She screamed. She must be still asleep. She slammed her eyes shut.
But she could still feel them.
It must be real. But it couldn't be.
How?
Black spiders, all over her legs and daisy patterned sheets. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty of them scuttling and writhing, jostling and clambering, over each other, all over her. She scampered backwards, screaming and flicking them off, her heart thundering, her breath rasping in her throat.
But as soon as she flicked one away, another replaced it.
And another.
And another.
A sea of arachnids streamed over her body.
‘Get off,’ Rowan wailed, hoping her mum, Kieran, anyone would come, but her bedroom door stayed firmly closed, the house deathly silent.
Swarms of black bodies scampered up her arms, climbed up into her curls and headed towards her face. She leaped from her bed and squealed as another one scurried across her clammy forehead. Rowan pulled clumps of hair from her scalp with spiders attached. Her cottage flower printed wallpaper undulated and heaved, black with writhing hairy legs.
‘Help! Help!’ She screeched, her stomach twitched, ten times worse than her worst ever cramps. But the spider-covered bedroom door stayed closed. Only a thousand fractal eyes stared back, their fangs glistening with poison.
Couldn't anyone hear her screams? Rowan sucked in a breath. She grabbed a boot off the floor and slammed the heel down hard onto the carpet, squashing two, then three, four, five spiders. She kicked aside the dead, but more came. Waves of spiders poured through the air vent above her window. She dumped the boot and clambered across the room on hands and knees, right into the centre of a thick sticky web. White silk tendrils coated her face and hair, gripping at her nightie. She shuddered and ripped the cobwebs away but the stubborn threads clung on and more spiders scuttled up her body. She flung and flicked her arms, sending little black bodies slamming into the walls.
Rowan freed herself from the web and scrambled across the room, wrenching open her wardrobe door. She pushed aside her long dresses and coats, her ill-fitting shoes, boxes of old school work and her hockey stick, squeezed into the back corner and slammed the door shut.
Safe behind the closed door, she panted but it was only seconds before black shadows rippled across the wardrobe door and the first hairy legs poked through the gaps in the louvres. It was silly to think she was safe, she was backed into a corner and they were coming for her.
More and more came, gushing through every crack and gap. The scuttling black mass enveloped her skin and her hair, pulled at her lips, crept inside her nostrils and, crawled in her ears. Then she felt the first fang pierce her skin.
The last thing Rowan remembered was the sound of her own screaming.
Chapter 2
TUESDAY 19th June 1992
VIOLET
Violet leaned back on the concrete bench in the Quad, took a long drag and rehearsed her facial expression one more time. She rubbed her gritty eyes. It had been two o'clock by the time she'd perfected the right mix of confidence, humility and surprise in the mirror. But she was ready for her close-up now.
On the other side of the Quad, three bald men in navy-blue coveralls slapped paint over a swirly symbol in yellow on the eastern wall of the gym. Their movements were slow and synchronised, the paint strokes mesmerising. They didn't say a word.
Smoke streamed out of her nostrils like twin chimneys and she thought back to yesterday’s weird bus ride. She knew which prediction applied to her, but what about the other two? Darkness and departing? Which warning was directed at Lila and which one was meant for Holly? Lila was so fragile, like a translucent baby bird while Holly was battle hardened. Years of bullying will do that to a person.
‘Come on. It's up,’ Lila shouted across the concrete square. Violet smirked and stubbed out her smoke. She always savoured the last moment as she snuffed the life out of the red embers. Lila hurried over, all skinny legs like a stick insect. Violet shivered. She never understood how Lila coped with bare legs in winter.
‘Come on.’ Lila tugged at Violet's duffle coat, her eyes red-rimmed but shining. What kept Lila awake last night?
Violet threw her backpack over her shoulder and strutted towards the building.
The girls’ black boots squeaked in rhythm on the linoleum floor and echoed off the concrete block walls as they passed the dark computer labs, the empty library and the locked-up science block. Long quiet shadows replaced the rush of teenagers. The corridors seemed vast and tomb-like.
Violet and Holly jumped when a classroom door opened. A lumpy woman in fuchsia shuffled awkwardly out of the opening door, her arms loaded high with test tubes and beakers.
‘Sorry, girls. Didn't mean to scare you,’ she said, with an asthmatic snuffle.
‘Miss Quinlin,’ Lila stammered. ‘I didn't think any other teachers were here.’
‘Holidays are nice and quiet.’ She chuckled. ‘I can get a lot done without you interfering students. There’s the stocktakes of all the broken and stolen equipment, lesson plans. Plenty to do. Plenty to do.’ Miss Quinlin shifted the tower of glass objects in her arms.
Violet pictured millions of pieces of glass shattering across the floor and waited for the smash, but Miss Quinlin deftly rebalanced her load. Violet exhaled with a little disappointment.
‘And you two? Theatre program I gather? Another nice musical this year? You were very good last time. Doe a deer, a female deer.’
‘Macbeth,’ Lila said.
Miss Quinlin's forehead rippled. ‘Oh.’
‘And Violet's going to be Lady Macbeth.’
Violet smoothed down her hair and lifted her chin. Miss Quinlin bit at her bottom lip.
‘I hope I don't jinx you?’ Lila grimaced.
‘Don't be silly. It's obvious.’
A crackle of white noise blasted out of the public address system speakers above their heads. Violet jolted.
‘What was that?’ Lila gasped.
‘Who cares?’ Violet tugged on Lila's arm. ‘Come on.’
‘We have to go. Bye, Miss Quinlin.’ Lila waved and they sped off, leaving the science teacher standing in the middle of the corridor, her eyebrows knitted.
‘Did you see that Quasimodo’s cardigan?’ giggled Violet as they turned the corner. ‘Do you think she knits them herself?’
‘Don't call her that,’ said Lila.
‘She won't hear. She's off with the fairies most of the time anyway.’
‘Imagine what her husband is like.’ Lila shivered.
‘Who'd marry her?’ Violet snorted. ‘She'd have a house full of cat hair and potpourri.’
Violet sucked in a deep breath as she and Lila pushed through the double doors into the drama department. A handful of younger boys huddled around the notice board in the corridor but Lila cleared Violet's path by shoving aside a crestfallen Year Eight boy.
Violet closed her eyes and licked her lips, ready for her highlight reel moment. Her casting as Lady Macbeth was unquestionable after playing Maria in last term's successful production of The Sound of Music. The glowing review in the Beacon Hill Gazette, now laminated and Blu-tacked next to her bedroom mirror, described her performance as 'charming and delightful'. It was official.
But that was last term. Unfortunately, Mrs Tulloch had left the school suddenly, something to do with nerves. She was replaced by Mr Ravenswood who was fresh out of uni with his old man clothes and his pretentious voice. Violet had taken it upon herself to educate the new drama teacher about her position in the high school theatre community. She left copies of her Maria review in his office and under the windshield of his car. She would've posted copies to his house but the school secretary wouldn't provide his address, even when Violet explained the importance. Apparently giving out teachers’ addresses was against school policy. Power-tripper. But when Violet was invited to audition for the holiday program, she knew her campaign had worked.
‘Oh,’ Lila gasped.
Violet's heart stopped, her eyes sprang open. She stepped forward and frantically scoured the list of names.
‘There must be a mistake.’ Lila grasped Violet's shoulder but Violet flicked her hand away. She checked the list twice, fists bunched at her sides. Three times. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? But it was true, the cast list was there in black and white.
‘Angelika fucking Ostholz.’ Violet growled.
She elbowed Lila and the others aside and stormed off down the corridor.
***
THE DARK HAND
We are wise.
Older than you, older than them, all of them. Older than the trees, the ground, the earth, the skies, as old as time itself.
We are before, we are now, we are forever. Ingrained, we live in everything.
You know who we are, even if you do not know our name.
We watch.
We wait.
We listen to every conversation, every thought. We are there when you whimper at 3am and the rest of the world is asleep. We hear your tears in the toilets at lunchtime. We are there when you linger too long on the bridge watching the creek flow swiftly underneath, when you stand on the edge of the kerb as a truck hurtles past.
We understand.
We are alike.
Like you, we are misunderstood.
But we are here for you. Whenever you need us.
When no one else understands, we do.
We know.
We understand what you want, what you need.
We are your friend.
The only ones you can rely on.
***
VIOLET
‘Bitch. Bastard.’ Violet spat and stomped away from the bulletin board and down the corridor. ‘Bastard. Bitch.’
The fluorescent lighting flickered above her head. On and off, on and off. The corridor was blanketed in darkness, then blasted with blunt white light. She passed another maintenance man in blue coveralls who was rehanging a door and like the others, he was silent and bald. Violet ground her teeth harder with each step closer to Ravenswood's office. It must be a mistake. She rubbed at her chin and forced a slow breath out of her lungs. She'd give him a chance to make amends. They had plenty of time until before Friday's performance.
She rounded the corner. The teachers' offices sat in the inner core of the school building, like a row of jail cells with no windows. The lights were off and the corridor was as dark as night, the only source of light was an open door up ahead and the red neon exit sign.
Once she explained his mistake, he'd understand and put it right. It would be a little embarrassing for him, having to admit his blunder, and Angelika would have to live with the disappointment, but such was life.
Violet loitered in the doorway. Ravenswood sat at a desk littered with bulging Manila folders, a purple paisley scarf around his neck. A wrinkled Royal Shakespeare Company poster was Blu-tacked to the beige brick wall behind him and the room stunk of stale coffee. Violet pushed her breath right down into her diaphragm, exactly the way her acting book taught her.
Mr Ravenswood glanced up. ‘Ah, Jeanette. Come in.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose and gestured to a cracked plastic chair.
‘It's Violet.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And I'll stand.’
‘I thought the roll said Jeanette.’ Ravenswood reached for a green clipboard under the mess on his desk.
‘I go by Violet now,’ she said with folded arms. She rested her back against the cold brick wall. ‘Mrs Tulloch knew that.’
‘Well, I am not Mrs Tulloch.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I know.’
‘I gather you are here about the production?’
‘There's been a mistake.’
‘You mean the cast list?’ he said. ‘I put it up myself.’
‘But Angelika Ostholz?’
‘Lady Macbeth. Yes.’ He stared back at her without blinking.
Violet frowned. ‘She's not...’ Her tongue turned thick and uncooperative. ‘I was Maria.’
‘I know. I got your little messages.’ Ravenswood lifted his glasses from his nose and sucked on an arm. ‘But this isn't The Sound of Music, Violet. This is Shakespeare. Quite a different story, if you get my drift.’
‘But she...’ Violet’s mouth opened and closed like a gate in the wind.
‘I can see you're disappointed. It seems you had your heart set on Lady Macbeth. And you weren't the only one. But we can't always get what we want. This time you missed out. There'll be other opportunities. Other roles,’ he said, smoothing back his hair. ‘Roles you're more suited for.’
‘I'm not a witch,’ she said, thrusting her chin in the air.
‘But everyone knows the witches from Macbeth. Even people who know nothing about the Bard. They're an integral part of the story. Iconic.’
Violet narrowed her eyes. Ravenswood leaned back in his creaking chair, his fingers threaded behind his head.
‘I'm going to Mrs Petrakis. I want to make a complaint.’ Violet’s hands were shaking. ‘Formally.’
‘This isn't some frothy musical, Violet. This is Shakespeare. Part of my job as director is to have a vision. I have a very clear picture of what I want and I'm aiming for a particular look. A classical interpretation. Unfortunately, Violet, you do not fit my vision.’
Violet scowled as Ravenswood assessed her. She wrapped her lips over her crooked teeth, sucked in her stomach and fluffed out her shirt.
‘You'll make a perfectly acceptable witch.’
‘But I should be Lady Macbeth,’ she said. ‘And Mrs Petrakis will agree.’
Mrs Petrakis had singled Violet out specifically in assembly, comparing her performance to Julie Andrews in front of the whole school. When the headmistress found out, Violet knew she would fix this.
‘You're perfectly welcome to contact her. And you're free to leave the holiday program. There's no one holding you here.’
Violet stared at the scarf around Ravenswood’s neck and gritted her teeth. She resisted the urge to lunge forward. Pull the noose tighter and tighter, until his eyes bulged and he begged for mercy, until his face was puce and he admitted his mistake. Until he offered her back the part with an over-the-top apology in front of everyone. She licked her lips.
Ravenswood pointed to the white-faced clock on the wall. ‘Rehearsals begin in ten minutes. If you come, I want you to be fully committed. I can't have people leaving midway through and letting the rest of the cast down. A production is a team effort. We only have a few days and everyone must pull their weight.’
‘I'm familiar with how theatre works, Mr Ravenswood.’ Violet rolled her eyes.
‘That's why I invited you to participate in the program. With your experience, you'll be a valuable member of the troupe. But it's up to you.’ Ravenswood leaned forward. ‘Do I have your commitment, Violet?’
Violet sucked down a deep breath, but said nothing.
‘Suit yourself.’ He shrugged.
He picked up a stack of assignments and turned in his chair. The filing cabinet drawer opened with a metallic squeal.
She sighed. She hoped Mrs Petrakis's number was in the White Pages.
The filing cabinet drawer closed again with a thump.
‘Ow!’ Ravenswood yelled.
His polyester scarf was trapped tight in the closed drawer and sliced across his neck like a garrotte. He tugged, coughed and gasped, fingers clawing at the ligature. Violet watched from the doorway but she didn't move. With a grunt, he yanked the scarf free from the filing cabinet and chucked it across the desk but the flimsy fabric wafted through the air.
Ravenswood panted and rubbed at his throat. A red welt swelled under his fingers.
For the first time since she'd seen the cursed cast list, Violet smiled.
***
RAVENSWOOD
Ravenswood grasped at his neck and glared as Violet walked away. It was all her fault, she distracted him with her whingeing. Ordinarily he was extremely co-ordinated. His finger traced o
ver his Adam’s apple and a crust of blood from this morning’s shave. Damned blunt razor.
He shook his head. What gall. She was no Lady Macbeth. So ungrateful, she was lucky to get a part at all, and she had completely the wrong attitude for his theatre community at Beacon Hill High School. He should've sent her packing, back to whatever teenagers did during their school holidays these days: Nintendo, getting pregnant, smoking bongs. Unfortunately, Beacon Hill wasn't Hollywood and the talent pool was shallow, and there were only three days till the performance.
Ravenswood checked the clock again. They'd be trudging through the school gates now, yawning and rubbing their eyes. He grabbed his wretched scarf and wrapped it around his neck, hiding the red mark. With his accessories in place, he rolled back his shoulders and took a calming breath. It was suicidal to show even a smidgen of weakness with these children. Animals. They were brutal if you gave them even half a chance.
He patted the pile of photocopied scripts and slurped the last dregs from his mug. He shuddered as a congealed skin of milk coated his tongue.
The kids wouldn't care if he was a few minutes late. He dialled the number, clearing his throat as he listened to the dial tone.
‘Wolf.’
Such gravitas and warmth with a single word, so professional.
‘Alan. Paul Ravenswood. So glad I finally caught you.’
‘Ah, Paul, how are you?’
‘Very well, Alan.’ His heart fluttered, he was so wrapped up in his admiration, he almost forgot to be nervous. ‘And yourself?’
‘Bordering on marvellous. But awfully busy. So many balls in the air as they say.’ He chuckled and Ravenswood laughed along with him, a little too boisterously but Alan Wolf didn't seem to notice. ‘I don't mean to be rude, Paul, but I can only spare a few minutes. What can I do for you today?’
The Flower and the Serpent Page 2