The Spider: Chapter 13

End of part 1

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13

John had been gone no more than a week by the time Frances had had enough of her mother’s company. In moments of desperation, she had hidden herself away writing furiously to John, expressing her thoughts, regrets and sharing the happiest memories she had with him. He had left an address for her to write but she felt she still had more to say, so they remained folded and in the drawer of her writing desk. When she returned to them to see if anything should be added, she tore them up after deciding nothing she had written was worthy of a letter. 

He had kissed her farewell on the doorstep and climbed into the cab, waving goodbye to everyone before they watched his transport fade like a speck of soot, blending into the greying distance. Frances waved with red, swollen eyes and cried for the rest of the morning in private until Beatrice forced her to straighten herself up and play a game of rummy. 

“You need to eat, you know,” Beatrice said at dinner. Frances pushed some food around her plate.

“I’m not hungry.” 

“You think you’re not, but you must be. You’ll be no good to us starved.” 

Frances reluctantly brought some food to her lips. The potato tasted like chalk, but she ate it anyway, gulping down some water to push it along. 

The milk pudding they had for dessert was more palatable. Mrs Mckinnon cleared the dinner plates away as though they were empty. Frances felt as though she’d been a rude house guest in someone else’s home as she watched the old woman take them away politely with her kind smile and endeavoured to try harder with the pudding. 

“I was wondering if you wanted to do that seance,” Beatrice said, dropping a dollop of jam into her bowl. 

“Seance?” 

“Yes, you know, with Mr Kingsley?” 

“I didn’t say I wanted to have a seance.” 

“No, I know, but you did agree that the house was haunted.” 

“I don’t know why I said that.” 

“Are you sure? Elsie says it’s haunted.” 

“Have you asked her that?” 

“No. It’s just the things she says.” 

Frances, about to roll her eyes, stopped herself and looked at the floor instead. “What does she say?” 

Beatrice cleared her throat and with a lowered voice, said, “says she sees a man in the house sometimes. Mary says he’s a bad man and that we should stay away from him.” 

Frances scoffed and shook her head. “What nonsense.”

“It’s not,” Beatrice said sternly. “She’s seen him in her room. He watches Sarah sleeping.” 

Frances felt her stomach churning. “What?” she asked, dropping her spoon. 

---

Beatrice’s guests arrived the following afternoon. After Maggie had taken their hats and coats and led them into the drawing room, Beatrice introduced Mr Kingsley and his son-in-law, Fred Wilcox to Frances. Mr Kingsley was around the same age as Beatrice, with a grey, broom-like moustache, a balding head and long lashes on his smiling eyes. Frances couldn’t help but like the old man. He was kind, polite and welcoming, with a deep voice. Fred, in contrast, was a much shorter man, with a severe, square jaw and a wide face that was only exacerbated by his ginger mutton chops. 

“How nice to meet you,” Fred said, offering a hand to Frances. “I am Mr Kingsley’s aid.” 

“Fred is my daughter’s husband. He’s also my solicitor.” 

“Handy,” said Frances, with a welcoming smile. 

“Indeed. It was lucky we could come tonight. My daughter– Florence– she’s the organist at church and it’s her evening to practise. I’m sure Fred is happy to be here instead of on his own all evening.” 

“Indubitably,” Fred agreed. “I’m not much of a musician, nor do I have an ear for music apart from the odd sing-song– No offence,” he said, looking at his father-in-law, who waved a hand.  

“None taken. We can’t all have the gift, can we?” Mr Kingsley said with a straight face. “Now tell me, Mrs Bryant, have you ever been to, or hosted a seance before?” His tone was gentle and soothing, like that of a family doctor or a priest. He spoke to Frances as though calming a cat with a bristled tail out of a corner. 

“No,” she shook her head lightly. “I’ll be honest, Mr Kingsley, I never thought I’d need to.” 

“Please, call me Trevor,” he said in his deep, Lancashire drawl. “This is a type of meeting, shall we say? A seance is a meeting where we, for whatever reason, attempt to contact the dead. It’ll take us into a place that sits between the land of’ the living’ and the land of’ th’ dead.” 

“Like purgatory?” Frances asked, earning a suspicious look from her mother. “I know that’s what the catholics call it, is all– you know– a waiting place?” 

 “Sort of, I suppose.” He nodded. “I’d say that’s a good way to describe it, cocker.” He arranged some items on the table: some slate, a stick of chalk, a ouija board and some candles. “I see you already have some candles but, these are just in case.” 

“Just in case of what?” asked Frances, nosing over the items. 

“In case we run out. Sometimes, the flames can intensify. It’s only ghosts saying ‘ow do?’ but it’s a bit much for us sometimes. They leave us in the dark.” 

“Quite literally,” Beatrice snorted. Frances looked up at her in horror. 

“You’ve done this before?” she asked her mother.

Beatrice nodded sheepishly, “I’ve been to a few, yes.” 

Frances, seeing her mother in a new light, sat with her mouth agape. Mr Kingsley, oblivious to the silent stand off, continued with his briefing. “I can’t tell you how it’s going to go tonight simply because these spirits are unpredictable. Sometimes they’re queuing up and others, well, we’ll just be sat here. I need to know that’ you’re all right with that, Mrs Bryant,” he said, looking up at her from the table. Frances twiddled her fingers. 

“I’m not sure I have any other choice, Mr– Trevor, sorry. My mother is convinced there’s something in the house with us and to be perfectly honest, I think I am, also.” 

Trevor Kingsley leaned back in the chair, seeming pleased with Frances’ answer. “Very well,” the old man said as Trevor brought more chairs to the card table they were sitting at. “Now, can you tell me who’s taking part and who’s in the house?” 

“Myself and my mother are joining you and Fred. Elsie, my daughter, she will be in bed. Sarah, her nanny, will be in the house but I don’t think she wants to join in with this. Other than that, there’s Mrs Mckinnon, my housekeeper and Maggie, my maid. They’ll be in their quarters, I imagine.” 

“Is there a chance I could speak to Sarah and the little’un before we do the seance? It helps paint a picture, so to speak.” 

Frances agreed. “They will have dinner with us. We can speak then.” 

At dinner, Elsie was cherubic in her demeanour and, knowing that sitting at the dinner table was a rare treat, made a keen effort to charm the company. The affable Trevor Kingsley was taken with the little girl as she told him all about her dolls and her favourite games. Frances, although prepared for the conversation, felt herself overcome with nausea every time Mary was mentioned. Fred, observing her discomfort, poured her some water. “Children are masterful at creating imaginary friends, aren’t they?” Fred said quietly as Elsie spoke to Trevor Kingsley. 

“Oh yes, they are,” she said, thanking him for the water. She sipped it nervously. 

“I had an imaginary friend, when I was little,”  said Sarah. “Another little girl. I think her name was Rachel. Did you have one, ma’am?” 

“No, no I didn’t. At least, I don’t remember one.” 

“Mine was a dog.” Fred said, sipping his wine. “My mother wouldn’t let me have one of my own, so I made one up.” 

Frances and Sarah laughed at Fred’s confession. “His name was Barney,” he said wistfully, resting his chin on his hand. 

“What happened to him?” asked Frances. 

Fred shook his head, “I don’t very much know. I think I simply grew up.” 

“Perhaps it was a ghost,” Beatrice said, slicing some cheese. “We could be seeing them all the time, for all we know.” 

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Though I should think the spirits of animals are unlikely.” 

Beatrice turned her face toward Fred and frowned. “Why would you say that?” she asked in a lowered voice, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of plenty of ghost stories concerning farmhouses and manors where packs of dogs can be heard howling in the night, leaving their muddy paw prints everywhere, all while the living ones are asleep at the foot of their master’s beds.” 

Frances shuddered. “Don’t say that, mother. You know I’ll have trouble sleeping.” 

“Trouble sleeping about what?” enquired Trevor Kingsley over his shoulder. 

“Nothing,” Fred said. “Nothing that the little one should be in earshot of, anyway.” 

After seeing Elsie to bed and giving her a goodnight kiss, Frances entered the landing and closed the nursery door behind her. Sarah didn’t know what Beatrice had said about the sightings in her room, and it seemed Elsie hadn’t told her either. Frances sighed with relief but a knot of fear still sat within her core, squeezing her insides as she breathed. “It’s bloody well nothing, Frances,” she tried to tell herself, hearing John’s voice in her head. I’m a madwoman. What the hell are we doing? I shall write him and mention this bizarre evening. I’m sure he’ll find it entertaining, if nothing else.  

She giddily descended the staircase, taking no notice of the flickering sconces as she passed them. She arrived in the tiled hallway to see that everybody else had gone into the drawing room. Leaning closer to the door, Frances could hear the clinking of glasses and rolled her eyes: Beatrice was entertaining. 

She opened the door and found the room almost unrecognisable with the closed curtains and tablecloth that Mr Kingsley had brought. “Ready when you are, cocker,” he said with a wink. He gestured to one of the still empty chairs. “Mind the candles.” 

There were what seemed like hundreds of them, glowing with a fierce, yellow haze around the room. 

Beatrice was the last to be seated, having lit the final candle for the seance. “There,” she said, proudly. “All ready for you now, Trevor.” 

Mr Kingsley nodded and cleared his throat. “Everyone here wants to take part, yes?” he asked. 

Sarah, although intrigued by the prospect of a seance, had bowed out earlier and remained upstairs with Elsie. “Probably for the best. I wouldn’t want to know about being watched in my sleep either,” Beatrice had said. “Best she doesn’t know anything.” 

“We’re all here, Mr K– Trevor,” said Frances, wincing. The room, darkened by the closure of dense curtains and glaring candlelight, felt heavy with anticipation. Frances sensed her heart beating violently as she looked around the room. The candles, at first glowing and fierce, had reduced to a subdued flicker, as though there was a draught that had narrowly missed the blockade of curtains.

“Very well. Now, everybody needs to hold on to the glass here.” Mr Kingsley pointed to the tumbler that Frances had assumed was for Beatrice’s happy hour and smirked. “Don’t let go of the glass, even if it moves. The glass will be moving around to these letters here.” Everyone looked across the board at the letters as Mr Kingsley set the tumbler face down. Frances took a deep breath. She didn’t want to know who Mary was, or the other man. She wanted everyone and everything to go away, but instead, she placed her finger on the glass. Fred, Beatrice and Mr Kingsley followed. 

“If there is anyone present tonight, please tell us, " commanded Mr Kingsley in a booming, clear voice. Frances, deafened by the sound of her own breath, waited with the group in silence, staring at the tumbler. Hours seemed to pass by as they waited. “If Mary is here. Please give us a sign.” 

Frances felt the tug of the glass before she saw it. Their hands were carefully guided to the Y, the E and the S. “Yes. Mary is here,” Mr Kingsley said, half to the room and half to himself. He looked at Frances and gave a gentle, encouraging nod. 

“Did you die here, Mary?” Frances flushed red at hearing her own question. Of course she bloody died. “I mean…” her mind emptied within seconds as her eyes met those of another woman across the table. Sitting between Fred and Beatrice was the woman she had seen in the mirror. Beatrice inhaled a sharp breath as the glass dragged across the letters Y, E and S again.

 Frances allowed the glass to move her hand but she could not take her eyes off the woman sitting opposite her. “Mary,” she tried to say, locking the apparition in her gaze. “M-m,” she tried again. She thought of the throat, the blood and the scream as the others waited in silence for something else to happen. They couldn’t see the ghost in the room. 

“Frances, what is it?” Beatrice asked with a furrowed brow. “Frances? Frances? Speak to me!” 

Mary’s eyes, darkened around the lids, were wide and frightened. She opened her mouth and screamed.

Before Frances could blink, she felt the tumbler rumbling under her finger, vibrating with tension until it shattered. Beatrice yelped and covered her face as the tiny pieces of the tumbler scattered across the table. When she looked up, Frances was still staring at a space beside her, as though in a trance. She rushed over to her daughter and placed her hands on her shoulders. “Frances, what’s wrong? Frances? Please speak to me! Trevor! What do I do?” she gave Frances another shake. “What do I do?” 

“Leave her, Beatrice. She’ll come to in a moment.” Mr Kingsley slowly removed Beatrice from her daughter and stood back. “Mary, can you hear us?” he asked, looking about the room.  

To Beatrice’s relief, Frances closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “She’s here in the room with us,” she said.