable to quite forget the sensation of spiders crawling up my throat. I know they weren't real, I know I was just dreaming, but I swear I can almost still feel them.
“Charlie!” I gasp, figuring he must be in the house somewhere. “Charlie, I'm awake!”
I wait, and after a moment I realize I can hear a faint bumping sound far-off in the house. It sounds like somebody is coming up the stairs, but there's no urgency at all.
“Charlie!”
This time I manage to move my left hand down to the side of the bed and start banging my knuckles against the wood. I know he must be able to hear me, and sure enough the footsteps come to a halt. They sounded so close, but there was still no sign of anyone in the empty doorway.
“Charlie, help!” I stammer. “Did you call an ambulance? How long will they be?”
I wait, but now the only sound comes from the roaring, crackling fire on the other side of the room. I'm sure Charlie must be out there in the corridor, but he seems content now to simply wait.
“Charlie, what are you doing?” I continue, trying again to sit up but feeling another rush of pain in my ribs. “Charlie, I'm in agony! Did you call an ambulance or not?”
Again, the only reply is silence.
“This isn't a joke!” I yell, forcing myself onto my side despite the extreme pain in my ribs, legs and feet. I don't know exactly what happened to me when I fell, but I've never been in such agony in all my life and I think I can taste blood at the back of my throat. Reaching for my pocket, I fumble to find my phone, but I guess I must have left it downstairs somewhere.
Looking toward the open door, I listen for any sign that Charlie's still out there.
“Help me!” I gasp. “Charlie, seriously... Charlie!”
I wait.
I swear there's someone in the corridor, but I don't understand why Charlie wouldn't come into the room. He was always something of a joker, but he was never insane and he must realize that I'm in serious trouble. I guess maybe he's trying to prove some kind of point about what happened to him at my bachelor party.
“Charlie, is that you?” I stammer, already feeling weaker. “Whoever you are, can you please come in here? I just need to know that you've called an ambulance. I'm hurt. It's really bad, I can't even walk.”
When he still doesn't reply, I force myself to sit up. Looking down at my left leg, I'm shocked to see that it appears to be broken just below the knee, with a thick patch of blood on the side of my torn trousers. If it's not broken, it's at least fractured. The sight is so horrific, I start trembling slightly, and I can only assume that sheer adrenaline is keeping me from feeling the full brunt of the agony.
“Oh God,” I whisper, trying to keep from panicking as I look around and see that there's nothing on the bedside table other than a glass of water. “Charlie!” I shout. “Charlie, get in here! Charlie, help!”
Hearing a faint whimpering sound nearby, I turn and see for the first time that Bob is here with me. He's in the corner, with his eyes fixed firmly on the door, and a moment later he starts letting out a low, rumbling growl.
“Get help!” I stammer. “Bob, help me, please...”
My voice fades off as I realize that there's no way he can possibly do anything. He's not goddamn Lassie. Figuring that I need to get out of this room, I look around for a moment longer before realizing that there's only one option. Reaching over the side of the bed, I suppose myself on my trembling arms and then I start slowly lowering myself onto the floor. The pain is intense, and I know it'll feel much worse when I start bringing my left leg down, but I can't just stay here in the room and hope for the best.
“Please don't hurt too much,” I whisper, as I prepare to move my leg. “Come on, please...”
I count to three, and then I start swinging my broken leg off the bed. The pain is shocking, causing me to cry out, but I keep going until it bumps down against the boards and a whole new wave of agony surges through my body. Sobbing and whimpering, I roll onto my side, desperately trying to find a position that'll lessen the pain, but if anything the agony is getting worse and worse. Tears are streaming down my face now and I'm worried I might black out at any moment, but I know I have to keep going.
“Charlie, help me,” I sob, hoping against hope that there's been some huge misunderstanding and he's going to rush into the room at any moment. “Charlie, I'm in real trouble here. Charlie, I'm sorry for everything I said and I'm sorry for what happened at the bachelor party, but I need your help right now. If you can do anything, even if it's just bringing my phone to me, I'm begging you...”
I wait. Even though I can tell someone's out there in the corridor, it's clear that Charlie isn't going to do anything.
“I'm sorry,” I whimper, still hoping that he might be able to hear me. “Charlie, I'm so sorry. I know it's my fault, I know you have every right to hate me. Maybe I never had to face the consequences of my actions, but I'm dying here. I need you...”
He's doing this on purpose.
He has to be.
This is his way of getting back at me. People told me over and over again that I shouldn't blame myself, but deep down I've always known that it was my fault. Even Charlie himself insisted that I did nothing wrong, and I guess over time I actually came to believe him. Now it's clear that he was just biding his time, just waiting for a situation to arise so that he could make me pay.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the pain to come.
“I'm not going to just sit here,” I tell him, convinced that he's out in the corridor and that he can hear me. “I can't just stay in this room and wait to die!”
The fire is still burning, but the rest of the house seems completely quiet.
Closing my eyes, I start counting down from ten. In a strange way, it helps to know that the pain is inevitable. It's not like I need to waste any time trying to avoid the pain, so instead I just have to focus on getting through it. By the time I've counted to five, I feel ready to at least haul myself into the corridor, and by three I'm tempted to start early. I wait a moment longer, however, until finally I get to one and I haul myself forward, roaring as my damaged leg drags against the wooden floorboards.
No matter how much I want to stop, I keep going until I'm out in the corridor and then I slump down, desperately trying to get my breath back.
“Help me,” I whisper, before looking toward the stairs.
There's no-one out here.
I turn and look the other way, but I'm all alone. Either I was wrong earlier, or Charlie managed to sneak away when he realized I was on the move. Maybe he wants to do more than watch me suffer; maybe he wants to prolong my agony and really make me pay. Maybe I've been abandoned now. If that's the case, I could die here.
“Help!” I scream, starti
ng to feel dizzy again. My eyesight is getting blurry, and I'm not sure I have the strength to keep going, but I know I can't afford to pass out now.
Reaching forward, I start dragging myself along the corridor, heading toward the top of the stairs. I try to use the pain as fuel, refusing to give myself a break, but finally I slump back down and let out another gasp. I can feel myself losing consciousness again, and this time I'm not strong enough to fight back. Finally I turn and look at my damaged leg, and I see that there's a lot of blood smeared behind me.
I can't do this.
I'll never make it.
And with that, I let my head drop until my face bumps against the floorboards. I barely even have the strength to take another breath.
***
Suddenly letting out an agonized scream, I jolt awake and try to sit up. My left leg is agony, burning through my body. I'm back on the bed, and somebody is clutching my leg with one hand just below the knee and the other a little further down.
My vision is too blurred for me to see properly, even when I squint.
“Charlie,” I gasp, “is that you? Are you trying to -”
Before I can get another word out, my leg is snapped together and I let out a gasp of pain. Slumping back against the bed, I start shuddering as the agony gets worse and worse. Hands are still holding my leg firmly, with grim and unrelenting determination, and I can't even begin to fight back as sweat pours down my face. The pain is flooding my mind, and all I can do is scream.
***
The fire is still burning as I open my eyes. The room is warm and quiet, and strangely calm, although I can already feel a hot, sore pain returning to my left leg. Still, the agony is less intense than before, and after a moment I manage to sit up.
My leg has been bandaged.
“What the...”
I pause for a moment, before looking at the bedside table and seeing that there are three tins of beans, along with a can-opener and a packet of paracetamol. The water from before is still there, too, and there's a big glass of whiskey filled almost to the brim.