The Spider Children (The Warren Brood Book 1)

by Bartholomew Lander

  “Oh!” Kara said. “I can show you!” Before anyone could ask what she meant, she darted out the door. The confusion from the ambiguous exclamation lasted only a few short moments, as she soon returned at a brisk half-scuttle. She stopped with a surprising grace and a bright smile. She looked up at Arthr and held out a ragged, torn piece of fabric.

  When Spinneretta laid her eyes on the fabric, an icy tremor seized hold of her. It was a dark, ugly mustard yellow. It was, without a doubt, the exact same shade as the coat worn by that man six years prior. Compared to her certainty of that fact, her entire reality was subjective and ephemeral. But there was something far more disturbing than the mere color of the cloth, more troubling than the grim nostalgia it invoked, or even the suggestive savagery of its torn edges. “Kara, why do you have that?”

  “Because I like the way it feels?” To demonstrate her point, three of her legs curled and began raking their tips across the taut surface of the course material.

  “No,” Spinneretta said, a note of apprehension ringing in her voice. “I mean why do you have that?”

  Mark must have caught her meaning as well, for he turned his full attention to the small girl.

  Arthr’s expression, too, shifted to unease. “Yeah, why do you . . . If you slipped away while he was on the phone like Mom said, then . . . ”

  A look of panic bloomed on Kara’s face. “Oh!” The color faded from her cheeks. Her eyelids flickered, her gaze darting back and forth between the three pairs of eyes on her. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked down sheepishly. “I sort of lied. Because I knew Mom would be mad.”

  “You lied?” Arthr said. “About what?”

  “The man.” Legs fidgeting, she squeezed the strip of fabric between her fingers.

  A quiet moment followed. Mark slipped off the bed and crouched, bringing his gaze level with Kara’s. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  She looked at him, uncertainty plastered all over her innocent face. “Okay,” she whispered. “But you have to promise not to tell Mom!”

  Spinneretta’s imagination began weaving its own conclusions, and the pit of her stomach crawled with a thick malaise. Her gaze met Arthr’s in silent accord.

  Kara then recounted, from the beginning, the story of her encounter. In an innocent tone, she told of the taking, and then of the reversal. Spinneretta could only listen, in shock, as her sister described how she’d driven her leg through his hand. How she’d broken his other hand with one flail of her appendages. And finally, how she’d torn off a strip of his jacket as a souvenir.

  After Kara finished her tale, it was Arthr who broke the silent tension. “Kara, what the hell is wrong with you?” he said. “You can’t just do shit like that!”

  Kara flinched at the point of his tongue, that same sheepish look coming over her. “I know, I know, please don’t tell Mom!”

  “No, this isn’t a matter of telling Mom or not. This is a matter of something being seriously wrong with you! How could you do something like that to another human being!?”

  At this, Kara’s meekness departed. She looked Arthr in the eyes, an aura of calm certainty coming over her. “What? But I’m not human.”

  Arthr grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t say things like that!”

  Spinneretta stepped toward the two of them. “Arthr, keep it down! There’s no need to—”

  “Your sister and I have made it this far in our lives by fitting in,” Arthr shouted, “not by fucking mutilating people! Now listen, Kara.” He fought her as she tried to pull away from him. He lunged forward and seized her by the shoulders. “I don’t know what made you think you could do something like that, but you can never do anything like that again. Ever. You can’t do that shit. There’s a line between what’s acceptable behavior and what’s not, and that’s way, way, way over that line. Do you understand me?!”

  Spinneretta had never seen or heard Arthr take anything so seriously in her life. While the revelation of Kara’s brutal experience was indeed disturbing, it was somehow more disturbing to see Arthr’s reaction. Here was a sweet, innocent child who had brought them the yellow scrap of fabric and reluctantly told them the gospel truth. Before her eyes, Spinneretta saw that angel break and begin to cry.

  “Don’t you cry after that,” Arthr said. “Don’t act like the victim. God help you if you’re going to act like the victim after you fucking tortured—”

  “That’s enough,” Spinneretta said, moving to her sister’s side. “Are you seriously going to throw away all your sympathy for what happened because of this, even after you had the nerve to give me shit about leaving on Friday?”

  Arthr glared at her, lips twisting in an incredulous scowl. “Are you fucking with me, Spins? You don’t see the problem with this kind of psychopathic behavior?”

  She clenched her teeth, the sound of Kara’s sobs flashing her blood to a boil. “I see the problem, but all you’re doing is making things worse. If you’re going to vomit up some fitting in bullshit, then perhaps you’d like to remind yourself that fitting in while being kidnapped is suicide! Would you preserve social order and have her stay nice and quiet instead of yelling for help or, God forbid, actually defending herself?”

  His fists were balled, and his upper lip quivered. “It was never about defending herself! It was nothing but a game to her. She could have left anytime she wanted to, but instead she mutilated him. Don’t you understand what could happen to her—to us—if she does something like this again? Not to mention all the things psychologically fucked up about it. You can talk all you want about self-defense but what do you think a judge would say about torturing an offender in so-called self-defense?”

  “Look, I don’t agree with the extent of what she did either,” Spinneretta said, putting an arm around Kara’s trembling frame. “But the answer isn’t screaming in her ear about it! And if something like this ever happens again—”

  “If something happens again, I’ll give her permission to be a fucking monster.”

  Spinneretta sputtered. “Do you even think before you open your damn mouth? If it’s between her safety and—”

  “Will you drop the safety angle already? She didn’t have to take it as far as—”

  “Just shut up and listen to me, goddammit! If you freak out about things like this and call her things like monster then I can guarantee your little tirade here is going to backfire. And there’s no reason to bring monster accusations into this. It’s pointless to try to shame her for what nature made her.”

  “Oh, that’s fucking rich,” Arthr said, face growing red. “I don’t want to hear that shit coming from you. You won’t even go outside without a jacket covering your legs. If I have to shame her to protect her, then so be it. You’re a hypocrite if you’re going to defend that shit when you’re too ashamed of yourself to even—”

  Spinneretta snapped. She lunged forward and grabbed Arthr by the collar of his shirt and shoved him, with a rare severity of force, against the wall beside her bookcase. She drew her lips back in a menacing scowl. “What the fuck do you know about me, Arthr?! Do you have any idea what—”

  He grabbed her arm. His spider legs tangled with her own. “Let go of me!”

  “—I’ve been through? No, you wouldn’t, because you’re too self-absorbed to give a damn about anyone other than yourself! You don’t even care that Kara could have been killed! I bet you’re more concerned that word of what she did could get out and impact your precious reputation.”

  “I said let go of me!” He threw his weight forward, and Spinneretta stumbled back from the impact.

  As she regained her footing, she caught sight of Arthr’s body twisting toward her, fist drawn back. She staggered backward and avoided the punch. In utter disbelief, she watched in slow motion as Arthr’s face contorted in horror and regret. In the heat of the moment, he must have let instinct take over. But that thought was still moments away, for she was still in the heat of her own moment. A trace of murderous, instinctual adrenaline se
eped into her blood, burning her skin and sharpening her senses. Temper flaring, she surged toward Arthr. “I’m going to tear your legs off you—”

  “Stop it already!”

  A dark wall fell between her and Arthr. Crashing into Mark’s shoulder dazed her, and her spider legs clung to his frame for balance. One of Mark’s arms whipped up from below and shoved her away, while his other held Arthr in place.

  “You are both acting like infants,” Mark spat. “Neither of you are helping anything. Just stop it.”

  As Spinneretta recovered from the push, she took a deep breath. Now back in control, she was able to fight away the impulsive adrenal haze, but not the fury. She glared at Arthr as the burn of her skin dissipated. He wore a penitent look, but the nebulous anger still seething in his eyes undermined the sincerity of that implied apology.

  After a moment of disquiet, Arthr scowled again and shoved Mark’s arm away from him. “Whatever. Do what you want,” he said, stomping toward the door. “Teach her that killing is okay. Teach her to worship Hitler for all I care.” He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving an electrical silence.

  Mark sighed and stood from his hunched posture. He walked over and patted Spinneretta gently on the shoulder. “Forgive me for pushing you.”

  Face blazing, still short of breath, she started. “Uh? It’s f-fine.”

  Kara had ceased crying, too shocked by the radical escalation of tension in the room to continue. Mark slipped toward her and then sank to one knee. “I thank you for telling us the truth, Kara. It was very helpful, and I promise I won’t tell your mother about this. It’s not your fault. I’d like to ask a favor, if you do not mind.”

  The girl hesitated, and then nodded in approval.

  “Do you think you could take me to where this fight occurred?”

  Chapter 9

  All It Seems

  The weather forecast was reporting an unseasonable drop in temperature in the next week, but for now it still felt like spring beneath the midday sun. As Spinneretta walked with Mark and Kara along the sparsely inhabited woods leading into town, they spoke little. Kara’s bouncy steps matched the rhythm of some song she kept humming. It sounded vaguely familiar; Spinneretta thought it sounded like one of the jump rope songs she used to sing with Amanda and Chelsea back in elementary school.

  “Hey, Mark,” Kara said, breaking rhythm. “Can we get ice cream on the way back?”

  He glanced over at her with a confused expression. “Uhh. I don’t know. Would your mother allow you to get ice cream?”

  She clasped her hands together, her appendages kicking in all directions. “Yes!”

  Spinneretta looked off into the trees and sniffed once. “Not this early in the day she wouldn’t.”

  Kara snapped her head over her shoulder. “Shut up!”

  “You know Mom will have a meltdown if you ruin your appetite.”

  “Will not!”

  Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please, I believe we’ve all had enough pointless bickering for the day. I’ll take you for ice cream sometime when your mother approves of it. Alright?”

  Kara crossed her arms and legs in an exaggerated pout. “Fine.”

  Spinneretta’s steps slowed a little, and she found herself glaring at the back of Mark’s head. “You don’t need to spoil her, you know.”

  He looked back at her. “What? Do you want an ice cream, too?”

  “Th-that’s not the issue!”

  “Then please, just calm down. Take a deep breath. Save your anger for your brother if you must.”

  Her lip was twitching. She knew she was just taking her Arthr-anger out on whoever happened to be around. As bad as acknowledging that fact was, being called out on it was worse. She felt her neck and cheeks brightening, and so she kept her head down and her mouth shut as they made their way toward Peninsula Park. Once they reached the main avenue of town, they turned off Alice Street and Kara began leading the way. It took another twenty minutes to reach the storefronts by the park.

  The quaint businesses of downtown Grantwood ended abruptly. On one side of the street, a pair of competing barbers were flying sales banners, and a convenience store with sun-bleached energy drink posters sat in quiet content. Though they were not much to look at, they were opulent palaces compared to the atrocities peeking out from the trees across the road. Old, brick-laden structures, shifted in their rotten foundations, stood in tightly packed rows that vanished deeper into the woods. The windows and doors were boarded up with wood that looked older than literature itself, their rusted nails little more than dark splotches ringed by charcoal-gray splinters. The area always gave Spinneretta the chills, and a look at Mark’s tense posture suggested he wasn’t much warmer.

  “What happened to these stores?” he asked, looking back at the neat shops behind them.

  Kara hopped ahead toward the shade, headed for a narrow alleyway between two of the stout old buildings. “Come on, let’s go!”

  Mark stared after her. “Go . . . where?”

  “There’s a bunch of alleys back there,” Spinneretta said. “Although . . . ” On a paranoid impulse, she glanced up and down the street. Nobody was around, but she was still nervous about sneaking into the cluster of abandoned shops.

  Ahead in the shade, Kara sidled between two thick pines and beckoned toward them with her spider legs. “Hurry up!”

  Hesitating, Mark followed. Spinneretta gave another apprehensive glance around and then set off after her sister’s retreating back. She slid through the gap in the pines without the same grace Kara had, and then stumbled over a hidden root before she made it to the alleyway’s mold-reeking mouth. The trees growing around and between the buildings blanketed them in a cool shade unbroken by the high midday sun, and as they pushed on Spinneretta felt a chill despite her jacket.

  They followed Kara, taking random turns along the branching alleys. Mark kept looking to and fro, befuddlement pulling his eyebrows toward his hairline. “This area is awfully desolate,” he said.

  Spinneretta fell in beside him and craned her head, listening for footsteps. “This is the edge of Old Town. Technically we’re trespassing by being here.”

  Mark coughed and wrinkled his nose. “Old Town?”

  “Old Grantwood. The town was originally founded in the hills to the east around some old silver mines.” She made a vague gesture toward where she thought east was. “The whole place was abandoned back in the seventies.”

  Mark snapped his head toward her. “The whole town was abandoned? What happened?”

  “The Norwegian Killer happened.”

  “The what?”

  She wheeled in front of him, her feet shuffling backward. “Bullshit, I don’t believe you. The Norwegian Killer is, like, the fifth most prolific serial killer by confirmed body count in the whole country. Not knowing about the Golmont Corporation is one thing but . . . ” Realizing that it was a pointless conversation, she rolled her eyes and turned back around. “Oh, forget it. Anyway, he kidnapped and murdered a bunch of people from Old Town and Widow’s Creek. Twenty-seven confirmed victims, and another twenty-four that were never found but that he took credit for. It was really hard to get cars up to Old Town proper because of the lack of roads, so the police couldn’t really protect anyone. Eventually, everyone just abandoned it and moved down toward the new center of town.”

  He hummed as he studied a crumbling plaster wall to the left. “These stores don’t seem so difficult to reach. Why were these abandoned?”

  “Well, Francis Parson’s estate ended up buying up all the land in Old Town for preservation, and to soften the financial burden on the families. I think these shops just ended up on the wrong side of the line.” She crossed her arms, now undeniably cold from the encompassing shade. “Parson’s heirs are a bit less interested in preserving the old culture than they are in going after trespassers these days, though.”

  “Hmm. I’ve been wondering who this Parson character was. And so this famous Grove of his i
ncludes Old Grantwood?”

  “No, Parson’s Grove refers to the northern woods.” She again gestured in what was ultimately a random direction. “That land was owned by the family well before the Norwegian Killer. There’s pretty much nothing out there, though. Well, except for—”

  “Here we are!” came Kara’s voice from around the next corner.

  Apprehension frothing in her stomach, Spinneretta dropped her lecture and hastened her steps toward the intersection. Rounding the last turn, they stopped in a particularly musty cleft of the shaded alleys, beside an overturned trash can devoured by rust.

  As Mark came around the corner, he gave Kara a warm smile. “Good job, Kara. You have a very good memory.”

  Kara giggled at the praise. She all but bounced over to Spinneretta and assaulted her with a violent hug.

  But that hug failed to distract Spinneretta from the sight. Her eyes danced between the corners of that chilled grave, picking up fragments of the story with each movement. Blood was streaked across the ground and splattered against one of the brick walls. Smashed shards of metal and plastic lay scattered upon the cracked pavement. She knew at once they had belonged to the cellphone that Kara destroyed with one thrust of her leg. But while the gleam of the metal debris had caught her eye, it was a different shimmer that now held her gaze and halted her breath. Though the deep shade dimmed the metal cylinders’ luster, there was no questioning that what lay alongside the shattered phone were spent bullet casings.

  Spinneretta grabbed Kara by her shoulders. “Kara,” she said, her stomach twisting into painful knots. “The man . . . He had a gun, didn’t he?”

  Kara’s confused expression shifted to fear. “Oh. Yeah, he did.”

  That single omission from her sister’s story was far worse than the content had been. Almost unable to breathe, Spinneretta ground her molars. “Kara, never, ever, ever do something like this again! Never! I mean it!”

  Kara frowned. Her legs curled up in a feeble posture as she lowered her eyes. “You’re mad at me, too?”