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Web

Bill Tope

    Grabbing the cast iron doorknob in one gloved hand, I edge the ancient wooden door open a crack, then pull it wide. It opens without a sound, on well-oiled hinges. Not knowing at all what to expect, I stand stunned on the threshold of the old, small out-building. There I behold in the depths of the room such a spectacular array of spider webs as I have ever seen.
    It is an exquisite, minutely detailed architectural phenomenon, an enlacement of circles and spirals and loops and swirling threads of gossmer that truly boggles the mind. But there are no spiders. Was the fantastic web dormant, inert, abandoned and no longer utilized by arachnids? What a waste, I think somewhat perversely, when in fact I thoroughly hate and even fear spiders of every size and description.
    But then I notice something from the corner of my eye: there in the farthest reaches of the magnificent web, is a rather large, plump rat, completely encased in silk. I feel a brief stirring of emotion, of pity for a creature so helplessly trapped, but I soon overcome it, for I hate rats even more than I despise spiders!
    I’d come to the farm three days ago, with my two cousins, Richard and Dean, intrigued as we were by the online ads touting the old style midwestern autumn get-aways. The site didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment, but as we were all serious antiquers we thought that a survey of Bellows’s Farms and the environs was a good way to spend a week, searching for new pieces and perhaps some primitive artifacts for our shops as well as for our own collections.
    Now I felt rather foolish. Locked doors have always held an allure for me, and when I took a room in old Bellows’s Bed and Breakfast on what remained of his farm, I was instantly intrigued by the small utility shack that was kept locked up tight. “What’s in there?” I asked him as we toured the property on the first day. “Ah, but that would be telling,” he answered cryptically. And we walked on.
    “How much you want for that water pump?” asked Richard, pointing to a pink-painted hand pump lying amidst a score of freshly harvested pumpkins, their orange, waxy skins shining in the noonday sun.
    “Hunnered thousand dollars,” answered Bellows at once. Richard blinked, but said nothing. Dean laughed out loud. No more offers were tendered on our tour.
    Whenever we paused to admire something old, such as the 18th century farming tools or the well-preserved hay wagon, a gem in the rough, Bellows would nervously tap the end of his cane on the parched turf, as if hurrying us along. It was frankly annoying. And athough he didn’t appear to really need it to move about, he kept that cane with him at all times.
    That night, at dinner, we pumped the old man for information on the neighborhood, asked whether there were any dealers close by, but we could get little out of him. There was only one other guest at the B & B, an old man in his seventies named Winters, who kept to himself, always wore a bright red sweater, didn’t say much. He did say he would be leaving soon. For whatever reason, he seemed anxious to get away. The next night when he didn’t appear for dinner, we supposed that he had already left. I asked Bellows about him and he replied that Winters was “good and gone,” but added that he lived nearby.
    All Bellows seemed interested in, unaccountably, as spiders! He talked of their mating, their breeding, what they ate, how they lived, subjects I frankly was not too keen on. “The mom spider,” he said with relish, “likes to eat fresh meat, so she stalks her prey when pregnant rather than feeding off what she has stored in her web.” Ugh, I thought. Who cares? He seemed fond of rats too. In fact, he kept an unnamed pet rat with him at dnner and fed him from the table. I shook my head in dismay, my appetite ruined.
    Dean and Richar likewise explored the property, looking as I was for antiques, but on their own initiative. We were a competitive bunch. In fact, I hadn’t seen either one since dinner the evening before. Where had they got to? One thing for sure, I’d solved at least one mystery on the old Bellows farm. I wondered how they had fared. Smirking, the two of them had vowed that they would “skin” the old man and get what they’d came for. They were keen traders and negotiators. After several days searching the property I’d found in another old garden shed an assortment of huge, ancient, cast iron skeleton keys. Surely one of them would fit the lock on the mysterious building. And it did! Now, back at the door to the shed, I smile in satisfaction. Wait a minute, what was that, well behind the rat and stretching across the floor? I peer through the fabulous webbing and into the gloomy interior and take stock of what’s there.
    Oh, no! I gasp. A human body! No, it’s only a flesh-colored manikin, likewise encased in silk. As an antiquer it always amazes me how such improbable junk turned up in the most unlikely places. Then I think, what if old Bellows should return and find me ransacking his shed? But he won’t find me here: I’ll lock up, replace the keys, my curiosity satisfied, and the old man none the wiser. I wonder at the mystery of it all: there is literally nothing here, not even a spider. And that’s when the lights fade to black and a streak of lightning flashes before my eyes. The last thing I hear is a clicking on the floor of the shack.
    I’ve been here for hours, or at least so it seems. Bellows snatched my wrist watch so I can’t tell the time even if I could reach it, but, it’s getting dark outside. I can tell because I can see through the crack under the door; outside I can hear crickets chirping and somewhere in the distance a dog is barking. My head still hurts from where Bellows clobbered me, probably with his damn cane. I can feel the blood crusting on the back of my head.
    At least now I know where Dean and Richard disappeared to; I am crammed between the two of them. There’s not a mark on them that I can see but they are both dead. But I’m still alive. Why? Straining my neck to see, I spot a bright red swatch of cloth. Winters. He got him too. We must be in the back of the out-building, hidden in shadows. I can feel the webbing dancing around my face.
    The silk of the web is tremendously strong; I can’t move a muscle. How do I get out of this? And why am I still alive? Then I feel something crawling across my shoulder, at the same time that I remember what Bellows was talking about our first night here. The female spider, he said, when breeding, insists on devouring her prey alive. Alive? I feel a sharp nip at my side. A bite! Then another one! Finally, I see the spiders. Thousands of them crawling over my face! And the rats. I hear them chirring and squealing all around my head. My gagged mouth struggles in vain to unleash the anguished scream that’s been building for hours inside my brain.

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