The Tantrum of Elizabeth McCrery

The Tantrum of Elizabeth McCrery

by Jonathan Fore

Spiders, I can’t stand spiders; but there he was, suspended in the fallen debris of the storm, blocking my only path to the house. He was easily larger then my hand, and sat in the center of its web like some silent guardian of the dilapidated mansion. The yard could now only be described as a felled atrium; trees laying in crossed patterns on the great lawn. Somehow, they had not blocked the walkway to the front door, however a spider had. The bloated hairy creature hung suspended in its web, which now blocked the walkway.

I caught sight of a small group of children watching me, wondering if I was going to actually enter what they must believe to be a haunted house. They were too far from me to be able to read their expressions. I wondered if they showed respect for my intentions, or humor for the poor lady about to go into a house they were sure housed the creepiest of crawlies. What they failed to understand is that the creepiest of these crawlies was now spanned across the front walk. I smiled and waved to them, but they just continued to stare. Rude little brats I thought as I turned to the task of slaying the spider.

I began searching for a branch to swat away the many-legged sentinel of the McCrery house. Finding branches was easy, the storm had provided a number of them and they were pretty much everywhere. What was difficult was finding one I could wield with a measure of dexterity, but my efforts were rewarded. I approached the thing and steeled myself for the attack. When I did finally swing, I could actually feel the silk parting under the weight of my assault, and a wave of nausea rushed me. Before I could swallow, the spider lept onto the branch I held, and began to scramble with unbelievable speed toward my hands. I screamed, and threw the branch away from me.

I immediately began to feel embarrassed, a women as intelligent as myself screaming because of a bug. I was sure that someone had heard it, and would be coming out of their house: curious beyond manners, seeking some excitement in the quite neighborhood. I paused politely, ready to explain myself to the more brazen, but not a single person came, or even peeked through the mostly curtained windows filling the neighborhood. I looked toward the children who had inched a bit closer, but they just stared, their eyes glassy, their faces expressionless. This is when I began to feel more then a bit uncomfortable. Forget them, I have a job to do.

I continued on the walk, admiring the ancient mansion as it loomed high above me. It was many years old, and had stood since the Civil War. White paint was failing in patches all about the exterior, and many of the shutters where missing. The McCrerys had lived here for generations, and the house held more then a bit of history, I was sure. It was easy for my mind, now a bit unbalanced by the ferocity of the protector I tried to kill, to imagine the number of people that had died here, the family secrets that might be hidden in the walls or in the earth surrounding the house. Any family that had taken decades to fall to ruin had to have a number of indiscretions hidden and forgotten. During these musings is when I saw the next spider.

This one was suspended much like the other, but this time it was close enough to my eyes to see the fangs, the grossly disproportionate number of eyes, and the revolting black fur. I screamed again, and jumped back. That was it, I’m not doing this house, and they can just send someone else out here. I turned to leave the way I had come, and my breath caught. Hanging before me sat another bloated defender, suspended in the trail from which I had just come, staring emotionlessly at me. Now I began to feel fear, just a trickle down my spine, but still fear. Could a spider actually build a web that fast? I had just passed through there a minute before. I looked toward the house, still a number of yards away, it felt like a mile. I looked back at my van, the gross purple van they made us drive, and it seemed further. I felt for my cell phone, always in the deepest recesses of my purse when I noticed the spider before me had quit its post, and wandered into the thick foliage lying in ruin all about. Next time, I would bring some bug spray with me. This time, a hand full of gravel cleared the web before me and I continued toward the house, the cell phone clutched in my hand like a weapon.

I reached the massive porch, scarred by the countless passing of its inhabitants and weathered to a dull appearance. It must have been beautiful at one time, bright white with hanging flowers spilling like water over their pots. I could picture delicate wooden chairs and fine oak tables, maybe even a lazy swing bench to once side. There must have been thousands of glasses of teas sipped here in pleasant conversation with the social zeniths of years past, discussing other peoples indiscretions, avoiding their own, all decorated in polite laughter and feigned concern. It must have been wonderful once, this house drawing the socialites in like a beacon, a crossroads for the upwardly mobile and jurist for the calamities of polite society.

I climbed the steps to the porch, but as I set my foot down, the wood flexed beneath me, and a spider raced through the gap onto my foot. Before it could bite me, I kicked my leg out with another scream, and heard the horrid creature strike the great front doors of the house. It righted itself quickly, and scrambled away from me on many impossibly quick legs. I stood panting for a moment, and turned to leave again. As before there was a web spanned across the tunnel I had just emerged from. This time however, there were many more then I cared to count, and in the center of each one was one of those enormous spiders.

That was it, enough of this crap. I pushed the speed dial on my phone, and I wanted until Jim answered.

“That’s it Jim. Come and get me out of here.”

“Lorna? Where are you?”

“The McCrery house, there are spiders everywhere, and they are huge! Now come and get me!”

“You can’t just leave yourself?” he asked exasperated.

“No! The damn things have me boxed in; webs everywhere, they are everywhere, and I can’t climb over the damn trees!”

“OK, Lorna. I’ll come and get you. Think you can at least do the inside measurements before I get there?” Jim’s voice held a measure of annoyance but I didn't’t really care.

“Jim! All right, you know what? Fine. But hurry up, OK?” I knew fear was clear in my voice, but could not bring myself to care.

He answered me by hanging up. Now that I had called for help, I began to feel a little foolish. They are just bugs. But that didn't’t matter. They could have sent anyone else out here, and my fear of spiders was the source of much humor in the office. He knew, the bastard, let him be pissed. I don’t care anymore.

I stepped on the porch again, on a different board this time, this time more gingerly. It flexed like the other, but nothing came out to attack me. Emboldened by this, I gently walked the remaining distance to the door. Retrieving the bank’s key, I unlocked the front door in a hurry, and it swung inward under its own will. Before me sprawled a large sweeping stairway, vaulted ceilings, and a marble floor. Surprisingly, the entry appeared clean and unbroken. It did smell of must and mold, and the contrast with the cleanliness was a bit unsettling. It was always a little strange entering an empty house, but this one just felt a bit odder.

I entered the foyer, and eased the door closed again. To my right was a large room with many windows, none of which were broken. The brats outside at least were not vandals. This room had a wonderful hardwood floor, as surprisingly clean as the foyer. If not for the smell of old and the lack of furnishings, it would have appeared as though someone lived here. I swung my gaze to the left.

Here too stood another large room, the edge of a fireplace just visible around the frame of the entry. It was a wonder how pristine the inside of this house was considering both the dilapidation of the outside and the foreclosure that’s forced the McCrerys out. Usually, foreclosed properties were pretty much ransacked as those foreclosed left. After little consideration, I turned right, freeing the cell phone from my hand, exchanging it for a tape measure. I hooked it in line with the entry on the kick-board, and quickly walked across the foyer and into the other large room.

I placed the tape measure against the wall, and as I read the distance, I heard a faint sound, like a sputter in a flame. I froze solid; fear now a ravenous attempt to steal my rationale. I gazed around the room slowly, knowing for sure that something or someone was in the room, stealthily attempting to grab me. I could almost feel icy fingers gripping my arm, forcing me to what I did not wish. My search revealed that I was alone, but atop the mantle of the fireplace stood a candle. This was not shocking in and of its self, what gripped my chest the hardest was the fact that it was lit.

Someone was in the house; someone was keeping it clean. But the sheriff’s department had escorted everyone out, and the lock on the door belonged to the bank, and moreover, it was locked. Maybe someone broke in, is using it as a crash pad or a drug den. Either way, I did not wish to meet the intruder. I grabbed for my phone and released the tape measure. To my angst, it screeched and slapped itself back into the small package it had once been. I froze again. If the intruder did not know yet that I was here, they did now.

I rushed for the front door, leaving my tape measure behind. I pulled on the door but it seemed stuck, held closed with a soft glue, like bubblegum. I pulled with all my strength, and it began to tear free. I say tear because that is the sound it made, like tearing fabric. Before the door came open all the way, I could see huge amounts of spider’s silk holding the door closed. Worse then this was it was populated with those horrible demons. Before I could even ponder this absurdity, spiders began to poor in through the door. I slammed the door shut, much easier then opening it, and was satisfied with two or three squishing sounds. I knew that more then one had perished, but now they were inside as well.

I jumped back before any of them could catch hold of me, and they raced for the parlor room, together, as if directed to. I pressed the keypad on my phone, and got Jim.

“Get me the hell out of here!”

“I’m leaving now Lorna. Be there in ten minutes.”

“They webbed in the door Jim! I can’t get out! And I think there is someone in the house!”

“Lorna, be reasonable. Who would break into a run down, almost collapsed mansion?”

“I don’t know, but I heard something, and there is a lit candle in one of the rooms, get me out of here Jim!”

“I’m coming, give me five minutes. Call the police and tell them where you are.”

“OK Jim, but hurry… please!”

I hung the phone up without waiting for a response and dialed 911.

“Nine, One, One, please state your emergency.” An efficient sounding voice answered.

“I’m at 414…” that is when the phone went dead. I tried to turn it back on, but it was if the battery was dead. I know I plugged it in the night before. My fear was becoming unreasonable, a deluge over my back, and a ball of ice in my chest. First the spiders, then the candle, then the damn spiders again; now my phone was dead. Knowing Jim would be here soon provided little comfort.

I tiptoed back into the room with the candle, and retrieved my tape measure, having little else to do. I now noticed that there were other things on the mantle, a book, and some form of box. I approached the fireplace softly and saw that someone had left a crucifix, a candle, a large Bible, and a very old box. It was a very odd sort of collection to be left in an old house like this, and curiosity began to force my horror into remission. I gently lifted the Bible down from the mantle. It was enormous and very obviously old, as dustless as the house. The cover was bound in leather, and the pages were yellowed and worn.

I opened it to the front few pages, and found a birth announcement for someone named Zachary McCrery dated May 12th of 1762. This bible was hundreds of years old! Why would someone leave it like this, in a house foreclosed, a house to which they could not return? Was it a mistake? The bank, I am sure, would know where the McCrery’s had moved and would be able to send this on to them. I returned the book to the mantle, and took down the crucifix. It was old as well and looked as though it were made of pure gold. This whole episode had become so odd that it would not have surprised me if the crucified Jesus looked up at me and began to speak. I returned the cross with reverent care, being what it was.

I noticed that the house still held its silence. Maybe the intruder was not here right now. If they were, I bet it would be a McCrery, and not a junkie. I was not sure if this bode well for me or not. It was more a point I made to myself while standing there on my little archaeological adventure. These items should have been treasured heirlooms, and not just left here when they moved.

Felling a bit giddy about being a treasure hunter, or a Nancy Drew seeking the truth to some spooky question, I cracked the small box open, and stretched high to get a look inside. It repelled my investigation with a cloud of dust, which drifted down and into my face. I released the lid, and began coughing and sneezing violently. The dust tasted awful, burnt and greasy. My mouth was full of the nasty powder, and it took me some time to spit it all out, and to wipe it from my eyes. I bet I looked atrocious, and I knew Jim would have much fun with this for weeks to come.

I lifted the box down from the mantle, and blinked a bit more dust from my eyes. It was small, maybe a foot long, and made of some very fine hard wood. It was aged many years, but a work of art considering today’s carpentry. It had small brass fittings, and no seams showing whatsoever. It was as if it were made from a single piece of wood, more carved then constructed. Regardless, it was certainly a treasure the McCrerys should not have left behind.

I opened the lid, this time whilst I held the thing, and was greeted with another puff of dark colored dust. I was ready this time, and squeezed my face shut against it. I held my face this way for a moment, and then slid one eye open slowly, making sure the air was clear. I then peeked down and into the box and was greeted by a pile of dust. It was just full of dust, Dark gray and very ashy. This proved the most odd of all. Why would someone build such a fine vessel for keeping dust? Did they believe it magical or sacred? Maybe they thought it pixie dust? Sacred was my choice considering the other adornments on the mantel. But why leave it.

I closed the box against all the questions that had come to me, and was lifting it back to the mantle when I noticed something on the outside edge. It appeared to be a small plaque of copper or bronze; so caked with the dust, it was impossible to read. I rubbed at the plate with my thumb, adding some spit to it when the outer crust broke free. Mostly clean, it was still hard to read, the plate corroded and dark. I used my fingernail and scraped out the letters one at a time, wondering why it was taking Jim so long to get here.

At some point during my labors, I finally made out the inscription. ‘Elizabeth McCrery 1607-1653, Beloved Aunt and Mother’. It took me some moments before I could actually believe what it was I was holding, what it was I was wearing, what I had just eaten. I dropped the box out of shear horror, and it struck the floor and fell open. A cloud of the ghoulish ash exploded into the air and, I swear, it began to collect itself and spin like a small tornado. I think I screamed at this point, but I can’t be sure. The ash whirlwind suddenly enveloped me and sent me reeling into a choking fit, blinding me.

I heard the door tear open, and people calling my name. I tried to scream again, but was revolted by the air around me; disgusted with the idea of breathing I could not work my own voice. I clearly heard Jim scream “Jesus!” and another voice mutter “What the…” I tried to break free of the vortex, but I was held fast by the rushing ash. Horror surged through me as my lungs burned for the air I refused to give them. Suddenly, there was a loud report. My ears rang from the noise, and I tried to cover them with my hands but it sounded again. This time something struck my chest, and I felt myself lifted and thrown from the vortex. I smashed hard into the fireplace, and slide down to the hearth leaving skin on the bricks. An unreasonable pain blossomed in my chest, and I felt a rush of warmth expanding in my hands.

I knew something very wrong had just happened, but I was powerless to move, sure that my body had been ruined. Pain and primal terror were my matriarch, and even though I was free of the swirling dust, I still could not bring in a breath. I opened my eyes through the caked ash and saw an elderly woman, her back to me, made completely of the sooty dust. Beyond her was Jim and two police officers, all three hanging their mouths agape, staring at the old ashy women. Strangely though, they seemed to be sliding slowly backward, away from me and down a dark tunnel. Before they had drifted completely away, still transfixed, I heard the old lady speak.

She had a charming proper voice, but gravely and arid. “Now remember Peter McCrery, what ever it is you do, never bring me from this house.” When she finished speaking, the dust collapsed into a small pile, and I felt myself drawn free of my body.

It was then that I knew I had died. One of the officers had given in to his fear in rebellion of his reason, and fired his gun into a vortex of ash. I hold no rancor for the idiot; fear can drive you to do many things, but not think. He would be held responsible to the governing powers of his police force and eventually to his God. It was not mine to judge or punish, but theirs.

Jim did not repeat the story to anyone, or at least the true story. Someone would have to excuse my death somehow. He did come and retrieve Elizabeth’s body, and buried it with all reverence in the yard. This brought my host much comfort; her body finally at rest and her soul still walked her beloved’s house.

I have decided that Elizabeth is a fine person with many rich stories, which she tells in intricate detail over tea on the front porch. She does not let me leave the house, but I don’t really mind anymore, the house has become as beautiful as I imagined it could be. Everything is candlelit, even the great chandeliers overhead.

I’ve even grown accustomed to her spiders, and found an appreciation for the intricate webs they weave. They keep the home dust free, capturing the refuse from the air with their webs. Some even drag lengths of it across surfaces when the dust begins to gain the upper hand. It has been surprisingly easy to find comfort with her and her spiders; she is, after all, good company. I also understand that there is a new family moving in soon.