Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am but a penniless amateur aiming to please the hungry masses, and hopefully feed my own demons.
THE BEETLE & THE BELDAM
It began with a whisper echoing across the recesses of her mind, calling out with an aching familiarity that was just beyond her recognition.
"Lydia..."
The voice was soft, sweet, and painfully nostalgic. It reminded her of days spent in the park, hidden away from the sun; a time when she would wear an oversized black sunhat, much too large for the frame of such a small child. The gothic summer accessory swamped her. If one were to look at her all they would see was the twinkling gleam of dark eyes the color of spiced honey. A tuft of midnight hair encompassed what remained of the child's pale, delicate features from beneath the hat's wide brim. A parasol decorated with a pattern of intricate swirling tendrils served to both hide her from the sun's cruel rays and cloak her diminutive form in shadows. The twining design seemed almost alive as it moved passed the creased petals of the sunshade. It crept along the wooden stem like an ever-reaching growth of ivy until meeting the handle.
The child, small and fragile as she was, had to hold the shade in both of her tiny hands just to keep it from crashing to the ground. A laugh so musical it paralleled the notes of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze danced across her ears.
"Lydia, darling. Here, let Mama hold it."
The woman spoke again in her melodic way. The sound of it managed to soothe her childish distress. Her voice, though lyrical almost to the point of ethereality in its intonation, had a husky quality about it that spoke of many years spent singing. The parasol shifted slightly, causing glaring sunlight to blind her for a brief moment as it was taken from her grasp and planted firmly into the lush greenery. It leaned away at an angle, leaving just enough purchase to allow the little girl to continue basking in the shade.
"Oh, pretty baby,"
she cooed, her hush a river of honey in the child's ears,
"that's much too big for you, isn't it? Come. Give it to me."
There was a slight pressure at the top of her head as her mother stole the hat away, placing it regally upon her own cascade of raven hair as a queen might a crown. Long nails the color of fresh blood plucked at the fine black lace of the veil, hiding her eyes from view. What color were they supposed to be? Lydia couldn't remember. It had been far too many years since last she had seen them. When she attempted to open her mouth to ask her mother to move the veil, to reveal her eyes once more so that she could have something concrete to cling to, she found that her lips failed her. It was as though they were lined with cotton and sewn shut.
"None of that, my love,"
she tutted, pinching the apple of one pink, baby soft cheek with her ruby claws.
"Here, let Mama sing you a song."
The sun was gone from the sky, leaving only tumultuous winds and dark clouds. As though she was a stone and the ground was a pond, the previously thriving grass began to brown and decay around her, rippling out as far as the eye could see. There was movement beneath her mother's skirt, the shadowy fabric billowing and creasing to make room for something. It wasn't until the sugary voice began to croon that Lydia realized there were fat tears streaming down her face.
"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout…"
Thunder cracked from above, resonating down to the ground and providing an ominous harmony to the lullaby. The thin lace veil stayed firmly in place, cloaking half her mother's face in unforgiving shadows even as violent winds tore at the delicate material of her dark gown. No matter. Lydia was no longer interested in stealing a peek. There was something horribly, horribly wrong with her; the line of her nose was too perfect, the shine of her teeth too white, the call of her song too beautiful.
"Down came the rain and washed the spider out…"
Prophetically, the simple rhyme was able to call upon the whims of nature and bring down a torrent of storms so furious it was as though Gaia herself wept over them. Her mother's gown didn't stand a chance against her mighty tears. Frenzied winds shred strips of silk from the long sleeves and train. The inky bits of fabric slithered like a knot of serpents through the air, coming to find homes around the child's tiny, breakable wrists and ankles. They pulled, jerking her flat on the ground, ready to be drawn and quartered like a condemned criminal. However, instead of damp soil and wet grass, she met silk; fine, glossy, and warm. Something round- both sharp and blunt at the same time- kept her eyes open and oh how she longed to close them.
"Out came the sun and dried up all the rain…"
Flashes of wine colored silk wrapped along her head and body; cocooning, blinding her. The lack of sight was a mercy, despite the crushing claustrophobia that came with it. It saved her from bearing witness to the complete transformation, the ravenous beast her mother was becoming. Alabaster flesh melted and cracked, barely keeping itself together upon elongated, deformed bones. The muscles and joints at her hip ripped open; splitting, dividing and reforming until eight horrific spider-like legs bent beneath her, supporting her malnourished body. Her mother's once lovely features were hollowing out, contorting with a savage hunger as she closed the distance between herself and her child. The top half of her face was still just out of sight beneath the veil. Sharp teeth gleamed beneath the curl of thin red lips, closing in on Lydia's cheek for… a kiss? A bite? Unsure, the girl struggled within her bonds, only to sink deeper still into the warm sea of wine-colored silk.
"And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again…"
Lydia awoke just as her vintage Dracula alarm clock came to life at her side— covered in a slick sheen of sweat and wrestling valiantly with the three-hundred dollar sheets that Delia insisted on. A small, spring bound vampire donning cloak and fangs sprung out of its coffin while a miniscule screen framed by bats showed the time. "It is seven a.m. Bwahaha," Vlad repeated robotically in a thick, mock Transylvanian accent before descending into a malevolently mischievous cackle. The way the audio tended to change, adding a layer of distortion to the Count's iconic laugh, showed both its age and quality. If not turned off in a timely fashion, the irksome sound would eventually dissolve into an unbearable shriek. Unable to stand it, she was quick to slap Drac back into his cheap plastic coffin, banishing him to the crypt for yet another morning.
It was still dusky out. The sun was just beginning to creep over the edge of the horizon to lend its light to the world. Muted blue beams filtered through the edge of her window despite her thick, dark curtains efforts to suppress them. Abruptly and without warning, visions of her mother's gaunt, misshapen form assaulted her mind's eye. A swell instantaneous of nausea rose in her gut. A wavering palm came to press against her chest, hoping to bring calm to her rising heartbeat.
What the fuck was that about? Lydia's dreams were often whimsically dark, nonsensical and out of step with reality. However, whenever the ghost of her mother's memory deigned to enter them, they were always, always good. Why would her subconscious see fit to treat her to such a horrific vision? What did it mean?
Maybe… Maybe he had something to do with it.
The possibility was dismissed just as quickly as it was considered. What interest would he have in feeding her nightmares about her dead mother? There was nothing to be gained from it, other than disturbing her. Not that Lydia would put him above such petty games. Still, this was too subtle for him. If he wanted to disrupt the monotony of her mundane life, this is not how he would do it. Betelgeuse would have bigger, badder tricks up his sleeve, flashier illusions than a mere bad dream. Not only that, but he would most certainly leave his signature. If he was fucking with her, he would want there to be no doubt in her mind that he was fucking with her. Besides, the poltergeist had not darkened the halls of the Deetz residence in nearly two years. He obviously had better things to do than manipulate his wife's unconscious hallucinations.
Wife.
The word still felt strange, even as she fiddled with the band permanently wrapped around her ring finger. It would not be removed, no matter how hard she tried. The ostentatious piece of jewelry was beautiful in its own right, she supposed, though highly unorthodox. Its stone was large and square, thicker than the finger it adorned, and the deepest, darkest shade of red— so dark even that it could be mistaken for obsidian at first glance. Sharp talons crept up from the brilliant silver band to clutch at each of the four corners possessively- a perpetual tug of war. It reminded her of the ravens that frequented the Winter River cemetery, scheming and plotting to steal away any shiny bits left behind by funeral parties. Lydia always made sure to only offer them the most polished of her pocket change in exchange for their cooperation in posing for photos. Theirs was a mutually symbiotic relationship.
Mr. and Mrs. Deetz either didn't notice or chose to ignore that their daughter still wore her wedding ring, and Lydia never went out of her way to bring it to their attention. It wasn't as though they could do anything about it. The Maitlands at the very least noticed. Their apprehension over the matter was tangible, but like her parents, they were helpless. There was nothing they could do but whisper their concerns to each other late at night when they were under the mistaken impression that Lydia was asleep or out of earshot.
"What if he comes back?" Barbara would ask, nervously hushed.
"I don't know." Adam would reply, drained and out of his league.
"What do we do, Adam?"
"I don't know."
That particular phrase was overheard a discouraging number of times. The ghostly couple was especially useless now that they were gone from the house, having moved on to the Neitherworld. "A reward," their caseworker said, "for dealing with that slimy shit on your own without bothering me. Not a lot of newbies could have handled a poltergeist of his magnitude the way you did. Kudos."
Lydia only knew about this exchange because of second-hand briefing. She was at school when the decrepit spirit showed up to offer her deceased guardians the generous pardon from their probationary haunting period. It was a limited time offer. They were gone before she even had the chance to say goodbye. The swiftness with which they accepted Juno's proposal stung, but Lydia understood. She didn't want to be stuck in that house any more than they did.
It was time to get up. Too much of her morning had already been wasted dwelling on the past and she would rather not give Miss Shannon an excuse to berate her in front of the entire class for trudging in late. Claire would have a field day with that. Sluggishly, she tore from the lulling comfort of her mattress to begin preparing for the day. However, the sight of a new addition to her vanity gave her pause.
What the…?
"You're me."
The shocked admission, thick with sleep and surprise, croaked from her throat unbidden. Lydia was not prone to talking to herself, but the sight of the doll staring back at her— propped comfortably against her mirror's surface, as though it had always been there, as though it belonged there— caught her so completely off guard that she couldn't help the involuntary slip. The miniature Lydia had long black hair made of yarn that hung to the small of the doll's back— just like hers did. The fabric that made up its skin was just several shades shy of true porcelain— just like hers was. It wore a long-sleeved black sundress that mimicked the ones she often wore, fishnet stockings like the kind she sometimes paired with her shorter dresses, and a set of combat boots that were identical to her favorite pair. It even wore her ring.
"Where did you come from?" This inquiry was just as automatic, just as unthinking as her sudden desire to take the doll into her hands and inspect it meticulously, down to the last thread. Overcome with curiosity, she did not ignore the urge.
Whoever the seamstress was, they had been painstakingly fastidious in their attention to detail. The fringe of yarn that fell just above the doll's sewn in brow was exactly the correct length. Alabaster fabric pulled and pinched together above its pale pink rosebud mouth, forming a nose that an experienced plastic surgeon would not have been able to replicate so masterfully. When Lydia brushed back its hair she saw that three miniature black gems no larger than pebbles adorned each the doll's ears. A listless hand came up to tug at her own lobe, needing to count though she knew she would find it similarly pierced thrice.
The only feature of hers that the doll seemed to lack were her eyes. Instead of honeyed irises, two shiny black buttons gazed up at her, devoid of emotion. They appeared to see right through her, staring at everything and nothing at all. If her mini-me was turned just the right way, it almost seemed as though the careful line of stitches that made up its stoic mouth were forming a smile.
Impatiently, Lydia proceeded to throw on her uniform, braided her hair into a haphazard updo, and rush through brushing her teeth, eager to interrogate her father and Delia and get to the bottom of this.
"Dad! Delia!" She exclaimed, grinning brightly and flushed from excitement as she blitzed into the kitchenette, interrupting the discussion they were having about her father's most recent venture in real estate. Mini Lydia was clutched tightly to her chest, button eyes facing outward. "Thank you so much! I love her! She's perfect! How did you even-"
Delia cut off her impassioned ramblings, an appalled wince in her blue eyes as she examined the doll. "What is that?!"
Lydia's expression fell. "You mean… you didn't…?"
"It's hideous!" The redhead started up again, a disgusted curve to her upper lip. "And so— so creepy! Why on earth would you make something like that? Who is it supposed to be? Typhoid Mary?!"
Hurt by her stepmother's unthinkingly cruel observations, she lashed out. "Well," she sniffed, calm and cool, carefully tucking her doll into her school bag and turning her back on them, unwilling to let them see how deeply she was affected by the woman's words. "You are the expert when it comes to hideous."
The tears stinging at the back of her eyes were furiously blinked back as she stormed from the house, tuning out Delia's offended retort and her father's apathetic reassurances. It was freezing out. The sky was an ugly shade of gray. Pride kept Lydia from turning back around to retrieve her coat and scarf from her bedroom closet. It would detract from the impact of her dramatic exit.
Instead, she steeled herself, straddled her bike, and took off down the hill, stubbornly ignoring the biting chill that seeped through her clothes as she pedaled on. The winter wind's hunger for warmth was only exasperated by her mounting speed. Hungrily, it gnawed through the thin fabric of her uniform, raising gooseflesh even as physical exertion inspired a thin sheen of perspiration. She didn't care. The pricks of cold that nipped at her whenever the wind caught taste of her sweat distracted her from the familiar, aching loneliness that was threatening to settle in with the beginning of the day.
Back in her room, unseen by all, a skeletal handprint materialized on the wrong side of her looking glass. Just as swiftly as the apparition appeared, it was gone.
"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing."
Miss Shannon had a truly terrible voice for reciting poetry. It was nasally and monotonous, droning on and on endlessly without the mercy of a shift of inflection. This was a horrible shame because the piece she currently read was fascinating— to Lydia anyway. She had already finished it in her head before Miss Shannon could reach the end of the second stanza, giving her ample time to reflect and analyze. It told the tragic tale of a knight; seduced away to a magical world by a beautiful monster. He's lured with pretty tricks and sweet words, only to find that it's all an illusion. The enchantress quickly tires of his mortal charms and abandons him, leaving his soul to wither away in a barren landscape for the rest of eternity— the remains of the romantic mural she painted for him.
Lydia couldn't help but empathize with the knight. The pull of the unknown was no stranger to her. Adam and Barbara always refused to tell her anything about the Neitherworld whenever she asked. It must have been amazing. Why else would they feel the need to shield her from such knowledge? Why else would they have left her—
A pang of hurt, sharp and deep, struck the center of her chest. Immediately, she found a distraction in the black button eyes of her mini-me, sticking out and slightly askew from her bag as it lay limp and open on the ground leaning against her desk. One cloth arm was flung outside the zipper, her head lolled to the side. Little Lydia looked bored too. The metal teeth must have shimmied open in her haste to get to her seat. Even though she had pushed against the wintry winds and pedaled her hardest, she still arrived late; a shivering, flushed, breathless mess.
As predicted, Miss Shannon was eager to make a public example of her as punishment for her lateness. "The early bird gets the worm, Miss Deetz," she had admonished condescendingly, a bloodthirsty gleam behind her specs, before informing her that she was to write a two-thousand-word essay on the importance of punctuality, due on time tomorrow morning at the start of class. Miss Shannon detested tardiness. Lydia believed she took it as a personal affront to her teaching abilities.
Not that the idea of skipping class wasn't an appealing one if only to grant her ears a reprieve from the grizzly murder of John Keats. She would much have preferred to spend her day slinking about the cemetery, paying respects and making her trades with the ravens, but Winter River was a small town. It was not as easy to get away with playing hooky here as it was in the big city. That, and it was far too cold out for such things. It wouldn't have been had her stubborn pride not demanded she forsake the comfort of warm coverings in the face of Delia's cruel words, but alas, the actress in her would not have let the scene play out any other way.
Miss Shannon was speaking again, a sharpness in her voice that was reserved solely for questioning students.
"Ladies," she began, quite seriously, "what do you suppose le belle dame was hoping to gain from keeping the knight?" There was a touch of dramatism in the way she referred to the succubus that suggested the instructor may have at one time or another dabbled in the arts. For a moment, Lydia fantasized that Miss Shannon used to be a dazzling starlet, capable of captivating thousands with her sonnets— but years of trying and failing to teach ungrateful little brats about the genius of Molière and Sophocles had beaten it out of her. Whether or not this was true, those dreams had long since died, just as surely as the voices of her students were dead.
"Really? No one?" Awkwardly, the silence dragged on without anyone raising an arm to volunteer, letting her simple question go painfully unanswered. The dour sigh that followed, breaching the quiet with its solemnity, belied more of an air of exhaustion than irritation. The wrinkles that drew dark shadows beneath Miss Shannon's spectacles had never before seemed more pronounced.
"Miss Deetz?" There was more hope than spite in her tired voice. The pity Lydia felt for her teacher was so great she couldn't even bring herself to indulge the prideful indignation that was beginning to swell from being singled out yet again. Instead, she cleared her throat and formed an answer.
"Someone to love," she blurted out, forcing her voice not to crack as her volume rose to accommodate the rest of the class. Poorly muffled giggles echoed from the back of the room, making her face burn, and she quickly reformed her answer into something less romantic— and a tad more vicious. "Or maybe she was just hungry."
"I'm home!" No one answered. A clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen told her that Delia was experimenting with cuisine again. Her stomach lurched, making an unpleasant noise at the prospect. The outline of yellow light that seeped out from the door to her father's study— not to mention the muffled sound of him arguing with someone over the phone— showed that he was busy with work, as usual.
Lydia wasn't sure why she expected anyone to respond to her half-hearted greeting. It was probably just a bad habit that Mr. and Mrs. Maitland instilled in her with their persistent care. Barbara almost always had a warm snack waiting for her upon her return from school. Adam wouldn't let her walk upstairs without subjecting her to one of his terribly corny jokes. They never would have let her leave the house on such a cold day without her jacket and scarf. They most certainly would have noticed the trail of rainwater that followed behind her, dripping from the train of her skirt with each step she took up the stairs.
A relentless storm had burst forth from the sky minutes into her bike ride home, quickly soaking her through. The pelting raindrops were unforgiving in their brutality as they merged with ceaseless blasts of frigid air. Together, they pierced her to the bone as she cycled on— eager to get home to the safety of warmth as quickly as possible. Miraculously, her school books and camera, as well as little Lydia, appeared to be spared from any water damage. How they managed to escape the rain unscathed while she was drenched down to the soles of her shoes was nothing short of illogical. Regardless, she counted her blessings. A new camera was a privilege she wasn't sure her parents could indulge at the moment judging by her father's recent lackluster attitude. A Charles Deetz with money in his wallet was much happier and energetic than a Charles Deetz without.
After changing into something warm and dry— a deep purple nightgown that whispered about her ankles when she walked— Lydia grabbed hold of her mini-me and camera before tip-toeing back downstairs, hoping to make it to the darkroom without arousing Delia's notice.
"Lydia!" The despised redhead chirped cheerfully as Lydia attempted to sneak past, making her shoulders shoot up toward her ears. "Here! Come try my new recipe!" The forced saccharine grin she wore held a secret message. It said; We have to get along and I am trying. You have to try too. Or else.
The steaming pot of red goo looked half edible. At least, until the smell hit her. It wasn't bad so much as strong. Inhaling deeply out of instinct and blinking away subsequent tears, Lydia tried to suppress her body's automatic reaction and play along. "Mmm," she hummed pleasantly, pretending to smell it again. "What, uhh— what is it?"
Delia's forced smile fell away and she blinked once, brows drawing together with indignation as though the answer should have been obvious. "Codfish curry."
Knowing there was no getting out of this, not with Delia's hawkish gaze trained unflinchingly on both the spoon and her mouth, she allowed some of it to touch her lips. The finesse with which she suppressed the wince and grimace that followed could have earned her a Tony had the right people been in attendance. Lydia adored curry. It was one of her favorite meals. Why did Delia have to take everything she loved and taint it with mediocrity?
"Yum," she trilled unconvincingly in an attempt to appease the woman and twirled back around so that she might make a hasty escape to the haven of her darkroom.
"I'm so glad you like it!" Delia called brightly to her retreating back with a false finality that led Lydia to believe she was in the clear. Then, her stepmother kept talking, halting her descent into the basement. "There should be plenty of leftovers! I'll go ahead and pack some for you to take to school."
There was no winning with that woman. Lydia flipped the switch that controlled the safelights her father installed for her and red beams flooded the basement. They illuminated her workbench, a projector, and the large porcelain sink that Mr. Maitland built into the basement many years ago, back when he was still alive. Embittered by the events of the day, Lydia set her mini-me up on top of a stool where she could keep her company and still be safe from hazardous chemicals and threw herself into her work, eager to channel her stress into the creation of art.
This was one place where she and Delia had something in common. The way she could manipulate light and shadow, forcing the world to look the way she wanted it to, gave her a feeling of control that was lacking in almost every other aspect of her life. Poe, one of her more ornery ravens, was looking particularly pompous this week. The way he ruffled his feathers and cracked his beak in some of these shots made it appear as though he thought he deserved a raise. She supposed she could probably afford to spare him an extra penny or two. It wouldn't be said that Lydia Deetz went around underpaying her models, and Poe was one of her best. If he was unhappy, the feeling of discontent would only spread to the rest of the conspiracy.
"Lydia!" Delia called from above, making her jump. How long had she been working? A quick glance to the clock confirmed that nearly two hours had passed. "Come eat dinner, and clean up when you're done! Your father and I have already finished and are heading to bed. You get a good rest tonight!" A deeper male voice mumbled a similar goodnight, but Lydia was too dumbstruck to reply. They were already done eating? Did they call her to join the table? Or was she just too busy with her photos to notice? It wouldn't be the first time that had happened. Then again, it also wouldn't be the first time they neglected to tell her that dinner was being served and went ahead without her. The Deetzes could not be called traditional by any means.
"Goodnight!" Lydia called out abruptly, uncertain, already knowing it was too late as the parting bounced around unanswered in the cavernous basement. They had undoubtedly shuffled off to bed by now— or more likely, Delia was in the process of dosing up on a cocktail of downers while her father locked himself in his study with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Tucking the strap of her camera over her neck, she made to grab her mini-me and retire from the darkroom for the night, only to hesitate. Little Lydia was no longer sitting on her stool. A cursory investigation showed that she was on the ground feet away, most of her hidden behind the bench. Only one arm and several strands of black yarn were visible beneath the vivid red glare of her safelight. A less observant individual might have had a much more difficult time spotting her than Lydia did.
With a push, the bench was easily rolled out of the way. "Deadly-vu…"
The miniature girl lay directly in front of a trap door that previously had been conveniently obscured behind the workbench. It was wooden and ancient, barely hanging onto its rusted hinges. A thick black padlock hammered into place in the concrete perimeter kept it bolted shut. It probably led to a crawl space! Her father must have hidden it on purpose to keep her from sneaking beneath the house and getting a look at all the interesting creepy crawlies that lived there.
Well, Lydia mused, absent-mindedly stroking her bare neck, he was right to be worried.
Alas, the skeleton key was tucked several floors away in her vanity. It was too late to go gallivanting under the house, anyway. She was too hungry, there were too many chores to be done, and too much homework to be finished— not even considering Miss Shannon's vindictive essay, she remembered with a scowl. Exploring the crawlspace would just have to wait for another night. Tummy grumbling, she grabbed hold of her mini-me, pushed the bench back into place, shut off the lights, and abandoned the basement to observe the wreckage that was Delia's home-cooking.
It wasn't fair that she should be tasked with cleaning up her stepmother's mess when she had no intention of eating any of it. Nobody asked Delia to cook. She took it upon herself to do so, wanting to feel useful in the wake of joblessness. Fortunately, her stepmother did not see fit to make use of the lavishly remodeled kitchen very often. It was just a testament to Lydia's bad luck that she chose to force her cooking upon them all today. Why were so many positively horrendous things occurring in such a short period of time? It was as though the universe was coming together, unifying to spite her specifically. The stars must have aligned in a particularly crooked fashion on this night.
"Do you want some codfish curry?" The girl offered her mini-me with a heavily feigned allure, waving a slimy spoon enticingly in front of the doll's stitched mouth. Little Lydia looked as though she wanted to barf up her cotton innards. "Yeah. Me neither."
Instead, she prepared a peanut butter sandwich with raspberry jam, a glass of milk, and ate a lonely, sparse dinner. Then, she did what any good child would do and listened to her parents. Whatever ingredients Delia left out were put away to keep from perishing, the table and stove were cleared of dirty dishes, and the dishwasher emptied of clean ones so that it could be reloaded. When the jets inside began to whir, signaling the beginning of the cycle, Lydia, satisfied that her chores had been adequately completed, gathered her doll and camera and retired to her bedroom for the night.
The Importance of Punctuality
Being punctual is important for numerous reasons, all of which can be applied to both school and social life, as well as professional. It is important to one's character because it shows that one exemplifies respect for others…
Black characters stared back at her from their blindingly white background tauntingly. The essay refused to write itself. As it was, there was only so much that could be said on the virtues of promptness, though Miss Shannon might disagree with her on that. Unbidden, her eyes glossed over, drifting away from her laptop's screen and toward the photos tucked in between the edge of her vanity's mirror and its wooden frame. They were of her favorite dead people; one in sepia tone of an attractive young couple— Adam and Barbara, a clipping of their obituary.
The other was old, grainy, and faded— almost to the point of being black and white. The girl had been told that it didn't do the subject, a raven-haired bombshell, justice. Lydia didn't know how that was possible as the woman in the photo was the most beautiful she had ever seen. A thick rope of ebony hair hung braided over one shoulder, a layer of dark lashes framed wide eyes that gleamed with devilry, and full ruddy lips were curled into a fiendish smirk. A tiny black beauty mark dotted the corner of her left eye, giving her a classic sort of charm. Both the age and poor quality of the photo kept Lydia from being able to discern the color of her eyes.
Though she never dared to say it out loud, Delia hated having pictures of her up around the house. The late Evelyn Deetz's memory posed more of a threat to her than the redhead was comfortable admitting. Except for this one, all other photos of her were stashed away in boxes or in storage, set to gather dust. All Lydia had left were bits and pieces, shadows of her mother left over from childhood; the scent of her shampoo, the proper name and brand of the shade of red lipstick she preferred, what a caterpillar looked like curled up in the pale palm of her hand just before she released it. Little things like that, barely more than snapshots of a life far beyond her memory's cognizance.
An all-encompassing, full-bodied yawn reminded Lydia of the late hour. With conviction, she sat up straight in her chair and refocused her attention on her laptop, rearing herself up to get the words out on screen. However, she was only able to finish off a paragraph before the tedious nature of the task began to fray at her nerves again. Trying to blink away her fatigue, she slumped forward, resting her forehead on her arms. Little Lydia was collapsed in a similar state, parallel to her and propped against the mirror.
"Maybe if I just rest my eyes for a minute…" She mumbled— to the doll, not herself because only crazy people talk to themselves— before following her own advice.
Seconds later it seemed, though it very well could have been hours, a musical voice danced across her ears, jolting her to full consciousness despite its soft quality.
"Lydia…"
Honeyed eyes snapped open. Little Lydia was gone. The space she previously occupied on the vanity's surface was now empty. Brows furrowed, Lydia sat up and glanced around, considering the very real possibility that she accidentally knocked her over while dozed off. In her frenzied search for the doll, she found… something else staring back at her. A spider the size of her fist descended from the ceiling slowly, the mass of its body facing her, utterly still while attached to the line of silk it was producing. There was no doubt in Lydia's mind as to whether or not it was aware of her presence.
It was black with bold white polka dots and it moved with purpose. As soon as its legs touched the ground, her bedroom door inched opened with a creak. Wasting no time, the spider departed. Before Lydia could follow it— as following it was the only thing to do— she hesitated. She wasn't ready. She needed something else. Quickly, without a second thought, the bottom-right drawer to her vanity was wrenched open and the skeleton key was placed back around her neck, where it belonged.
Then, she followed the spider through the shadowy halls of the Deetz residence; down one set of stairs, and then another, into her big. Dark. Room. Two steps ahead, the arachnid crawled beneath her workbench before she could get a better look at it and was gone from sight. Knowing what she would see before she saw it, Lydia pulled the bench out of the way, revealing that the spider had disappeared completely. When she placed the key in the lock, it fit and turned for her easily— as if it was ever going to do anything else.
Behind the little trap door, Lydia Deetz did not find a crawl space.