The Spider Goddess

by Tara Moss

  I got through plenty of paperwork and filing during the day as there was no sign of Skye DeVille. It was a relief not to have to brace myself every time her office door opened. I prepared three hot beverages all day – a mere pittance compared with Skye’s inhuman caffeine demands. I also must confess I spent a guilt-inducing amount of time taking advantage of the office’s Internet connection to research necromancy. I’d read about it in my mother’s many books back home, but I had never thought I would find myself considering it as deeply as I was now. Necromancy certainly had a long and motley history across cultures. I wondered what Barrett had hoped to achieve with his experiments. Had he been motivated by prophecy, money, or simply curiosity?

  ‘What are you doing?’

  It was nearing the end of the day, and thankfully I’d heard Pepper coming before she’d got near enough to see the window open on my computer screen. I closed the giant image of the Witch of Endor I’d been looking at, and returned to my inbox.

  ‘Nothing. I mean, working,’ I responded quickly.

  She stood over me, unsmiling and fashionably severe. ‘I need a quote or two from another couple of designers.’

  ‘For the feature?’ I asked, though it was obvious enough.

  She nodded. ‘I want to wrap this up on Monday.’

  ‘We’re still going ahead with the knitwear spread? Even with all the, uh, news?’ I said. It seemed incredible that the piece wouldn’t need to be reworked. Or even put on hold.

  ‘Fashion doesn’t stand still just because of some disappearances. Here are the addresses. Or you can just call.’ Pepper handed me a scrap of paper. Both were in the Garment District. Again, the fashion industry’s sense of concern was really moving. Pepper was almost as sympathetic to the plight of those designers as Victor Mal had been. Until he became one of them.

  ‘No problem,’ I told her, putting the paper into my bag. ‘I’ll go in person. I might be able to get more that way.’ As always, I was eager for an excuse to leave the office.

  ‘I don’t need you getting into this whole scandal, okay? We want to steer clear of it. Keep it about the fashion. The rest of this stuff could be old news by print time.’

  Could it really? Could three missing top designers be old news? Even if they turned up by the time the magazine came out? ‘You don’t think it would be a bit of a glaring omission to not even acknowledge . . .’

  Pepper glowered at me.

  Okay. My views are not wanted here. I get it.

  I nodded obediently. ‘I’ll keep it about the fashion.’

  Once she was satisfied that I wouldn’t ruffle any feathers – as I clearly had the last time I’d used my actual brain to do a bit of reporting for her – Pepper let me be. I packed up my satchel and coat, turned my computer off and breezed over to Morticia.

  ‘You’re leaving early,’ she commented.

  ‘Yeah, Pepper gave me an errand. I’ve got to go up to the Garment District to speak to a couple of designers. See you Monday.’

  She nodded. ‘Any hot dates this weekend?’

  ‘Nah,’ I said, but thought of my Civil War crush.

  ‘Me neither,’ she replied, and pouted. ‘It’s depressing. Hey, would you like to see a movie? That new Johnny Depp one is out.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a good idea.’ It was one I wanted to see, and I had been hoping to get to know Morticia better, but I was unsure I could spare an evening so soon, considering all I was learning about Lieutenant Luke. Was he really my spirit guide? What did that mean?

  ‘I’ll be a bit busy this weekend but maybe next?’ I suggested and scribbled my cell phone number on a piece of paper. ‘I finally have a phone, but the reception is pretty awful where I live, so if you don’t get through, leave a message.’ Of course, Morticia couldn’t know that there was no reception where I lived because it was a suburb that didn’t exist – to phone companies, anyway.

  ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘I’ll put you in my phone.’

  Finally I was forging a normal friendship in this new town. I smiled. ‘By the way, I don’t know if I ever mentioned this, Morticia, but I really like your name,’ I added.

  Morticia was a weird name and I guess it had made me feel closer to her from the first day we met. My name had always made me stand out, and not always comfortably.

  ‘Your parents must be cool to give you a name like that,’ I continued. ‘They must be big fans of The Addams Family.’

  I noticed Morticia frown. ‘My parents? Oh, no. My parents named me “Bea”. Can you imagine? I changed my name the day I turned eighteen.’

  She sure didn’t look like a Bea. I’d never considered changing my name. It might have been weird, but then so was I. ‘What made you change it to Morticia?’

  ‘The obvious, I guess. My parents weren’t happy about it, you could say that much. Yeah . . . we don’t, um, get along,’ she said, and I saw a flash of sadness in her eyes. ‘I moved out last year and we don’t see each other much.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Morticia.’ I felt terrible for bringing up the whole subject.

  ‘Yeah, well . . . I guess I’m not what they expected. Or wanted . . .’ She took the scrap of paper with my number on it, and played with it listlessly. ‘It’s cool,’ she finally said. ‘You have a good weekend.’ She offered her lopsided smile, but it didn’t quite disguise the hint of sadness in her features.

  ‘Let’s catch that movie soon,’ I said.

  ‘Cool. Oh, and look out,’ Morticia added, as I headed out the door.

  I stopped in my tracks and turned.

  ‘It’s a full moon tonight. The crazies will be out.’

  The closer of the two addresses I’d been given was for the brand Smith & Co. I recognised the name. Their headquarters were announced by a stylishly understated sign on a doorway on W36th Street, next to an alley. I looked up and saw banner advertising in the first floor window above, confirming that I’d arrived at the correct location. The door on street level was unlocked, and I walked up a clean but nondescript stairwell to reach the glass door of the office and push my way inside.

  ‘Good afternoon. How may I help you?’

  The waiting area was small and modern. An attractive, slim young man wearing a close-fitting top and fashionably retro black-framed spectacles sat behind a wooden desk. As with Victor Mal’s studio, there were ads decorating the walls of the waiting area. The Smith & Co ads were much more understated, however, and seemed to include only the latest campaign.

  ‘I’m here for a quick interview with Mr Smith,’ I told the man at the desk.

  ‘Pandora magazine?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I hope this is a good time.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you.’ He stood and shook my hand. ‘I’ll take your coat and umbrella. If you’ll please take a seat, I’ll just see if Laurie is ready.’

  ‘Sure thing. Thanks.’

  The receptionist relieved me of my coat – which he hung on a designer coat rack that looked like a small, flattened tree forged of stainless steel – and he popped my umbrella in a red plastic umbrella stand while I took a seat on a low-slung minimalist leather lounge that probably cost more than everything I owned.

  I waited.

  I lifted my hand and examined Madame Aurora’s obsidian ring once more. I’d been doing that a lot through the day. I loved objects with history. No doubt it was a trait I’d picked up from my late mother, the archaeologist. Perhaps that was why I was more interested in vintage fashion than the latest offerings. I liked the idea that things were lived in, that they had stories to tell. This ring would have seen a lot, I guessed. I didn’t really know if I believed in talismans, but if so much was possible in the spirit world, so much that the world did not acknowledge or believe in, the existence of a real talisman was not such a stretch.

  ‘He’s in the atelier, if you’d like to go in,’ the receptionist said when he returned to the waiting area. ‘He’s working on a new collection.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I replied, and sprung
up.

  I was led into a long, narrow, high-ceilinged space – obviously another warehouse conversion – to find Mr Smith smiling and walking towards me. He was tall and he sported artfully dishevelled hair, like a kind of fashionable Einstein figure. He wore a chocolate-brown suede blazer over a thin knit top that seemed like a masculine version of the Smith & Co clothing I’d seen on the shoot. I guessed he was mid-fifties. Several half-dressed couture mannequins filled his workshop. Lining one wall were hip-height tables layered with textiles. A large bulletin board was tacked with images, sketches and cloth samples.

  A diminutive Chinese–American woman slipped past me to the door. ‘Goodnight, Mr Laurie,’ she said on her way out.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, and then whispered to me, ‘that woman can do anything.’

  I perked up. ‘That’s impressive,’ I replied. ‘I’m Pandora English, from Pandora magazine. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me this afternoon. I won’t keep you long.’

  ‘I’ll likely be up all night anyway, I think. New collection.’

  ‘Yes, your receptionist mentioned that. How is it coming along?’

  He swept his gaze over the room. ‘It’s coming . . .’ He pulled up a chair for me, and cleared it of layers of half-constructed garments. ‘So, your real name is Pandora?’

  ‘Yup. That’s me. The lady who let all the evil into the world.’

  ‘I thought that was Eve,’ he said.

  ‘She’s the other lady who let all the evil into the world. I was the one with the box, apparently. Actually, I think originally it was a jar.’ Celia had told me that my name meant ‘gifted’ or ‘all-endowed’, but it was the ancient Greek myth of the woman with the jar (or box) of evil that was most remembered. Why was it always women’s curiosity for opening jars or eating apples that was blamed for everything wrong in the world?

  ‘Was the magazine named after you?’ Laurie Smith asked.

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking. I was hardly a nineteen-year-old people named things after. ‘Not at all, I’m afraid. Mere coincidence.’

  He cocked his head and smiled. ‘I don’t know if I believe in coincidences.’

  There was a light knock on the open door of the workshop, and we both turned. The attractive bespectacled receptionist held a beautiful parcel, immaculately wrapped in bows of black and green. I’d seen something like it before, I thought. Recently.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you both, but a package just arrived for you, Laurie. It might be the one you were waiting for?’

  ‘Thanks, James,’ Laurie said. ‘You can leave it on your desk. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Pandora,’ James said, and left us.

  Laurie sat up on the work table and let his long legs dangle. I noticed him pick up a large pair of work scissors and move them to one side. ‘I’m, um, no good at interviews,’ he said to me finally, and I smiled.

  ‘I’m not that good at conducting them,’ I replied.

  ‘No, no. I’m sure you’re fine. Besides, you are young. There’s time.’

  I smiled, and pulled the pad and pen from my satchel. ‘Interview starts now, if that’s okay with you?’ I adjusted myself on the little chair and got started. I asked Laurie Smith a few basic questions about the knitwear industry and his latest work. I kept it short and fashion-focused, as instructed, and he didn’t make me feel like an idiot the way Victor Mal had. He didn’t bring up the missing designers, and I resisted broaching the subject. It was possible that he was so focused on his collection deadline that he hadn’t heard the news. Or perhaps Pepper was right, and it just wasn’t appropriate for our interview.

  ‘You know, I have to say, you seem refreshingly humble,’ I said once I’d filled a couple of pages with my notes. ‘I had to interview someone else for this piece and he said he was the best designer in the world. With knitwear, anyway.’

  And now he was missing. It was a bit hard to believe.

  ‘I used to be like that,’ Laurie confessed. ‘I was the worst of them. I thought that if you didn’t boast the loudest no one would respect you in this business.’ He paused and pointed at my notepad. ‘I hope you’re not going to put that in?’

  ‘No, I won’t. I promise. Is there anything else you’d like me to add about your collection?’ I finally asked.

  ‘We worked hard on this one. I just hope people try it.’

  ‘Very good.’ I closed my notepad and slipped it away. ‘Thanks again for your time this afternoon . . . ah, evening.’ It was almost five, I realised. Perhaps I could get to the next place before five thirty? It wasn’t far. ‘It’s been really lovely to meet you,’ I told Laurie. ‘Here’s my card in case you have any questions, or if you have anything else to add.’ I didn’t have my own card, but I did have one for the magazine. I wrote my name and email on it and handed it to him. ‘Good luck with the new collection.’

  Laurie saw me out himself, which I thought was very courteous. Before this afternoon I had been starting to wonder if rudeness was fashionable, but the experience at Smith & Co had made me think differently. I noticed the receptionist had gone home and the office seemed empty. Laurie would be pulling a late night by himself. That was dedication. I took my coat off the strange, flat tree and wished Laurie Smith goodnight, and good luck with his all-nighter.

  By the time I stepped out on to W36th Street it was growing dark, and a wind was blowing hard. The air was thick with electricity. It felt like a storm was coming. By my calculations the next address was only a few blocks away. It was possible they might still be in. I was less than halfway there when the first drops of rain landed on me, and I realised what I’d overlooked. Your umbrella! Idiot. I’d only been gone perhaps fifteen minutes, but when I returned to Smith & Co I was nevertheless relieved to find the door was still unlocked. I stepped inside the waiting area and called out, ‘Hello? Sorry, I just forgot my umbrella.’

  Then I froze.

  Something was wrong. Something was profoundly wrong. That familiar foreboding chilled my stomach. It became more intense with each passing second.

  ‘Um, is everyone okay?’ I ventured, but there was no reply. ‘Mr Smith?’ I heard a strange moaning sound, and stiffened. From the direction of the workroom there was the hard bang of something falling over. ‘Mr Smith? Are you okay?’ I pushed open the door to the atelier and stepped inside.

  What I saw then was hard to comprehend.

  In the middle of the workshop a shape was moving violently from side to side, erratically, like a small tornado, knocking into work tables and toppling mannequins over. The shape was like a six-foot-high silky cocoon. The whole thing turned and thrashed before me as I stood frozen at the door. What was it? I had no idea. I thought perhaps I could almost make out the shape of . . . a man? And then I heard another moan and I realised that it was coming from inside the cocoon, and in that moment I knew that someone was in there.

  I sprang into action. ‘Hang on!’ I shouted and sprinted forward. ‘Hang on. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ I looked around in a panic. ‘I’m going to cut you out!’

  On instinct I grabbed the scissors I’d seen earlier on the work table and I pushed the cocoon against the wall to hold it still. My palms became sticky and for a second I had to struggle to free them. I wiped my hands on my clothes in disgust. The cocoon was some sort of large, sticky web. A web that seemed to have a life of its own?

  ‘Don’t move,’ I instructed and the person inside moaned unintelligibly in reply. The violent movements were reduced to a kind of wild shivering. I thought it was Laurie Smith in there – somehow – and it was clear that he was suffocating. I needed to get his head out, and fast. At the hollow below the chin I inserted one point of the scissors inside as carefully as I could, and then began cutting the cocoon open. Using all my strength, I pulled it back with both hands. My hands kept sticking to the material, and though it was silky and thin, it was remarkably strong. I tore hard at it, and after some effort Laurie’s face emerged, purple from lack of oxyge
n. He gasped for air and let out some garbled cries, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of their sockets. The poor man seemed half out of his mind with confusion and terror. Wasting no time, I tore the cut larger, and then had to resort to the scissors again to work down the body. It all happened so fast that I was half kneeling on the floor, cutting a hole at his waist, when I realised that the sack itself was squirming . . .

  Spiders were pouring out.

  Oh!

  I screamed and jumped back, dropping the scissors. Spiders of all shapes and sizes spilled out of the holes I’d cut in the cocoon. Orb-weavers. Tarantulas. Jumping spiders. Wolf spiders. Crab spiders. I stifled a scream. Laurie moaned again, bringing my attention back to him. He slid down the wall into a huddled position. He could not yet free himself. There was no choice but to continue cutting him out.

  I hope none of these little fellas are deadly.

  I quickly went in again, gritting my teeth. Spiders crawled out of the holes in the sack, spreading across the webbing and over my hands and up my arms in a slow, steady stream. Those that did not crawl on me dropped to the floor and swarmed around my feet. There was a seemingly endless supply. My spider-covered hands shook as I worked away at the cocoon. I worried I might be hallucinating, experiencing some horrific arachnophobic nightmare. Or worse, that I wasn’t hallucinating at all.

  Soon I’d cut the body of the cocoon open and helped Laurie out. I flicked spiders off his clothes while he danced awkwardly about the workshop like Mick Jagger on bad acid. I thought the poor man might have a heart attack. Heck, I thought I might. I flung Celia’s coat off and did some awkward dancing of my own to remove the spiders still clinging to me.

  ‘What on earth happened? What was that? Are you okay?’ I asked in an excited ramble, shaking a fat orb-weaver off my shoe. Laurie didn’t seem able to answer, and I didn’t blame him. I hauled him to one end of the workshop, away from the discarded pile of sticky webbing and the seething mass of arachnids that surrounded it. I brought the chair over and sat him in it.