The Spider- Chapter 5&6

Omens

Chapters 1-4|

Here are chapters 5 and 6 of my newest serial novel The Spider. Last week, you met the Bryant family as they settled into their new home in the city.

5 

After a walk around their new neighbourhood, husband and wife returned home to hear Elsie’s light tinkling on the piano trickling into the hall. Each note was clumsy and erratic but when Frances peered around the open doorway, her heart melted at the sight of her daughter’s face, fixed in concentration. On several occasions, Sarah had to ask her to tuck her tongue back in during practice. Frances smiled and thought of how she would almost chew on her tongue when focusing too hard on things. Lucky for her, it was beaten out of her by her mother. She hoped that for Elsie’s sake, no such action would be required. 

The keys started and abruptly stopped each time Elsie forgot the next sequence. Frances giggled silently, remembering her own early piano lessons, for it was no secret that she was terrible for a few years. She thought that at four, Elsie was already showing more promise. 

“Shall we try now, Elsie?” asked Sarah. Elsie nodded and waited for Sarah to count down. When it was time, she enthusiastically tapped the first few keys and looked up at Sarah for reassurance. Sarah nodded and gestured for her to carry on. She did as she was instructed and played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 

When the little girl had finished playing, Frances fluttered into the room with applause. “Bravo, Elsie!” she said, sitting down in a nearby chair. 

“Shall I do it again?” Elsie asked, turning around in the seat. Frances nodded vehemently. “Play all day, if you like. It’s wonderful.” 

Elsie began to play again with more confidence, singing along in a tiny, pleasant voice. Frances and Sarah watched and smiled with encouragement as Elsie played, until their reverie was broken with the sharp thud of something on the window. Elsie saw it first. 

Frances approached the glass with horror, taking stock of the blood smears on the pane. She looked down at the patio to see a crumpled blackbird on the flag stones. Elsie let out a high-pitched scream. 

For a moment, Frances felt everything in the room fall back into a muffled quietude, cooling her to the bone. She couldn’t take her eyes off the blood. Almost in the blink of an eye, Elsie’s screams vibrated through her skull and brought her back into the scene. 

“Take her into the kitchen, Sarah. I’ll get John to clean it up.” Frances said, ushering them out of the room. She returned to the window and looked down at the unfortunate creature; it was mangled. 

“What’s going on in here?” John asked, rushing into the room. Frances didn’t say anything. She simply moved away from the glass and let him see for himself. “Good God,” he said, covering his grimace with his hand. “That’s a bird? It flew into the window?” 

“I know.” 

They both looked down at the cluster of black feathers caked in blood. 

***

Mrs Mckinnon found Frances sitting at the piano later that afternoon, staring at a red patch where the bird had once been. John had dutifully cleaned it up and disposed of it, desperately trying not to retch in front of his wife as he did so, but a small stain remained, haunting her. For reasons that she couldn’t explain, she couldn’t remove her eyes from the blood and scattered feathers. She didn’t want to look at it, but she felt she had no choice. She thought of its broken body, twisted in an unnatural way, as though the pitiful thing had been mutilated before being thrown at the window, just to frighten her. 

The window had since been opened, allowing the cacophony of the outside world to come in. Birds sang in the trees overhead as though nothing had happened. Frances remained still. 

The drawing room door was wide open, so it surprised Frances to hear a gentle knock. “I know it’s my day off, Ma’am, but I hope you don’t mind me bringing you some tea.” Mrs Mckinnon’s soft voice seemed to rouse her from her fixation. 

Frances looked up at the housekeeper with sleepy eyes. “I don’t mind at all, Mrs Mckinnon. Thank you.” She took a small cup from the tray and moved over to sit at the table. She sank into the chair and held the cup close to her with both hands. 

“And the wee one, ma’am…She was so upset. I had to do something. I made her some buns.” 

Frances’ bottom lip trembled. “Thank you.” 

Mrs Mckinnon placed the tray down at the table and sat beside Frances. “You know, these things aren’t always omens, ma’am.” 

Taken aback, Frances straightened in the chair. “How did you…?” 

Mrs Mckinnon gave a knowing nod. “I come from a long line of superstitious people too, ma’am. Fairies, vampires– ach– I’ve heard it all. I don’t mean to say none of it’s true, ma’am. I just mean that with such a nice family as yours is, you needn’t worry yourself.” 

Frances looked down at Mrs Mckinnon’s gentle hand resting on top of hers. She hadn’t noticed it until now. It felt like the hand of an old friend. “Thank you,” she said. “It was horrible.” 

“I’m sure it was! Not something a child should see.”

“It was so mangled. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“I bet it was an escapee, straight from the cat’s claws. Flew into the window and had a swift, merciful death.” 

“Perhaps.” Frances stared into nowhere. “Perhaps it was nothing, just as you say,” she said quietly. 

“You just let me know if there’s anything else I can do. I’d left some cold cuts for your supper but I might have to make something hot to warm these hands!” she said, holding both of Frances’ cold hands in hers. “You’d think it was December in here.” 

“I don’t think I’m feeling well,” Frances admitted. “This house has been so…” she thought for a moment. Finding herself unaccustomed to running a household staff, Frances wasn’t sure if she should tell Mrs Mckinnon anything. If she were being honest with herself, she actually felt that Mrs Mckinnon would think her insane. She bit her bottom lip and looked away. “Oh it doesn’t matter.” 

“As long as you’re sure, ma’am,” Mrs Mckinnon said, looking over low-resting spectacles. It felt like an offer. Frances, as much as she wanted to blurt out the words, I don’t feel welcome here, I feel like an imposter. I bumble around this enormous house without any cleaning or cooking to do and I don’t want to touch anything because it doesn’t feel like it’s mine, knew better than to bare her soul to someone she didn’t know. Mrs Mckinnon was warm and approachable, but Frances felt that unloading her emotional baggage onto the woman was a step too far. 

“I think I need to rest,” she eventually said. She rose from the table and stumbled, struggling to steady herself with a light head. Mrs Mckinnon quickly grabbed an arm and helped her to balance. “I’m so sorry, I don’t feel very well,” she mumbled.  

“Let’s get you to bed then, ma’am. I’ll bring your tea up.” 

They walked to the foot of the stairs where, on feeling more able to stand, Frances reached out and grabbed the handrail. She gingerly took her first step, placing her left foot forward, then slowly allowed the right foot to meet it. The gentle hand on her back reassured her that she wouldn’t fall, and it stayed with her for the duration. Gradually increasing her speed until she was at her normal pace for climbing stairs, Frances was relieved to see the light of her bedroom illuminating the landing. The door was open wide with her bed waiting for her in her line of sight. She felt incredibly guilty when she heard laboured breathing behind her. 

“Thank you, Mrs McKinnon, I can manage from–” she turned to find that nobody was standing behind her. 

“Did you say something, dear?” Mrs Mckinnon called from the foot of the stairs. “I just went back for the tea. I’ll be up in a moment.”

6 

Feeling the cool, sticky sweat of her body clinging to her nightgown, Frances removed the blanket and turned over, hoping to find a more comfortable temperature. It was no use. Her hair, matted and damp, stuck to her face as she tossed and turned. 

“My darling Frances, just how long are you going to stay in this bed?” she heard her husband ask. Opening one eye, she could make out his silhouette on the edge of the bed. 

“John?” she asked with a dry mouth. “What time is it?” She could sense that it was light outside, but as to whether it was dusk or dawn, she had no idea. 

“What day it is, rather,” he said. “It’s Tuesday morning. You’ve been sleeping, babbling and wandering for two days.” 

She stretched and sat up, pushing her long, tangled web of blonde hair away from her face. She couldn’t quite believe how long she’d slept for. “I have?” she asked with a yawn. 

“You have. I’ve been sleeping on that wretched chaise lounge with one eye open so you don’t wander off the bloody balcony or something.” His shirt was heavily creased and unbuttoned at the neck, revealing some of his chest hair. His shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, contrasted with his strong golden forearms. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and, clearly having been too occupied to maintain other daily rituals, looked unkempt, with his stubble casting a shadow across his jaw, darkening right where the cleft in the middle of his chin was. 

“Oh dear,” she said, scratching her head. The balcony of interest was a decorative feature outside their bedroom window. Having had a look at the wrought iron structure of it, she had previously decided that it was too flimsy to sit out on and instead resolved to pretend that it wasn’t there. “We’re quite high up,” she said, looking over at the open window. “I don’t know what I was doing over there. I have always despised heights.” 

“And that’s not the worst part. No other than our dear friend Dr Swinson has been doing house calls. That man can talk for England– sorry darling– this really is none of your concern right now.” He patted her leg. “I shouldn’t add to your malaise like that.”

“That’s all right. Perhaps it was Dr Swinson that kept me asleep,” she said, sipping from a glass of water that had been stationed at her bedside. John belly laughed at the edge of the bed. 

“God I’ve missed you.” 

“I’m sorry to have worried you.” 

“Are you feeling better?” 

“Yes. I’m tired, though. Very tired.”

“He’s coming again at lunch time and his fee– well, I’ll end up paying him with a cob of coal by the end of the week, ha! Would you like some breakfast? I can send Mrs Mckinnon up?” 

“I probably should.” 

John stretched across the bed and kissed her on the forehead, causing her to recoil slightly. As conscious as she was of her damp nightgown and sweaty face, he didn’t seem to mind. He winked and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Frances slowly rolled out of the bed and wandered toward the bathroom. 

Maggie was leaving just as she arrived. The girl bowed slightly, speaking in her timid voice, “morning, ma’am. I hope that you’re feeling better.” 

“Thanks, Maggie,” she said. Maggie had a cloth in her hand and popped it into the bucket that sat just outside the door.

 “I-I’ve just finished cleaning it, ma’am. W-would you like me to run you a bath?” 

Frances, having only ever washed at the washstand, thought about it for a moment. 

“That would be lovely, Maggie. I would like a bath.” 

Maggie nodded and returned to the bathroom. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready, ma’am,” she said. Frances returned to her bedroom and stood at the window, hoping that the breeze would ease the stickiness between her skin and the fabric on her body. The world outside was silent for a moment. 

Mrs Mckinnon bustled into the bedroom with a tray of breakfast items and coffee. “Good morning ma’am,” she said happily. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you up and about.” She laid the tray down on the side table and uncovered the plate of boiled eggs and ham. “Mr Bryant wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I’ve given you a bit of everything.” She poured out a small cup of coffee and walked over to Frances, holding it out like it was the elixir of life. 

Frances took it gently and thanked her. “I’m sorry to have troubled everybody.” 

“Ach, say no more of it. It’s our job to take good care of you.” 

“Thank you, Mrs Mckinnon.” 

As the old lady headed to the doorway, Frances couldn’t help but ask about the other night. The poor woman looked bemused when Frances asked her about the hand on her back. She seemed to stiffen, brushing her hands against her apron. 

“I don’t know what you mean, ma’am? I helped you to the bottom step,” she said, frowning. “You said you were happy to take it from there, so I went back to get the tea. I should think you were feeling rather unwell… would you like me to call Dr Swinson?” 

“No, thank you, Mrs Mckinnon. It must have been a fever dream.”

“Aye, ma’am. We all get them, I’m sure!”

“That’s all it was, yes,” Frances admitted, looking down at the cup. “It could have been one of many dreams I’ve had over the past two days. Thank you Mrs Mckinnon. That will be all for now.” 

She watched the old woman leave, suspicion growing steadily in her gut.

Next chapter ⇾