She says, “I called the police station today and spoke to the sergeant. He told me, rather rudely, that his department doesn’t have the budget to dedicate a patrol car to every house in Mount Herod, which I thought was a ridiculous thing to say since I’m only asking for them to drive by ours.”
Chuckling, Mr. Donaldson pats Grandma’s knee. “There, there, Rosie. Take it easy.”
“So, I said to the sergeant, ‘What should I do?’ and he told me to hire a security guard or a private investigator.”
Jeremy says excitedly, “A private eye? For real?”
“Yes, I know!” Grandma says, astonished by her own story. “I told him I couldn’t afford such a thing, so he told me to consider buying a watch dog. Well, I said, ‘If I can’t afford a private investigator, how do you expect me to afford another mouth to feed, especially something with the appetite of a dog?’”
Mr. Donaldson winks at Jeremy and me. “She told me the same story when she got to work. After I heard the whole thing, I said, ‘Rosie, let me take care of this for you.’”
“Now, remember, Harold, you said you wouldn’t do anything foolish,” Grandma says.
My eyes dart between the two adults as I consider what I’ve just heard. I say to Mr. Donaldson, “What do you mean, you’ll ‘take care of it’?”
“Yeah, you can’t let them in,” Jeremy warns, frowning.
“I’m just going to have a little talk with them.”
“You know, they don’t come until after dark,” I say, wondering if he intends to stay the night and where he intends to sleep.
“I know that.”
Grandma says, “Mr. Donaldson is going to stay here on the sofa until the little dickens show up.”
“I’ll be nice and close to the front door when the doorbell rings,” Mr. Donaldson says. “Although, I’m not sure how my back feels about it,” he adds, stretching, and maybe hinting for a more comfortable place to sleep.
I scowl.
Jeremy rises from his chair, panic setting in. He points an accusing finger at Mr. Donaldson. “You can’t let them in. Don’t you dare let them in.”
Mr. Donaldson laughs.
“Jeremy!” Grandma reprimands. “Sit down! Mr. Donaldson is here to help us, not to be ordered around like our servant. Now, you apologize.”
“That’s not necessary, Rosie,” Mr. Donaldson says.
Grandma’s voice turns very stern. “No, it most certainly is. Jeremy, apologize, right this minute.”
Jeremy looks at me. I nod.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donaldson,” he says, and he sits back down.
“Apology accepted, young man,” Mr. Donaldson says. “I could tell the other evening at dinner these troublemakers have all three of you tied in knots. And don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything foolish, just like old Rosie here says.”
Old Rosie?
Jeremy discards everything Mr. Donaldson has said. “Don’t let them in, Mr. Donaldson. They’ll kill—”
“Enough of that, mister!” Grandma scolds.
Grandma is shocked by Jeremy’s disrespect, and I’m concerned he once again sounds like a boy coming unglued. So, I warn him, try to calm him. “Jeremy, don’t talk like that. Just relax.”
“Go upstairs and get ready for bed,” Grandma tells Jeremy. “Abigail, could you bring down some sheets and blankets for Mr. Donaldson?”
“Yes, Grandma,” I say.
I stand as Jeremy, pouting, also rises from his chair. We begin to walk out of the family room. Before we leave, Jeremy stops in front of Mr. Donaldson. “Don’t let them in, Mr. Donaldson.”
“Go!” Grandma orders, pointing to the steps.
I hook my arm around Jeremy’s shoulder. Pulling him with me, I utter, “C’mon, Jeremy.”
Upstairs, I drop Jeremy at his room. While he changes into his pajamas, I fetch spare bedding from the linen closet in the hall: a sheet, two blankets, and a pillow. As I descend the steps, I hear Grandma talking to Mr. Donaldson.
“…I worry about Jeremy more than Abigail.”
“He’s at an age, Rosie. I wouldn’t worry yourself about it.”
“The things he’s done and said since this whole thing started. There are times I think he’s losing his mind.”
I reach the bottom step and enter the family room abruptly, intentionally cutting their conversation short because I don’t care for the fact Mr. Donaldson is learning such personal things about Jeremy.
“Here are the blankets,” I say.
“Thank you, Abigail,” Grandma says.
When Grandma begins to make up the sofa for Mr. Donaldson, I wish them both a good night and slip back upstairs to Jeremy’s room. I deliver three rapid knocks to his closed door with the knuckle of my index finger.
“Come in,” he calls from the other side.
I quietly push open the door and slip inside. Now in his pajamas, Jeremy sits atop his bed covers with his pillow sandwiched between his back and the headboard. His legs are bent at his knees, and his stockinged feet are pressed flat atop the bed. An open comic book rests on his thighs. He’s far more relaxed than I’d expected.
Without taking his eyes off the comic book, he says, “He’s going to let them in.”
I close the bedroom door, shuffle to his desk, and sit down in the desk chair. Doing my best to find a silver lining, I say, “It’s not a bad thing that he’s here.”
“He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know the legend. He has no idea what he’s dealing with.”
“We’re all slowly going insane, Jeremy. We need another adult, another witness, another perspective. I don’t even know what to think anymore. Yesterday, I burned an entire study hall in the computer lab searching websites for an explanation for what’s going on.”
He looks up from his comic book. “What did you find?”
“Nothing you hadn’t already found yourself.”
Nodding, he returns to his comic book and flips a page. “Abby, will you sleep in here again tonight?”
“You know Grandma won’t allow it.”
He closes his eyes, forcing tears inward.
I try to offer him some comfort. “We’re safer tonight than any other. Mr. Donaldson is downstairs right next to the front door.”
Jeremy opens his eyes, and he says almost in a whisper, “But it’s him who scares me.”
I think of the conversation I just overheard downstairs, and I realize Grandma is correct when she says Jeremy has turned into one spooky kid over the last week. Even so, when I study his face, it still glows with extraordinary intelligence. And there’s something new as well. Here and there, I pick up hints of confidence in his voice, self-assuredness I’d never seen before. It’s as if he’s finding himself while the rest of us mistakenly perceive he’s losing control.
On multiple levels, I’m caught between Jeremy and the two adults downstairs: maturity, compassion, rationality, belief. I’m walking the razor’s edge, refusing to commit to either side, tightroping the fine line between the natural and supernatural. I wonder how much longer I can maintain my balance.
“Mr. Donaldson’s not going to do anything stupid,” I say. “He’s a big blowhard, but I trust him with Grandma’s life.”
Jeremy tightens his lips and nods. I think he now sees the situation as I do. It’s better to have Mr. Donaldson here than go through this alone yet another night.
I stand and make my way to the bedroom door. “Goodnight, Jeremy.”
“Goodnight,” he replies, glancing at his clock, which reads ten-thirty. “See you in a couple hours,” he adds, ominously.
I leave his bedroom door open, and I go to my own room. I change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers. I sleep in fits, fading in and out of consciousness, not recalling any dreams and not finding any worthwhile rest. Two and a half hours later, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down at the front door, listening to Jeremy whispering in the darkness behind me, waiting for the doorbell to ring.
Mr. Donaldson
is snoring but not for much longer.
Jeremy’s whispers stop, and the doorbell rings.
Mr. Donaldson stirs, but he does not immediately rise. He’s likely lost in the slowly dissipating fog of sleep, wondering where he is and how he got here. It will occur to him soon enough.
I’m alone for only a few more moments before Grandma’s hand gently falls upon my shoulder and Jeremy’s hand squeezes mine.
The doorbell rings again.
Through the darkness, I hear Mr. Donaldson’s feet thud against the floor. Next, I hear the sofa’s wooden frame complain as he rises from it. Seconds later, his silhouette enters the foyer, the soles of his slippers scratching against the linoleum floor like the sound of sandpaper. He notices us, waves an acknowledgement, but says nothing. Pulling back the faded plaid curtain on the front door with one hand, he flips the light switch for the porch with the other. The porch light flickers dimly before sizzling away into oblivion. Mr. Donaldson flips the switch several more times. It does nothing, so he returns his attention to the window.
“What do you want?” he calls. His voice booms, strong and intimidating even from where I stand.
A long pause follows. The children have been caught off guard. Maybe they have even fled.
Finally, I hear a response from the other side. Although I don’t know exactly what’s been said, I can easily guess based on Mr. Donaldson’s response. “What kind of accident?”
Again, muffled voices from the other side.
“Alright, that’s enough of this.” Mr. Donaldson lets the curtain fall closed, steps back from the door, twists open the lock, and swings open the front door.
“Don’t let them in!” Jeremy cries.
Grandma shushes him. “Abigail, take care of your brother,” she says, pushing past me to descend the stairs.
Grabbing Jeremy by the forearm, I crouch low, peering through the banister spindles for a better look.
The two children stand side by side in the doorway. The boy is nearly a full head taller than the girl. Both children stare at the ground.
The girl says to Mr. Donaldson, “May we come in and use your telephone, please?”
“No, you may not,” Mr. Donaldson says sternly.
Grandma shuffles up behind him for a peek at the children.
“Please, sir, there’s been an accident, and we’re very cold and hungry,” the girl says.
“Where exactly is this so-called accident?” Grandma asks, mettled by the boldness she’s found behind Mr. Donaldson. “You’ve been ringing my doorbell for nearly a week.”
“What’s the meaning of all this anyway? What do you kids want?” Mr. Donaldson asks.
The children do not answer.
A chilly October gust blows past the open door and up the staircase, touching my bare feet and ankles and sending a shiver through me.
“If he invites them in, we’re all dead,” Jeremy whispers, his voice warbling.
Personally, I doubt what Jeremy says can possibly be true. Mr. Donaldson’s broad body seals the doorway like a great wall. The two frail children don’t stand a chance against the gritty old man. He can put both of them on the ground with a single swipe, if he chooses to.
After an uncomfortably long moment of silence, Mr. Donaldson says, “Get out of here, both of you, and don’t ever come back.”
“Won’t you let us in, sir?” the girl asks.
“No, but I don’t have a problem stepping out there.” With that, Mr. Donaldson boldly moves out onto the porch.
The children calmly retreat to the front walk. A tingle of exhilaration shoots through my body as someone has finally stood up to these two kids.
Thrusting his hand out and pointing down the street, Mr. Donaldson pierces the lonely black stillness of the neighborhood with a coarse and intimidating bark. “Git!”
Jeremy and I scramble down the staircase to the foyer for a better look. We line up opposite Grandma in the doorway.
“They’re not leaving. They’re just standing there,” Jeremy says.
Grandma says to Mr. Donaldson, “That’s enough, Harold. Come back inside.”
Mr. Donaldson turns to Grandma and shows her the palm of his hand. “I got this, Rosie.”
“Invite us in,” says the boy with his peculiar adult voice. “We need help, food, warmth, and a shelter. Won’t you show kindness to children?”
“How about you look at me when I talk to you?” Mr. Donaldson says, dismissing the boy’s unusual voice. “Show some respect instead of looking at your shoes all the time. And for crying out loud, stop ringing good folks’ doorbells in the middle of the night. Do all that and maybe then we can talk about kindness.”
“That’s enough, Harold. Please, come back inside,” Grandma says again, reaching for Mr. Donaldson’s shoulder, her voice pitched with worry.
But Mr. Donaldson marches off the porch, and the children retreat again, backing out to the sidewalk which runs along the street.
“I’ve half a mind to call your parents. Maybe you’ll get a good whoopin’ when you get home,” he threatens.
“We have no parents,” the boy says.
“And we have no home,” the girl says.
“And we don’t take no whoopin’s,” the boy growls.
Outside the door, just over the porch, the moonlight reflects a tiny spec spiraling to the ground from somewhere above. At first it appears to be floating on breaths of air, but soon I spot the fine silvery web on which it dangles. Within a few moments, the spider lands on the porch and scurries out toward the sidewalk.
This random but natural incident is nothing more than a curious distraction until I notice another spec descending to my left.
And another to my right.
Poking my head outside, I watch dozens of webs scatter moonlight as they twist down along the side of the house like hideous, living ribbons.
“Jeremy,” I say. “Do you see this?”
He swallows. Pointing to the sidewalk, he says, “Yeah, look.”
Along the edges of the sidewalk on which Mr. Donaldson stands, more moonlit specs emerge from our lawn. A dozen appear, then fifty. At least one hundred more arrive behind them, wriggling in from the lawn and up between the slabs of poured concrete.
Soon, what must be thousands of scurrying spiders converge on the sidewalk, all varying in size and species. Some are merely tiny black specs, yet others appear fuzzy and brown in the moonlight. Some are as large as quarters.
Grandma stands shocked, both hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide and filled with horror. Jeremy’s hand is on my back, a handful of my pajamas balled up in his fist. The once pale concrete sidewalk disappears beneath a black stream of spiders, and poor Mr. Donaldson doesn’t see them approaching from behind.
Grandma screams, “Harold!”
Distracted by the children, and not yet noticing the spiders, he waves off Grandma again. But he mindlessly raises and shakes his foot when he feels the first few furry legs touch his ankle. Still he continues to reprimand the boy and girl, who stand motionless near the road.
The spiders begin to ascend Mr. Donaldson’s leg, many disappearing under the cuff of his pajama pants. The old man grunts as he slaps his leg with both hands, but it’s a useless effort because another column of spiders has already begun to ascend his other leg.
The spiders wriggle up the inside and outside of Mr. Donaldson’s pajamas. He twists his torso, swings his arms, and swipes his palms over his arms, legs, and the back of his neck, trying to knock the insects to the ground or crush them beneath his enormous palms.
Amid his confusion, Mr. Donaldson finally surrenders his bravery and starts to wail. “They’re biting! They’re biting me!”
Biting or eating?
“Oh, my!” Grandma screams, rushing out the door.
“Grandma, don’t go out there!” Jeremy cries.
But Grandma is already descending the porch steps, gripping the iron hand rail with both hands.
Mr. Donaldson writhes on
his knees, his hands covering his face. I raise my eyes to the street where I see the backs of the two children as they depart our yard, side by side.
When I look at Mr. Donaldson again, Grandma is crouching over him, swatting at the spiders, trying to swipe them to the ground with her frail, incapable hands. With a shriek, she suddenly lunges back, slapping at her own arms, and I know that she too has been bitten. She begins to gasp and scream, and she falls to her knees next to Mr. Donaldson.
My heart thumps like a bass drum.
Not Grandma.
I charge out the door into the chill of the night, running to Grandma’s aid, spiders squishing beneath my bare feet. I’m upon her in fractions of a second. I grab her shoulders and turn her toward me. I smear a dozen spiders from her face, leaving behind trails of sticky black, red, and yellow innards. Tiny welts already have begun to swell on her cheeks and forehead.
She doesn’t deserve it. She’s the sweetest woman anyone could ever hope to meet, and she’s never harmed anyone. Her age and nature make her fragile and vulnerable, and I wonder just how much more of this she can take.
“Call 911!” I blindly call to Jeremy.
Mr. Donaldson continues to wail. His face and hands are red with blood, though I don’t know if it’s his or the spiders’. The creatures twist and crawl over his entire body. They disappear into his ears and nose and wriggle at the corners of his tightly pinched eyes. Every time a scream forces open his mouth, the spiders dash for his lips and tongue.
There is no way I can help this man.
I cradle Grandma beneath her arms and do my best to pull her away from Mr. Donaldson, hoping she’ll provide some assistance with her legs.
“Come on, Grandma,” I beg. “Leave him.”
“Harold!” she calls to her friend, but she does not fight me. She pushes along with her heels, and together we put several feet between Mr. Donaldson and us.
I look back over my shoulder to see if Jeremy has disappeared inside to call for help. Instead, he is frozen in the doorway like a frightened, useless rabbit, staring into the street.
“Jeremy,” I yell. “Call 911, now!”
But he doesn’t move. I follow his line of sight and spot the children. The last time I looked, they were retreating into the street, but they now stand at the edge of the lawn, staring at the house with their empty black eyes, their faces now in full view.
Curse of the Black-Eyed Kids (Mount Herod Legends Book 2) Page 8