by Tara Moss
We exchanged nods, and she squeezed my wrist gently, but said nothing. No doubt she sensed my desolate mood. It was very unusual to see her in the morning, and I thought it likely that she had not yet gone to bed. Perhaps she had even stayed up to see me? I observed her for some time as she calmly made the tea. I could feel her mind gently pressing against mine. She was reading my thoughts. Somehow, it felt natural. If there was anyone I was comfortable sharing my thoughts with, it was her.
She made my tea just how I liked it, and handed me a cup. I thanked her.
‘Something strange happened last night,’ I said eventually.
‘To your friend?’
‘Yes.’ It felt too surreal to comprehend, and now, in the first light of day, I wondered if Luke had been flesh at all. My mind continued to mull over the events of the day before – the spider woman, Samantha, the trio of terrible Sanguine. I thought of the poor man who’d been killed, and my stomach lurched. ‘The Sanguine from the second floor . . . they came home while I was in their room with Samantha.’
‘I see.’
‘I tried to hide from them. We ended up – um, Lieutenant Luke and I – ended up in a storage room of sorts.’
‘Ended up? Wouldn’t you say you were drawn there?’
I frowned. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ I hadn’t been very happy to be trapped in that room. I was drawn there? No . . . I doubted that.
‘Tell me what happened then,’ my great-aunt suggested.
‘Well, I guess Athanasia is recovering somewhere at the moment.’ From having a face like pizza. ‘And the other three brought this man back to their lair to feed. They . . . killed him.’
I felt a stab of guilt and renewed horror at the senselessness of the murder, but Celia only nodded. ‘What else happened?’
‘Well, the room we hid in was filled with a lot of stuff, trunks, a cabinet and trinkets, most of it junk.’ She watched me as I spoke. ‘There was a broken trumpet, for instance.’
‘Séance props,’ she said simply, and took a sip of her tea.
‘Pardon?’
‘Spiritualist séances were quite popular in Barrett’s time. Séance means literally “a sitting”, and in Victorian days it was popular to have a group join around a table for the purposes of contacting the dead. It was thought that the spirits might be called upon at will by a spirit medium, and that these spirits would show themselves to the room by making noises, playing with children’s toys or musical instruments.’
The tambourine. The trumpet.
‘Right.’ I’d heard of séances, of course, but I’d heard time and time again that they were pure theatre, set up by charlatans looking to drain the bereaved of their dollars and sense. ‘So séances were – are – real?’
‘Some,’ my wise great-aunt replied. ‘Surely you wouldn’t doubt that?’
Well, I had talked with an awful lot of dead people myself.
‘There were frauds, of course – there will always be frauds – but there were some genuinely gifted mediums in those days, as there are now, and some of the most prominent members of society took part in legitimate séances. Spiritualism was not so taboo as it is now.’ She crossed her ankles and smoothed the hem of her dress. ‘Even Mary Lincoln organised numerous séances at the White House.’
‘With . . . Abraham?’
‘Well, yes. Abraham Lincoln was very familiar with the spirit world, and the undead for that matter. Remember, his presidency was during a time of great spiritual uprising – the agitation that occurs every one hundred and fifty years, as I’ve mentioned. You’ve spoken to your friend about it?’ Celia said.
‘A bit. I guess I became . . . distracted,’ I admitted. Having Lieutenant Luke as a man was quite a distraction, indeed.
‘Your friend was mortal at the time of the last Seventh. I suspect he may have great insight,’ Celia said.
Luke had been a second lieutenant in the Lincoln Cavalry. Lincoln himself was familiar with the undead? The last Seventh had been alive during that time. Was it possible Luke had known her?
My great-aunt watched me as I wrestled with those ideas.
‘Pandora, the philosophers and thinkers of this age have thrown out spiritualism with religion. They believe in chaos, chance, happenstance. You would do well to unlearn those ideas, and open yourself to the hidden meanings in events. Very little happens by coincidence. The people you are drawn to, the things you are drawn to . . . like that room filled with significant objects. It may seem like chance, but is it really?’
I nodded. That was beginning to sink in.
‘Tell me what happened next,’ she said.
‘Well, I was watching what was happening in the next room and Lieutenant Luke was doing something I couldn’t see. He was drawn to a particular trunk in the room, I suppose, and he knew something was in there. And then I heard a noise and he began to glow. He was holding a sword. He said it was his sabre.’ I thought about what happened next. ‘And then it went dark again.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. Well, he took the sabre from its sheath, and there was a flash of heat, and it became dark.’
Celia gave me one of her significant looks.
‘And this morning,’ I said, ‘he was gone but his sword remained. It’s strange that he left it.’
‘Perhaps he could not take it with him.’
‘Okay, I’m totally confused now.’
‘It seems likely his sabre has been imbued with some power, don’t you think?’
I blinked. ‘Like one big talisman?’
‘Perhaps, in a manner of speaking. Metal conducts energy well. It sounds like this sabre of his was impregnated with something powerful, perhaps with the intention of communicating with or controlling the dead.’
Necromancy.
If Lieutenant Luke was buried with his sabre, it meant his remains had been disturbed. Perhaps Luke’s uniform was in that trunk downstairs. Perhaps even his bones? Perhaps these were all props Barrett had used for séances, for his experiments, for attempts at communication with the spirit world. Dr Barrett had tried to communicate with Luke. He’d tried to tap into his spirit. Maybe he’d succeeded?
‘Will Luke come back? Will he still be in corporeal form?’
‘The moon may not be powerful enough tomorrow. But tonight . . . nearly anything will be possible tonight.’
‘The . . . moon?’
She nodded. ‘The moon is powerful, Pandora. Many powerful elements are at their peak at the full moon; things which are not possible at other times. Tonight is the Hunger Moon. When the moon is at its most full tonight, the power will be strongest.’
‘I thought last night was the full moon?’
‘The moon was strong and nearly full, but no. The Hunger Moon is tonight. Can’t you feel it?’
I wasn’t sure what I felt. ‘What is a Hunger Moon?’
‘The Hunger Moon, the Storm Moon . . . It comes this time every year in the winter. All moons have their own personality.’
‘Hunger?’
‘Hunger,’ she confirmed.
I finished my cup of tea and contemplated what Morticia had said about crazies. Were there more crazies on the night of a Hunger Moon?
‘You know,’ I said, ‘I was talking with my friend the receptionist the other day —’
‘Morticia?’
‘Yes. I found out she actually changed her name to Morticia. Isn’t that funny?’
‘Why?’ Celia asked. She cocked her head, and sipped her tea, holding her cup with innate elegance.
‘Why is that funny? You know . . . Morticia from The Addams Family? I mean it’s kind of extra funny considering we live on Addams Avenue.’
‘Well, it’s hardly a coincidence,’ Celia said and I blinked and put my cup down.
‘Pardon?’
‘Charles Addams has relatives here,’ she told me.
I must have looked blank. Charles?
‘The Addams Family creator. I think they named the street fo
r his great-uncle. Or was it great-great-uncle? He orders magazines from Harold from time to time, I’m told. Really likes his reading. Shame I haven’t run into him yet,’ she mused. ‘Those cartoons were quite droll.’
Charles Addams was in Spektor? Didn’t he die years ago?
Oh.
I was quiet for a moment. My wise Great-Aunt Celia finished her tea and placed it in the sink.
‘Now, Pandora,’ she said, bringing me back. ‘When the moon reveals itself, call for your friend. Take his sword in your hand and call for him. After tonight I think you may find that your friend will be in spirit form until the next full moon nears.’
A frigid wind picked up the edges of my hair, and blew ashen city dust into my eyes. I tucked a rogue strand of silky hair behind my ear and squinted at the little piece of crinkled paper again.
Arachne.
I had stopped on the corner of Seventh Avenue and 37th. The second address Pepper had given me led to a tall, 1920s brick building of faded, dusty brown, nestled among similar buildings of imposing height that towered over the sidewalks of the Garment District. It was a place for showrooms, workshops and sweatshops – not really the glamorous destination the moniker ‘Fashion Avenue’ evoked, I thought. The streets seemed fairly quiet for a Saturday.
I was dressed in my best jeans, a cream, silk, tie-top blouse Celia had designed in the fifties, my usual ballet flats and Celia’s beautiful camel-coloured cashmere coat wrapped tight around me. The wind came up again and I pulled the collar up to my chin, studying the scrap of paper once more. In Pepper’s small but legible scrawl, I could see the name ‘Arachne’ listed as the brand. After my discussion the evening before with Great-Aunt Celia about the mythological origins of the name, I had to know if it was a coincidence. Coincidences did happen, didn’t they? Regardless of what Celia, or Laurie Smith, believed. Arachne was a perfectly logical name for a knitwear brand, after all. Didn’t Versace use Medusa as their logo? It hardly meant Medusa was real. Did it? Besides, I was too excited about the prospect of another night with Lieutenant Luke to be able to hang around Spektor till sundown, wondering if he would appear and what would happen between us. I also needed something to offer Pepper on Monday.
I stepped into the lobby of the building and scanned a large index of the building’s businesses and occupants, set behind smudged glass.
ARACHNE. Twelfth floor.
Well, I seemed to have read Pepper’s handwriting correctly.
I made my way to the lift and got in. Some of these old buildings still required an operator, but not this one. It had been refurbished sometime in the 1970s, I guessed. I pressed the round button for the twelfth floor, and it lit up in red. The doors closed with a series of squeaks and a dull thump, and the elevator began its ascent. When it stopped I got out and the doors rasped closed behind me. Stretched before me was a hallway of bland grey carpet and a series of doors marked with signage for an accountant and various importers. At the end was a white, rectangular sign that simply said:
ARACHNE
The hallway was still. Things were so quiet that I began to suspect the studio would not even be open.
I adjusted the leather satchel on my shoulder, walked up to the door and knocked. My fist sounded on the door with a hollow ring. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. When no one appeared, I took out my phone and dialled the number Pepper had given me. I pressed my ear to the door. It was dead quiet inside.
Strange.
It was then that I noticed a slip of handwritten paper on the floor at my feet. It looked like it had been taped to the door and had fallen off.
PICK UPS 13TH FLOOR
Hmm.
I strolled back to the elevator and pressed the button for level thirteen – I’d heard that some buildings, for superstitious reasons, didn’t have a thirteenth floor, but this one obviously did. When the doors opened on level thirteen and I stepped out, I frowned. A cold, hard feeling formed in the base of my gut, though I could see no reason why. The single door ahead of me had no sign at all and I could hear the normal, muffled sounds of activity beyond it. From the sounds of footfalls and shuffling boxes it sounded like armies of staff were hard at work on this Saturday afternoon. So why was the sixth sense in my belly acting up?
Biting my lip, I took my cell phone out of my bag again, hit redial and listened. At first there was nothing, and then I heard a faint ring beyond the door. It rang once. Twice. Three times.
And stopped.
Death.
The cold feeling in my belly had me inching instinctively away from the door. Something had to be wrong. I would simply admit to Pepper that I hadn’t made it on Friday afternoon after Smith & Co. I’d call for the quote instead, if she insisted. I had found the studio at least. It was indeed named after the mythological weaver. I was no longer sure I wanted to know more.
Creeeeeeak.
The door creaked open behind me and the sounds of bustling activity spilled into the quiet hallway.
With a lump in my throat I turned my head, half expecting to see the tall woman with the terrifying, freakish spider legs. But there was no one. Yet the door was open. Someone had opened it for me – or for someone else. I saw a flash of green as someone walked past the open door. Then another. The temptation was too great. I had come this far. I walked slowly up to the doorway and peered inside. The Arachne fashion house sure had dedicated workers. Two dozen men and women dressed in matching emerald green aprons emblazoned with the brand name walked back and forth carrying garments, packing and labelling parcels, stacking boxes. It was the factory for the brand.
You have an overactive imagination, Pandora. You silly, silly girl. I could hear my father’s voice almost as if he were next to me.
I exhaled and shook my head, leaning on the doorframe with my satchel over my shoulder and my hands in my pockets. Such foolish panic. After a further moment of indecision I took the pad of paper and pen out of my bag.
I called out to no one in particular. ‘Hello? Can I speak to the manager please? Or . . . the designer?’
Curiously, not one person answered me.
‘Um, can I speak to whoever is in charge here?’
The workers ignored me as if I wasn’t there at all. I coughed conspicuously, I waved, I asked again for assistance, but still the men and women walked back and forth like drones, set on their individual tasks.
Could they all be so rude?
The lack of sleep was really starting to show – what had I got? Three hours rest? Four? I blinked and rubbed my eyes, and when I opened them again the scene before me had morphed into something nightmarish. These workers were not people, they were spiders, swarming piles of spiders rising from the floor in the superficial shape of human beings, sculpted by an unseen hand, moving with a collective human-like gait, the green aprons suspended by a tide of tiny legs and bulbous arachnid bodies, the parcels transported by the gathering of hundreds of eight-legged creatures.
I opened my mouth to scream, but stopped. When I blinked again, I once again saw people walking back and forth. Normal, human people.
What’s happening to you?
Disoriented, I shook my head. The eerie worker drones continued to ignore me. Unblinking and unwavering, they continued their tasks with the tireless focus of automatons.
I tried one more time. ‘Excuse me? Can someone help me here?’
How odd. They still didn’t answer me. I noticed they didn’t talk to one another, either. They seemed not even to exchange eye contact. Hesitantly, I reached out one hand and touched the shoulder of a brown-haired woman as she walked past me pushing a rack of swinging garments sheathed in thin plastic sleeves. ‘Excuse me —’ I began. My fingers made contact with her shoulder, and her shoulder dissolved under my touch.
‘My god!’
Like falling dominoes, once touched, the woman broke down, her form falling away like melting molasses until a puddle of writhing spiders was left on the floor where she’d stood. The rack of clothes she’d been
pushing rolled to a halt. After a breathless moment, in which I found myself spellbound by the spectacle before me, the spiders climbed one upon another, beginning to reassemble themselves from the ground up, forming feet and ankles and legs . . .
No. Way.
My jaw dropped, and the pen and paper slipped from my hand and hit the concrete floor with a slap. With heightened horror I noticed that the other workers had stopped. Silence descended on the large space. In unison two dozen sets of eyes (or was it thousands of eyes?) trained on the interloper in their midst, bodies turning stiffly to face me. Racks stopped moving. Parcels were dropped. Tasks were abandoned. The expressionless creatures took one step towards me, then another.
Oh boy. Oh boy . . .
Time to go.
Finally I’d been noticed, but I wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.
I turned to run out the door and down the hallway back towards the elevator that I prayed was still waiting on the thirteenth floor, but the exit had already been blocked by three of the drones. I backed away from the circling spider people, my eyes still deceiving me; one second showing my attackers as slack-faced humans, and the next revealing them to be thousands of tiny, unnaturally bound spiders that formed them. I reached around in my satchel, backing up, my mind ticking over furiously. A subway ticket, a hairbrush, lipstick, a book, a bag of rice. Darn it! The hairspray was gone, though it would take a whole lot more than that to take down so many aggressors. I didn’t even have an umbrella to swipe at them. I slid the leather satchel from my shoulder and began to swing it around me in wide arcs like a shot-putter. The bag connected with one head, then another, taking them clean off. Once hit, the headless figures melted into the floor as the woman had done, but now, instead of reassembling in their human forms, they rushed towards me in a growing swarm on the ground.
Could these spiders behave in this way through minds of their own? No. They were being directed. But where was the puppeteer? Where was Arachne?
A mob of workers had circled me, and spiders were moving towards me steadily across the floor. There were too many. In minutes I would literally be covered in them from head to toe. The first had reached my shoes and begun moving up my jeans. I screamed and hopped and tried to kick them away, but for every one I flicked off, three more took their place.