《Compendium of Curious Incidents》


 Marcels Trial

    The dust refused to settle as it drifted loftily in the haze of light that split the small space in two. The dark tent had been set up purely for this meeting, it stood as a small hub of canvas jutting from the ground in the centre of Marcel¡¯s campsite. It seemed cruelly ironic to Marcel that the shelter he had called home in the preceding weeks on the road now served as his prison. The inquisition had been quick to make it their own, and now the thin fabric walls, draped in the thick velvet throws of the inquisitor to rob the space of light, served as a reminder that he could never be free ¨C if he lived that was.


    The inquisitor who had called himself Querin sat at the opposite end of a table to his prisoner. The tent, not much larger than the table itself, seemed impossibly dark and Querin¡¯s features were all but obscured as he delicately arranged a few items before him. A small incense burner, which gave the scent of lavender to the room, an intricately designed flintlock pistol and a small crucifix, the figure of the immortal Christ missing from the simple wooden cross.


    The Inquisitor leant forward, allowing his face to be illuminated by the beam of light, his features sharp and skin dark, each line of his face imposing from the top of his bald head to his long chin, but none more so than the small scar on his forehead like an eye waiting to open. There were two metal stubs pierced into his collar which he stroked absent-mindedly with his thumb, the small metal discs seemed to have particular meaning to him, but Marcel could only wonder what importance the inquisition held for these; wards perhaps, he mused.


    Marcel¡¯s vision was blurred and his head was thrumming rhythmically, though it was to be suspected given the wounds he¡¯d received. His hazy eyes could still make out the cynical look that Querin gave him. He had heard tell that inquisitors could read minds, from the stare he was getting he wondered if it might be true.


    A fresh jolt of pain distracted Marcel from his interrogator¡¯s gaze. His body was numb, save for a sharp pain in his side. He pressed hard there, trying to put as much pressure on the wound as he could, but as more blood seeped through his clenched fingers he lost both the strength and the will to do so. The seconds ticked by with nothing happening, the inquisitor had entwined his fingers before his face and rested his elbows on the table, regarding Marcel in an eerily still silence, the only indication that time had not frozen being the drifting particles that glittered in the light, forever twirling, trapped in the dance of the sunbeam.


    The inquisitor leaned forward.


    ¡°Shall we discuss what happened?¡±


    Marcel felt a soft breeze upon his cheek as he stared down the inquisitor. Glaring into his eyes he felt weak and the scent of lavender made him drowsy.


    ¡°You know what happened,¡± he mustered. Using all his strength to meet those penetrating brown eyes, the words came as a whisper.


    The inquisitor said nothing. Querin continued only to stare.


    ¡°I refuse to believe you hold me here,¡± - Marcel¡¯s cough interrupted his speech as a sharp pain gripped his side from his wound - ¡°Simply so I can tell you what you already know.¡±


    Querin drew in a long breath, never breaking his gaze, the sound like a long drawn out sigh. ¡°Oh, but there is so much that I didn¡¯t see, now, isn¡¯t there. I think you know exactly where to begin.¡±


    It was Marcel¡¯s turn to remain silent as he traipsed back through his memory, thinking of recent events. He lingered on thoughts of his friends before he noted in a moment of dull realisation that he would never see them again. Marcel knew he had no choice, nothing to do but to talk.


    ¡°It was a short while after we fled the army,¡± He began, remembering the day he and his two comrades refused to return to the ranks of Napoleon¡¯s forces, instead fleeing south into Spain hoping their new life as renegades would not be burdened by too many troubles. ¡°We needed money, food, clothes that wouldn¡¯t trace us back to Napoleon. Anyone who knew we were hiding from our service viewed us with hostility, several times we had to flee a town because farmers wanted to sell us out for a reward. We took odd jobs, mostly protecting merchants and people journeying between cities, but that was all we could get. So that¡¯s how they found us. Seemed like any other job, protect three travellers as they journeyed to the coast. Nothing too odd.¡± Marcel coughed again with another jolt of pain. Talking was difficult and he hated how Querin remained perfectly still throughout. ¡°The woman, she seemed normal for a traveller. Dirty, dark haired, something mystical about her. She would dance sometimes as she walked, without music, though she did play her viola when the mood took her. As for the other two, they claimed to be her brothers but they were¡­ Unusual. Clean, neat, strikingly blonde, they had unusual accents and let the girl do most of the talking. When they did talk you could tell they didn¡¯t know the language well.¡± Marcel paused briefly, looking for some form of confirmation from Querin that this is what he wanted to hear, but the inquisitor remained completely still.


    ¡°The destination was by the coast, we assumed they were trying to get a boat or knew someone that could hide them. They clearly had their own faith, no surprise really that you were after them.


    Luc - my friend - wanted little to do with them, much like myself, but money is money and they had plenty. Anyway, he kept to the head of the pack, scouting out the roads and leading us along the route; he was good at finding the way. The twins, those two blonde men, took an interest in Henri. He was young, not much for talking either so I have no idea what they spoke about, but they used to walk alongside him on the path. I spent most of the journey talking to the woman. She had a caravan pulled by two horses and while she drove them I would walk by her, so I could keep an eye on the road behind and protect the caravan if necessary.


    ¡°We spoke a lot, she was¡­¡± Marcel struggled to admit the next part, something was compelling him to talk but he was aware of the Inquisition¡¯s stance on these matters. ¡°She was enchanting; kind, interesting, and beautiful. She always had something to talk about, filled every silent moment, either with song or music or questions. She asked me a lot about my home, my life. Plenty of questions about the military and why I left. I found her entrancing, when we stopped for the nights and made camp she would make up a fire and dance around it, enticing me, swaying her long dress with one hand. Some nights she would creep over to me, wake me to tell me stories of the stars or her ancestors. Folk lore and myths, that sort of thing. I would fall asleep listening to them and in the morning, find her arms around me.¡± The Frenchman looked up at Querin, expecting to see a disapproving frown but met only by the impassive stare of his captor. He decided to continue. ¡°It took a while but we got near to their destination which they had said was a house by the coast. We passed the last town on the route sometime at mid-day which is when they told us to stop as we were supposed to get there in the morning. It was very important to them. We just thought it was to do with their rendezvous. Besides, they were willing to pay for the extra day¡¯s wait.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    The rest of the afternoon went by quickly enough, the twins said they needed some provisions and Luc took them back into the nearby town. They didn¡¯t return until after sundown. The rest of us shared some tea in the caravan, after which Henri went and found a comfortable patch in the wildflowers and slept for a while. As for me, the lady invited me back into her caravan, she undressed and I was powerless to resist that body. We enjoyed each other twice before the night time, and again after dark. When Luc and the twins rounded the corner back to our campsite Henri followed quick on their coattails to reveal a rabbit he had caught for dinner after his nap. That night she danced around the fire again, only wilder this time, with a fiery passion in every step. Almost straight after she was done she pulled me into the caravan and that time she was on me like an animal, like something feral and hungry.


    In the morning Luc woke me early, he had been up in the night and found the travellers were gone. They must have returned at some point in the small hours, however, for they were the first ready and awake, standing eagerly at the head of the trail waiting for us.


    We went on. They lead the way now with me, Luc and Henri travelling at the back wary of the path ahead.


    Then we came to the place, as they had said, to find it was not a house; rather a church, or at least what had once been one. The building was marred by what looked like an old fire. It seemed a husk of what it must once have been.


    The twins ushered us inside, the lady having giddily run up to the archway door ahead of us - with a radiant, unchecked smile she had bounded in before the caravan horses had even stopped. Luc told me and Henri to wait outside in a hushed breath that the twins must not have heard. We did and Luc entered behind them, slowly.


    It was quiet for a short moment. The church was on a cliff edge and the ocean waves were crashing against the rocks. Had the wind been going the other way, perhaps I would have heard your horses approaching.


    We heard Luc cry out, the sudden noise swiftly followed by a gunshot. Henri charged in, I was close behind. The rifle Luc had been carrying was unused and tight in his grip, instead the shot had come from a pistol one of the twins held outstretched. Luc was dead. That was what we saw first. Then we saw the beast.


    In the centre of the church within some chalk-drawn archaic symbol that great demonic creature stood nearly to the roof. A black cloud of smoke billowed from its feet and made the air acrid, choking, and I was filled with a sickening mixture of awe and horror at its presence. I know Henri fired his rifle and recall the blonde hair of the twin that shot Luc slick with blood in the corner of my vision. But my eyes were locked on the winged beast. I heard a word. ¡°Run¡± it said, resounding in my head, Henri trying to save me, pushing me to the door. Eventually my feet registered and I fled. Henri never followed behind. I don¡¯t know why. But outside, you stood.


    Your guard and horses lined up outside waiting for us. You began to speak, but the fire billowed out from the church halting your soldiers. I can¡¯t remember much in the chaos, the black smoke cloud was too thick, but I remember arms grabbing me and dragging me away. I didn¡¯t realise until afterwards that they were the arms of the traveller lady. We ran until I collapsed and when I awoke she was gone, and you were there. Ready to shoot me so I could not escape again.¡±


    At last Querin reacted, drawing in a long breath that made it seem he only now took disbelief in the story when his own involvement supported the claims. Over the course of his recounting the incense had burnt low and Querin took the time to slowly and deliberately relight a thickly scented pastille.


    Marcel couldn¡¯t be sure whether the pain in his side was abating or perhaps his whole self ached too much now to care. He felt cold.


    Scrutinising Marcel, Querin rubbed again at the silver discs in his collar.


    ¡°You base fool,¡± he stated. ¡°Falling prey to the whims of a succubus and not even knowing her name.¡±


    Marcel thought back and realised this to be true. He wondered why he had disclosed so much, looking again at the freshly lit incense and the hazy smoke drifting loftily into the air. He wondered if the scent was intoxicating him, but decided it was simply a case that he no longer cared. His sensibilities had been betrayed, he had witnessed a great atrocity being brought into the world and lost his only two friends and companions. He had shared everything, because he had already lost it all.


    ¡°I knew of these travellers, and their desire to invoke a demon for some time.¡± Querin continued with his explanation, ¡°Capturing them was to show the church why the powers of the inquisition cannot continue to be stripped away. It¡¯s bad enough we face such opposition from the likes of your French lords who threaten to abolish us. The church must be absolute!¡± He slammed his fist on the table, his voice escalating into a shout emboldened with religious conviction.


    ¡°If not,¡± he said, returning to his frosty calm, ¡°imbeciles like you are allowed to rise up and ruin everything. The girl escaped, this creature you speak of was nowhere to be found once the smoke cleared. The church, reduced to rubble.¡± He shook his head slowly.


    Suddenly a muffled thud came from outside the tent drawing both their attentions. Querin was inscrutable, passive at his desk as always, though he picked up his pistol and glared at the entrance. For a moment everything was silent. Then one of Querin¡¯s guards began to scream. A volley of gunfire followed shortly after and continued to accentuate the harried shouts of the inquisitor¡¯s soldiers as they barked their orders.


    Querin looked sceptically at Marcel ¡°Do not even try to run,¡± he said and rose smoothly, exiting the tent with a near serene presence. Marcel almost admired the man¡¯s surety.


    As the tent billowed close behind him the Frenchman caught what he felt was his last glimpse of the outside world. The bright sun illuminating nearby trees as they swayed in a gentle breeze. It looked a pleasant day, before he was shrouded again in the dark void of his interrogation chamber. The sounds continued, though the muffled shouts were becoming less hurried, or perhaps there were simply fewer of them. The gunshots still rang out, though distantly, and they began to match the thrumming beat of his heart, each beat a new wave of pain at his temples as a headache developed. The incense still burned and next to it on the table lay the simple worn cross. Marcel reached over and took it in his hand. He gripped it with all his strength, until the knuckles of his fist were white. He held it to his head with a great effort and began to pray. Regardless of whomsoever should come back in, he thought, he was going to want the Lord to help him.

 The incident at Ashfield Orphanage

    It was at the behest of the citizens of that small town of Ashfield that I found myself upon the doorstep of their Orphanage. Many had warned me of strange noises and echoing cries in the night in their letters, more so told me of how the building itself appeared to glow with an eerie dim light as though possessed by some evil spirits. According to the reports I received the local law enforcement had been unable to dispel the general fear and refused to investigate further; too busy, I assume, for such matters.


    When I first arrived in Ashfield naught could have prepared me for the initial devastation that had been wrought on the people there. The town was in the grips of some terrible disease; wracked by a mystery ailment a large number had fallen and more still were dreadfully sick. This knowledge seemed to explain to me the origins of the letters I had received. During such hardships it is common to seek an explanation for one¡¯s woes, particularly for those who are suffering from illness, delusional and desperate as they sometimes can be. However, as an investigator of public matters it was my duty to absolve them of their fears.


    As I passed the orphanage in the cold sunlight it seemed perfectly normal to me; situated in an old manor house on the outskirts of town it was run by a convent, headed by Agnes, the Mother Superior.


    Agnes complied to my wishes graciously and permitted me to stay for the night in the Orphanage so that I might investigate the strange happenings. There was little she could tell me of their source, only that ever since the outbreak children would disappear in the night- her concern was that a beast of sorts, perhaps a wolf or fox, had taking refuge in the building and was dragging the children from their cots as they slept. A likely theory though it was, if her nuns and wet-nurses kept as close a watch as she insisted any wild beast would surely have been sighted by now. I assured her that any such creature I encountered on my patrol that night would be swiftly dealt with. Agnes then gave me a short prayer of safety prior to my departure to spend the day speaking with the townsfolk.


    Accounts of the mysteries that occurred at the Orphanage varied, and some I asked had no first hand experiences to offer. Because of this I would ordinarily be inclined to give up my pursuit and assume the noises of the night had been nothing more than the wind given voice by active imagination though I persisted with my inquiries, desperate for any information that may identify the creature robbing children from their cribs.


    My interviewees did offer one intriguing morsel however, a solitary anecdote that did pique my interest. No matter my route of inquiry their attentions would be brought back to this outbreak. It had been occurring for only three weeks but regardless, they claimed the progress was both rapid and devastating, many had suffered violent spasms and thus deaths from this ailment.


    However, in a bizarre coincidence which caught my attention the most, in its initial burgeoning¡¯s the illness exclusively targeted couples, in particular those who had recently sired a young infant. This morsel of information raised my concern that a more sinister operation was afoot, a murderer could easily disguise a poison to appear the work of an illness after all. Once the couples perished their infants were being taken to the Orphanage, should access be available some madman could be the cause of both the deaths and disappearing children. God only knows what sick intentions the debased have, but murderers shy far from Gods light.


    After dining in town, I returned to the Orphanage, the daylight now dimming as swiftly as is natural in the bleak winter months, and by the time I reached the pathway to the door it had faded to black entirely. Luckily there was a nun at the gate who had been lighting the lantern which hung from the arched trellis at the gate, and with the aid of her candle we reached the doorstep where Agnes let us in. There was no sign of any ethereal glow from the building and silence heavily blanketed the orphanage instead of the fabled noises in the night.


    I was shown to my room, the furnishings as spartan as can only be expected from a convent. My carry case had been brought up earlier in the day, presumably by one of the nuns, and my belongings were the sole injection of personality into the bare living quarters. The layout of the building was easy enough to understand; the entranceway was large with two oaken staircases that led to the next floor. The ground floor held the sleeping quarters of the Convent and a chapel for prayer through the right-hand doorway as one entered, and through the left was the dinning room, adjoining with the kitchen and a nursery for the children to play and learn in. The two upper levels were entirely devoted to the children¡¯s chambers. According to the Mother Superior there had previously been a ¡®school room¡¯ on the second floor to the purpose of teaching the older children, but it had to be altered to fit an additional dormitory to cope with the increase of orphans as a result of the outbreak.


    Agnes seemed rather upset when I told her that my investigations in town had not shed any light on the situation, although she still hoped that I could help them obtain some form of clarity regarding the missing children.


    As she guided me around the building, showing me room to room, I also made acquaintance with the few nuns and nurses that staffed the orphanage.


    Firstly, we encountered Sister Margery, whom Agnes introduced as a devout wife of Christ.


    Next, the chaste Sister Georgia- the ¡®chaste¡¯ said with much inflection.


    Nurse Sarah ¨C A gift from god, Agnes told me, she was still fairly new to the town of Ashfield.


    Nurse Ann, a quiet, shy girl with mousey hair and similar disposition.


    And finally, I met the Sisters Abigail and Jane. Jane was preparing a cot while Abigail held a peacefully sleeping baby in her arms. Ann, who had followed Agnes and I with a neatly folded blanket in her arms, took the baby from Abigail to lay it to sleep in the cot.


    The atmosphere was one of foreboding as I went around fastening all the windows and being sure that no doors were left unlocked. Much to my surprise I could not find a single one that was not already locked up tight. The few windows that would open hardly cracked ajar enough to allow a rat in, let alone a plump country fox, and a wolf would have even less chance.


    I puzzled over what could be causing the disappearances, again worrying of a more sinister occurrence. I took note in my journal to ask of the Mother Superior whom from the town had access to the Orphanage and revitalising myself with a sip of brandy from my hipflask. The journal I returned to my room, the hipflask I kept on my person, the brandy was to help with warmth, naturally, for now the bitter chill of winter had crept into the manor house.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Most of the sisters had retired to bed, though two remained on each floor to check on the children and hopefully catch the culprit of the disappearances, and the chapel had one of the sisters present at all times.


    Little happened as I sat in the hallway, kept company only by the sound of hushed footsteps and the occasional crying baby always to be followed by a series of calming shushes and the gentle hum of a lullaby.


    Enacting the first of my patrols around the premises I encountered nothing out of the ordinary. On the second round Sister Margery was tired and came over a little faint, so I dismissed her to bed and offered to help Sarah every half hour should she require it.


    It was not until it began approaching the fourth hour that anything peculiar happened; I thought I could hear the shrill cry of foxes or some other small mammal squabbling in the yard, so I looked out of one of the windows flanking the main door. I could see scarcely a few feet from the house due to the mists which had rolled in over the course of the night. The light that shone on the ground however was an unnatural mix of the most vibrant blues and greens which appeared to almost dance, their soft shifting reflected on the courtyard. Despite my attempts to shake myself of this view the light appeared to emanate from within the Orphanage, not that I could discern any such source from my vantage point inside. I reached for the door handle to go and investigate when I heard a determined scratching from one of the floors above, a noise like many fingernails scraping a chalk board, I shivered and the image of a thousand beetles desperately scrabbling over one another entered my mind.


    Without thinking I drew my pistol and approached the stairs. I tried to be as quiet as possible.


    After the first flight of stairs I nearly bumped into the two sisters on watch, both of whom were shocked to see I had my firearm raised. They followed me up the next flight of stairs towards the source of the noise, which they could not discern as clearly as I, despite my pleas for them to stay below in safety.


    On this floor I took a moment to take stock of my surroundings. The scraping sounds had come to a halt, but when we heard it last it had most definitely been coming from a solitary room at the end of a corridor. I instructed the Sisters to check the other rooms in the earnest hope that they may find the Nurse unharmed.


    I crept closer to the doorway, its illumination casting a gentle golden glow into the hallway. I held my revolver out in front of me, as the candlelight spilling from the door flickered something before it casting shadows through the door.


    I was scarcely breathing, my thoughts solely on preventing any harm from coming to the baby I had seen set down in the cot mere hours ago. My heartbeat seemed painfully loud in the eerie quiet as I took the last few steps to the room- I steadied my grip on the revolver and stepped through the doorway. Within that room was a hideous thing standing on one of the cots and looming over the baby nestled inside; a grotesque eight legged spider-human creature, fully six feet tall, an elongated body protruding from a bulbous arachnid behind, covered in fur, with many red, piercing eyes and, most sickening of all, adorned in the pristine white gown of a Nurse. I had no time to do anything but utter a cry of despair as I saw one of the long, thin arms delicately place the baby in its gaping maw, fangs glinting in the candlelight, and the creature swallowed the infant whole. Frozen in shock and fear, the lazy gulp enraged me and shook me into action.


    I cocked my pistol.


    The noise alerted the creature and it lunged at me with alarming speed and ferocity. With a planned precision one of its legs swiped at the lamp in the room without halting its stride, smashing the glass and robbing me of light- I fired instinctively, the spark from the muzzle all I had to see by in this moment of panic. I just caught a glimpse of the creature staggering as the brief flare dissipated into afterimages- I had hit it! But alas it still moved toward me, and I quickly swept the palm of my hand over the hammer of my revolver as I fired off the next five rounds in quick succession, sparing no mercy. Each shot echoed through the manor in a cacophony of sound, babies cried, and harried shouts issued from below as the nuns ran to the commotion. With each shot I was greeted by the wet thud of steel puncturing flesh. I had struck the creature with each and every round and only in the embers of the last muzzle flash could I see that it was dying.


    My gun chambers empty, I threw myself to the side lest the creature¡¯s momentum carry it barrelling into me. Already coughing on the acrid stench of gunpowder, charred flesh and burnt hair, I hit the floor with a solid thump, a similar noise emanating from the open doorway as the spider-thing fell dead.


    The two Sisters that had followed me to this floor rushed to my side. Pulling myself to my feet I tried to stop them as they turned their attentions to what lay beyond the door, a haze of gun smoke adrift in the air. My efforts were in vain however and both cried out in horror, their screams piercing, ringing in my ears.


    I turned to console them, but as I stared through the doorway to the body of that wretched thing, it was my turn to cry aloud.


    Lying on the floor of the room was the Nurse Sarah, mouth agape in a silent scream, her eyes tear ridden and laced with fear, her blonde hair matted with thick strings of blood. Smoke was eddying gently from the five bullet holes perforating her still body; another was slowly pulsing blood from the small child she cradled protectively.


    The other nuns rushed to us, most of them still in their nightgowns. How could I let them see this, how could I look at them- or anyone for that matter given what I had done? I let the gun fall from my hand and to the wooden floor, its weight suddenly overwhelming. My body was numb, save for one sudden impulse; ¡®run¡¯, it told me. Run.


    So I did, darting past the Mother Superior, pushing her violently from my path, speeding down the stairs as quickly as my trembling legs could carry me and instantly forcing my way through the door. A few paces down the path and I tripped, cutting my hands as I thrust them ahead of me to stop my fall. I turned back for a last look at the Ashfield Orphanage. There I saw that unsettling, otherworldly glow that the citizens were so scared of. I could see the very manor itself laughing at me, its rustic features given lifelike form as the wind carried its horrible, mocking laugh after me all the way as I ran through the town and out the other side.


    Agnes the Mother Superior would later claim at the funeral that the devil had possession of me, that the illness which wracked the city had poisoned my mind and that I could not be blamed for this misfortune. Others who had heard tale from the nuns of my steadily emptying hip flask with its potent scent of brandy would muse that I drunkenly mistook the young, pretty Sarah for a ghost, having been confounded by the tales the townsfolk had told me.


    More still would consider the Orphanage a place of evil. And those that claim they heard my terrified cries as I ran through the town would say I shouted of witchcraft and devil worship. It would be those people that would later burn down the Orphanage in a fit of rage and terror. With the nuns and orphans still locked inside, I might add.


    As for myself, I kept running that night. I ran until I came to the church at the outskirts of the next town over. There I gripped onto the priest and confessed the crime, giving him all the truth I knew, of that which I saw and the very real spider-thing I witnessed. The creature had once, without doubt, been Sarah- I could see it now, her arriving in town conveniently before an outbreak that she surely must have orchestrated, using her poisonous daemon spawn children so that she could feast to her content under the guise of a helpful Nurse.


    The priest consoled me for a day, but the police soon found me.


    This account I have written; for the many tales told in Ashfield of the accursed Orphanage go on, growing in their complexity, fewer now telling of the strange detective that saw what he saw, all exaggerated beyond reasonable belief. And since I have taken note of the ever-increasing number of spiders that I find in my cell daily, this may be the only opportunity to tell some of you- those that will listen ¨C the true account of the events. A first hand experience of the ¡®incident¡¯ at Ashfield Orphanage.


    And so, farewell.

 The Pet

    That night at diner and Tom had not been able to shake the horrible thoughts from his mind. Even the birthday cake that Abigail had was not enough to cheer him up.


    On Sunday, Abigail spent most of the day in her room, playing with her new friend. Tom was grateful that he did not have to hear her going on about it, but regardless it was still at the forefront of his mind. He tried taking his mind of it with games and TV even chores, but nothing helped.


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    ¡°Well if you don¡¯t want me insulting it then keep your door shut so I don¡¯t have to look at its stupid face¡± Tom shouted, but Abigail was already stomping upstairs


    Tom tried to sleep that night, but he was being haunted again by images, not of giant spiders this time, but hundreds and hundreds of tiny ones, little baby spiders that swarmed over him and clustered on his eyes. He saw them in his dreams as one then two then hundreds clawed into his vision, until everything was black. He writhed in his sleep and managed to fall of his bed, when he hit the floor he woke up.


    The next morning his mother called up for him to get ready for school, and fresh from sleep he had forgotten his nightly haunt. Jumping out of bed full of energy and grabbing his bag and shoes from beneath his bed, no webs in sight. He didn¡¯t remember until he was at his door, and a quick look behind confirmed that nothing was there. Merely nightmares he told himself and went down to finish getting ready for school. As he walked past his sisters¡¯ room, the door ajar he looked in to see the spider staring back ¡°stupid thing¡± he said and continued downstairs.


    His fears did not spare him at school and any time his mind absently wandered from his schoolwork he would see another of the eight-legged things silently waiting. More he thought than had ever been around before.


    When he got home, he decided to say nothing, Tom had, had enough of spiders and didn¡¯t even respond when Abigail tried to goad him on by talking about Fluffy. After dinner, he excused himself and went to bed straight away. Just wanting the day to be over with but he knew sleep would most likely elude him further.


    Some people say they¡¯ve seen the young girl who walks around with her brother. How the two of them will sit at bus stops or on low walls as they walk around. The boy dutifully following his sister as she leads him by hand, for he cannot lead himself; his eyes, his mouth both sewn shut with pink thread. As for the house, people began to question why Peter and Mary stopped turning up for work, and of course eventually they were no longer paid and once they weren¡¯t paid, eventually the bills took everything and the house was emptied to be sold on¡­ but the spiders? The spiders stayed behind.