Still without reply, he walked into the sitting room, his heart fluttering as wildly as his mind raced with ideas, speculation and possibilities, none of which explained the dead cat in the kitchen. It was then that his curiosity morphed into fear.
The room was perfectly normal, perfectly clean and tidy and as it had been that morning, apart from the string of dead blackbirds on the wall. There were three of them strung across the chimney breast. They had been threaded through the neck and hung in the same way that they hung their Christmas cards, the scrawny bodies hanging limp and broken as Mannering stared at them.
He opened his mouth and then snapped it closed. He had intended to call out to his wife again, but then had decided against it, because now in light of everything, he wasn’t so sure he wanted her to know he was here. He felt almost like an intruder, like he had transgressed on some secret ritual meant for her eyes only. He thought about how long this could have been happening. How many of those Monday to Friday eight to six shifts had been consumed by this…whatever it was.
As he considered that idea, other things started to fall into place, things which up until then, hadn’t registered. The way she always insisted he call before he left the office. He had always assumed it was just something she did to know that he was coming home, but now he wondered if it was to give her time to hide away her… displays. The more he considered it, the more he thought it could be a valid point. It was just after eleven in the morning, and he should be at work. It was her time, time which he shouldn’t be encroaching on. If only the office hadn’t had a power outage and sent everyone home, then he would still be there and not a witness to the disturbing happenings in his house. Because it had been both sudden and a situation out of the ordinary, he hadn’t called home and now he had discovered… whatever it was that he had discovered. The disturbing display had also made him consider the fact that – as ashamed as he was to admit it - he knew nothing about what his wife did with her spare time. Nothing at all. As far he knew she had no hobbies, no real friends. Her entire life, as he knew it, was spent within these four walls keeping their home clean and tidy and running smoothly.
Could that be it? Could the years of isolation and loneliness have broken something in Alice’s mind to make her believe that such repulsive things as killing animals was acceptable? He couldn’t bear to think about it anymore, and pushed the idea to the back of his mind, knowing that he needed everything to rationalise and deal with the unique and frightening situation at hand. Once again, he asked himself just where Alice was, and in the same instant, the floodgates opened and the answer popped into his mind.
He didn’t rush, as part of him didn’t want to prove his suspicions right. Instead, he walked back to the kitchen, giving the dead cat a wide berth as he walked to the window and looked out into the garden.
Alice’s greenhouse.
He had built it for her when she expressed an interest in growing their own vegetables, something which she had done for a while and then seemed to lose all enthusiasm for. The greenhouse had remained unused since, its windows grimy and fogged. Ghosts of overgrown plants pressed against the glass, and Mannering was filled with such an intense dread that he had to cling to the edge of the sink.
He had never set foot in that greenhouse and knew that if he was to find Alice, then that is where she would be. How he knew that, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it came with the absolute knowledge you could have for a person over time, although he hadn’t seen this particular situation coming, so all bets were off
The air was cool and crisp as he stepped outside, pausing at the edge of their neatly trimmed garden. His breath fogged in the chill September air, but even that was nowhere near as cold as the ice which circulated his veins. He could see no sign of movement in the greenhouse, no shadows moving against the filthy, frosted glass. He set off towards the greenhouse, walking slowly, straining his senses. After the silence of the house, the chorus of birdsong around him was deafening. There were two more cats in the garden. The first bore all the hallmarks of a stray, its fur mangy and knotted. Its head was twisted at a nauseating angle, and like the one in the kitchen, its glassy eyes stared accusingly. The second was even more horrific, it's clumpy grey fur flecked with blood. The kitchen scissors were embedded into the creature’s eyes, and it had been displayed spread-eagled on the birdbath, the drinking water now a diluted shade of red. Whilst he was asking himself what he would do if his wife was insane, a second, more important question came to him, one which he had no answer for.
What would he do if she wasn’t?
What if, when it came to it, she was perfectly rational? What if she was the same woman who he had loved for the last twenty-three years, twenty-one of those as his wife? What would he do if she was fine apart from her desire to kill the local wildlife? Could he, over time, learn to live with it? Could he treat it like some kind of sordid affair and ignore it? Perhaps sweep it under the rug and go on as if nothing had happened? He didn’t think so. He was pretty sure that if he could, he wouldn’t be inching his way towards the greenhouse at the end of the garden.
The glass and steel construction was just ahead of him now, and he paused at the door, waiting for his knotted stomach to settle. On the ground in front of him was a single spot of blood. It was something that, under ordinary circumstances, he might have never noticed, in fact, he would never have been over at the greenhouse in the first place, but that was before he came home early from work to a house and garden filled with dead animals and a wife who was still missing.
Alice.
His wife’s name hovered in his throat, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to say it. A light, cold sweat had formed on his arms and back as he tried to force himself to open the door and face whatever was inside.
It’s not too late, just turn around and go back to work. If you love her, you would. She doesn’t want you to know about this.
No, he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. He had to intervene, to sit her down and talk to her, perhaps pay her more attention, make sure they did more things together. But first, he had to face whatever was inside.
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The smell hit him immediately.
Mannering blinked, unable to process what he was seeing.
The twin shelves which lined each wall of the greenhouse were filled with withered, brown overgrown plants, most of which were dead or dying. Alice’s clothes were neatly folded and placed between two cracked red plant pots. At the furthest end of the greenhouse was a natural earth bed which had been excavated to allow Alice to grow potatoes and carrots, but now, as Mannering watched, he saw that they had been used for a different purpose.
Alice lay on her back in the dirt, moaning as she rubbed the moist earth into her body and over her face. She had her eyes closed and was murmuring as she scooped the soil against herself. Buried within the dirt were bodies - putrid, rotting carcasses of birds, cats and dogs. Whenever her hand would fall upon one, she would drag it towards her and crush it against her body, displacing flesh and allowing liquefied organs to spill out, turning the soil into a thick mud paste.
Mannering was bizarrely reminded of their first wedding anniversary when they had made snow angels in Paris.
He watched in sick fascination as she rolled in the dirt and pulled another mound towards her. A human arm flopped out of the mud, touching her stomach. It was putrid and rotten, and Alice grabbed at the maggot infested appendage and touched its dead fingers to her cheeks, kissing the blackened nails. Mannering could only look as he saw for the first time beyond the writhing shape of his wife to the other arms which protruded out of the earth like strange exotic plants. Some were brown and leathery, but many were still disgustingly recognisable, even in their putrid state.
He stopped counting at seven, knowing that his mind wasn’t equipped to take much more. He was just an insurance salesman. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him. Without knowing that he was going to d
o it, he backed out of the greenhouse and closed the door, shutting away the horrors inside.
You need to call the police.
He staggered back up the garden path, unable to focus, unable to breathe. The dead cat in the kitchen now seemed of little consequence. After all, how could it shock him after what he had just seen? Mannering knew he had to get out, had to get away.
He staggered to his car, dropped the keys, picked them up again with shaking hands and managed to unlock the vehicle. He drove away from the house, looking but not seeing as he left his little slice of suburban hell behind.
He made it as far as the docks before he pulled over and threw up into the grass verge. As he stood there sobbing and panting with his hands on his knees and the bitter taste of vomit in his throat, it finally hit home just want he had witnessed. Things had changed, and would never be the same again.
You need to call the police. Now.
It was true. He loved his wife, but she was obviously sick. There was something inherently wrong with her that needed to be fixed, or at least that was what the rational side of his brain was telling him. On the other hand, she was his true love, his soul mate, his one and only thing in the world that he cared for. Could he do it? Could he bring himself to make the call? He wouldn’t be there when it happened, but the neighbours would. And as the police arrived en masse and led Alice away in handcuffs, questions would be asked, asked of him.
Mannering fished his phone out of his pocket, stared at it, and then knew what he was going to do. It was for the best.
***
Alice was just finishing washing the dishes. The kitchen was filled with the delicious aroma of pot roast. She heard the car pull up to the house, and paused. It was earlier than normal, and her eyes went towards the knife block on the side. She heard the car door close, and waited, hand hovering over the carving knife.
Mannering walked through the door, and Alice relaxed. He looked jaded, exhausted even as he slipped off his jacket and walked towards the kitchen.
“What’s for dinner?” He asked as he fixed himself a drink, flashing a quick glance towards the spot where the dead cat had been displayed earlier.
“Pot roast,” Alice replied. “You look exhausted. Tough day?”
Mannering nodded as he drained the glass of whisky then poured himself another.
“Why don’t you go and drink that in the sitting room? Dinner isn’t quite ready yet. I got some wonderful potatoes to go with it.”
He almost laughed, or screamed at the idea, but instead took a sip of his drink and did as he was told.
Although it seemed impossible now, he was sure that he would learn to live with Alice’s hobby. Although the vows of marriage didn’t mean as much these days as they once did, he was determined to honour the commitment that he had made to her. And that was to love and cherish her until death. Was a life alone worth the price of doing the right thing?
Probably.
Just not to him. Everyone had quirks, and everyone had imperfections, but like any good husband, he was just going to have to learn to live with the ones his wife had and try to make the best of them. He was sure that in time, he would learn to live with it. Mannering kicked off his shoes, switched on the television and sank down into his favourite chair whilst he waited for dinner.
THE BOY WHO SAW SPIDERS
The party on Pointer Street was where Andy had planned to tell Jenny how he felt, and perhaps take the next step in their relationship. But now, any idea of such things had evaporated, disappeared into the ether as he sat and tried to come to terms with the situation. He tried to regain focus, but it was no good.
All he could think about were the spiders.
When he arrived at the party that night, he was just like everybody else. An average, run of the mill student who didn’t excel at anything in particular, and had made an academic career of remaining almost completely anonymous. However, none of that mattered. Not anymore. He chewed at his bottom lip, scratched at his greasy mop of brown hair, and tried to make sense of it all. He was perched on the end of the sofa, his beer long forgotten and clutched in his hand, as he watched the spiders scurrying over the carpet and skittering across the walls with horrible, jerky urgency. They were far too numerous to even attempt trying to count. The big ones were hanging back in the corners, peering out from the dark places and watching, their smaller, olive-sized cousins were bolder, and exploring the room as if the throng of people were nothing more than enormous lumbering obstacles.
He took a slow, dazed look around the room and wondered why nobody else was making a fuss. He would have expected screams or panicked yelps of disgust, but with sick realisation, he understood why.
Only he could see them.
He reflexively curled his toes as one darted past his shoe and into Melissa Freese’s Handbag. Melissa didn’t notice, she was too busy jawing with that smart mouthed, pig faced friend of hers — Alison something-or-other — who was blathering on and on about some personal injustice that had conflicted with her narrow-minded view of the world. He looked to his left. On the opposite side of the sofa, Jonny Marshall, and whichever unfortunate girl’s face he was chewing off, were slobbering as they groped at each other and tongue wrestled in the way that horny teens did.
One thing for certain was that the pair hadn’t noticed the spiders either – even the one that was working its way into Jonny's ear, its thin legs kicking and scrabbling for purchase as it delved deeper. Completely oblivious, Jonny and his date continued swapping spit and feeling each other up. Andy half wanted to warn him, but Jonny was a jock, and more than that, he was an arrogant, bullying son of a bitch who was at his happiest making the less gifted, less attractive, less ‘Jonny’ type kids’ lives miserable.
Fuck him.
Let it burrow.
He saw a flicker of movement, whipped his head around just in time to see it, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He watched as a plump, ugly looking funnel web spider darted into an open pack of Cheetos that were on the table. Once again, he had half an urge to call out and tell someone but held his silence. Other than Jenny, he didn’t care for anyone at the party anyway, and none of them were people who he could actually call friends. They were just acquaintances, some of which he barely knew. So he swallowed his words and watched in morbid fascination as
Chip Denning — who if the rumor was to be believed, preferred boys to girls and had a homophobe of a brother who would break your teeth if you ever asked about it — picked up a handful of the cheesy snack. Andy saw the plump spider wriggling as Chip shoved the snacks, spider, and all, into his mouth and crunched down, then turned back to his conversation.
Andy’s stomach quivered a little, and he wanted to run away from both spiders and classmates alike, but he knew he would never be able to pluck up the courage. He was also sure that if he tried, his legs would refuse to cooperate, and he would be left standing like an idiot frozen to the spot.
And they would know.
The spiders that only he could see.
He became conscious of the fact that he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. His eyes flicked to the door, the thought of escape still lingering in his mind, but even if he could move, what he saw made the point moot, as that route was already being cut off.
Hundreds — no, thousands of the spiders were constructing an intricate web which covered the entire doorway.
The scale of it was too much to bear, and he forced himself to turn away. His stomach lurched, and he let out a shallow, booze-flavored belch. It was then he noticed the bottle of Budweiser still clutched in his fist, and he took a long, grateful swig, just about managing to keep his trembling hand steady enough to get the bottle to his lips. It was warm and flat but made him feel better nonetheless.
Still the party went on.
Still the spiders scurried.
Dale Thompson crossed the room, standing in front of Andy with a distracted, uncomfortable look on his acne-ravaged face.
“
Hey Andy, you drinking that or what?” Thompson said pointing to the bottle clutched in Andy’s hand.
“Uh...Yeah. No... I don’t think so.” Andy replied, unable to rationalise his thoughts.
“Mind if I have it?”
“No, go ahead,” Andy mumbled, handing Dale the barely touched, too warm beverage.
“Thanks. Take it easy Andy.”
“Yeah. You too.” He said as he watched Dale swagger away.
Dale’s T-shirt was swarming with hundreds of spiders, crawling over and under each other as they explored their host’s portly frame.
How could he not have noticed? Andy wondered, and as he considered the question, that little voice — the one that went so often ignored – popped up in his mind.
Dale can’t see them because they’re not there. Not really. But you already know that, don’t you?
The thought sparked another question, which presented itself in his inner monologue with much less subtlety.
Am I insane?
He considered the question. He was nineteen. Reasonably intelligent, no history of mental-health problems. In fact, life had been pretty uneventful until he arrived at the party that night. But no matter how he tried to spin it, there was no explanation for them.
The spiders.
They were now everywhere, swarming out from behind furniture, and covering almost every wall and surface.
He glanced at Andrea Gill, she who had cheated in last month’s chemistry exam by reading his answers. He had let her, because he didn’t care. He was going places, and regardless of her cheating ways, the Andrea Gill’s of the world were destined to become single parents, welfare scrounging fuck-up losers for life.
He watched in fascination as a fat house spider with disproportionately long, spindly legs scurried up her body, finally coming to rest in her hair. One thin black leg clung onto her cheek as the spider paused above her ear.
Andrea carried on talking to her friends, none of them spotting the new addition to the party.
Yes.
At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book Page 18