Between Screams and Silence

Chapter 6: Creep

I don't know how long I've sat in this chair, staring blankly at the television.

I feel like I should get up, I know I should get up. There's the laundry to do, a pile of dirty dishes in the basin and goodness knows what else to be done, but I just don't have the energy. I've hardly eaten in days, and every time I've tried, the bile has bubbled up in my throat and my stomach has rolled over in great, choppy waves and it's all I can do to just chew on the food and swallow. And what's worse is that I'm still so hungry. Hungry and yet unable to eat a darn thing.

Rheemus thinks I'm sickening for something and wants to call Dr. Jacoby, but I can't bear the thought of that man here, studying me like I'm some lab rat. Watching me. I told Rheemus I'd had more than enough of that cockamamie nonsense in the hospital and I won't stand for it in my own home. And besides, doctors always have a habit of seeing more than you want them to and I don't want him here poking his sticky beak into my business.

I am sickening for something though, but it's not what Rheemus thinks. I don't even know what it is, but I'm scared, really scared, because I know it ain't nothing that can be cured by popping a couple of pills or a few days bed rest and some of Mama's chicken broth. And if the doctor knew that, I know he'd cart me right off to the nuthouse in the city and I've heard awful stories about that place, about how once they got you, you ain't never getting out of there again.

I can't even speak to Rheemus, because I don't want him looking at me any worse than he already does. He might even call Dr. Jacoby and make him take me away. And so I've said nothing. Nothing about how I hear things at night, things that move and shift in the darkness of the bedroom. Nothing about how every time I try to go to sleep, I hear someone whispering my name. Nothing about the flickering lights and definitely nothing about what happened at Barbara Arden's house. He'll think I'm pure crazy and maybe he'd be right. I feel crazy.

Brenda's making funny little sounds next to me in her basket and I want to take comfort in that, I want to be happy knowing she's happy, but it's like I've got this big ball of fear lodged right in my throat and I can't do a damn thing to cough it up. There's something wrong, something very wrong and I don't know what it is. All I know is these past few days, I'm just so afraid to even look at her.

Instead I stare at the television screen, vaguely aware that right now I should be watching Macdonald Carey and Frances Reid in Days of Our Lives, because I make sure never to miss an episode, but I'm watching static again. The screen flickers and white noise crackles out of the television speaker. I was going to get up and whack the box when it first happened, but for some reason I never did, I just carried on sitting here and now I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the screen. I don't really want to. I feel calmer when I'm watching the flickering, fuzzy screen.

Somewhere in the corner of my vision, something moves.

It's a spider, just an ordinary house spider mind, no bigger than a cotton reel, but ugly enough with a bulbous body and thick brown legs. It freezes as soon as I turn my head to look at it, almost as if it knows I'm watching it and as it waits at the edge of the rug, my eyes are drawn to it just as they were to the television screen.

When it begins to move, slowly at first, tentatively creeping onto the patterned rug, I sit up in the chair, perching on the edge of the seat and gripping the arms. The spider stops and my head jerks to one side. Suddenly it scuttles off towards the open doorway leading into the kitchen, faster than I expected, and I shriek, dropping to all fours on the rug and chase after it. I can't let it get away, I can't let it find some dark hidey-hole where I won't be able to reach it. Just before it runs out, I manage to scoop it up into my hands, gently, so not to squash it.

Sitting back on my haunches, I grin as I peek through the small gap between my linked hands. It's almost too dark to see but I can feel it wriggling against my palms. I'm breathing hard, panting almost like a dog and I wipe my mouth on my arm, leaving a smear of saliva on the sleeve of my shirt. Then, in one swift movement, so it doesn't escape, I raise my hands and open them, simultaneously releasing the spider from my grasp and pushing it into my waiting, hungry mouth. Its long legs tickle against my tongue and one still dangles from my lips as it struggles desperately, but it's too late. My teeth pierce its body as I bite down and the sweet blood bursts out instantly, coating my tongue.

As soon as the taste of it hits my senses, I know this is what I wanted. Not the spider specifically, but blood and life and the delicious crunch of its legs, the ooze as I bite into the abdomen, the texture of it against my tongue, the feel of it alive in my mouth.

I chew voraciously, frantically pushing in that last leg with my fingers so I don't miss one tasty morsel of it, smacking my lips together as I swallow it down.

My stomach grumbles appreciatively this time, but it's not enough. It's nowhere near to being enough. Still on all fours, I scuttle into the kitchen, searching everywhere, even inside the pantry, anywhere I think they might be hiding. With a screech of frustration, I crawl back into the den and begin to scrabble around the floor, peering under the couch and cabinets, looking into the darkest corners for more. I feel panicked and desperate. I need something else quick, because the taste in my mouth is fading fast and soon it will all be gone, like it was never there in the first place and all I'll be left with is this horrible, aching hunger.

My fingers twitch frantically as I sniff at the air. There's something here. I know there is.

I can smell it.

From inside the basket, Brenda lets out a small cry. It's a tiny noise, just one plaintive cry that has to do battle with the rush of white noise that is now emanating louder from the television speaker, but I hear it anyway. Cocking my head to one side, eyes-wide, I crawl sideways, crab-like along the rug, leaving a wide berth between myself and the basket like I don't know what I'll find in there. Craning my neck up, I peer over the edge and see tiny feet kicking, tiny hands grasping air and I slowly move towards the baby, clicking my tongue against my teeth as I get closer and closer. She smells good, really good, and I think about that spider and how it struggled and squirmed, I think about how it made me feel better, I think about how is tasted and how I want more. How I need more.

I touch the side of the basket and Brenda opens her mouth and screams. And screams. And the noise seems to come from everywhere like white noise, like static, like the furious buzzing of horseflies. I stagger backwards, clapping my hand over my mouth, trying to scramble away because I know what I want and I can't... I just can't...