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Part Four: The Beldame
Lydia hoped Allison understood her plan. She trailed after the old woman, jabbering about the color of the wallpaper and the pretty home-made curtains, in order to provide her friends with a cover of noise as they searched the downstairs for clues. Lydia kept her eyes peeled for any sign of Stiles. Upstairs she counted six doors. Three of the doors were wide open, revealing a master bedroom, a guest room/sewing room, and the bathroom. Two of the doors were closed. Judging by their positions and the layout of the house, the first was probably a linen closet and the second led to the attic. The sixth door was partially open a crack. They passed it on their way to the bathroom. Lydia tried to peek inside, but the old woman casually closed it before she had a chance, muttering about messy rooms.
The old woman showed her the bathroom. The toilet, sink, and bathtub were a pale pink. The floral wallpaper was beige with ruby roses and green leaves. The shower curtain, bath mat, and fuzzy toilet seat cover were all a shade of magenta. Lydia thought it was the ugliest bathroom she had ever seen. She thanked the woman and slammed the door, hoping to signal her friends. Above the toilet was a cross-stitched sign of a little boy and girl. Their wide, dead eyes seemed to stare at Lydia. Their thread mouths were frozen in strained smiles. "There is nothing so precious as a child," the sign read.
Lydia turned away from it and pressed her ear to the door. She listened as the old woman's footsteps retreated downstairs. She quietly opened the door and tiptoed down the hallway. She stopped in front of the door the old woman had closed. Lydia wondered what the woman had wanted to hide from her. She doubted it was dirty sheets and an unswept floor. A dim light glowed under the door. Lydia slowly turned the knob, and opened the door just enough to squeeze through. A decrepit floor board creaked under her foot. She prayed they hadn't heard the sound downstairs.
Lydia paused and listened. She could hear the television droning. Lydia stepped into the room. It was small and simple, containing a double-doored wardrobe, a wooden toy chest, a rocking chair by the window, and a narrow, little bed. The dull light shone from a lamp in the corner near the rocking chair, casting shadows throughout the room. A lone oval mirror hung on the wall. It was splintered, the glass shattered in thin cracks like a spiderweb. Through the gap in the curtains, Lydia could perceive steel bars on the window.
There was a lump in the bed. The blankets were pulled all the way up. Lydia crept over, her ballet slippers soundless on the carpeted floor. Her heart hammered in her chest. Standing near the head, she reached out a trembling hand and drew back the covers. A boy in a policeman's uniform lay motionless. He was missing his hat, but was otherwise intact. "Stiles!" Lydia cried. "Oh, Stiles! Stiles, are you okay?" The boy didn't move. He was lying on his side, facing away from her. She gently rolled him onto his back. "Stiles?"
Lydia gasped. Stiles' face was pale and his eyes were covered in a thick white gauze. At first she thought he was dead, but she relaxed when she noticed the gentle rising and falling of his chest. She decided he must be unconscious. "Stiles?" she pleaded softly, but with due urgency. "Come on, Stiles. Please wake up." Lydia touched his face. He felt cold. "Stiles?" she patted his cheek. "You need to get up now."
Her fingers hovered over the bandage at his eyes. She hesitated. What was the purpose of gauze except to cover injuries? Had Stiles hurt himself? Had the old woman hurt Stiles? What if, Lydia shuddered at the thought, the old woman had scooped out Stiles eyes? What if she removed the bandage and there was nothing but two gaping holes staring back at her? But the gauze was spotless, and there were no signs of blood. She had to know.
Lydia sank her fingers into the gauze. It was not cotton, as she expected. The threads were silky and sticky. It clung to her hands as she tore pieces off. It wouldn't tear easily. She held a fragment up to inspect it. The texture was wrong too: instead of the usual squares and wavy lines of gauze fabric, this was patterned in tight, tiny stitches. Like knitting.
She needed to get this stuff off Stiles. Now. Lydia dug her fingernails in. She ripped off strip after strip, but there seemed to be no end to the threads. Finally she was able to free Stiles' eyes. She jumped back, startled. She had assumed he was unconscious, and therefore had assumed his eyes would be closed. Brown eyes stared widely back at her, blinking against the sudden light. Stiles struggled to focus on her face. "Stiles! You're awake!"
He blinked. His lips opened a fraction of a centimeter. A scratchy noised echoed from the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and sighed.
Lydia's brow wrinkled. "Stiles, are you okay?"
He tried again. A wheeze, and then: "Ca...ov..." he breathed. Lydia mimicked the sound, shaping her own lips to fully form the words. "Ca...n't...ove..."
"Can't...ove? You can't...move? Stiles, you can't move!?" Stiles' chin tilted downward slightly. Lydia's eyes filled with tears, and her throat constricted in panic. She hadn't anticipated Stiles being immobile. How was she going to get him out of here? She was too small; she couldn't carry him. She wouldn't be able to sneak him pass the old lady, and even if she could create a distraction, Stiles couldn't make a run for it. What if Stiles was paralyzed forever? What was Lydia going to do? "Did she hurt you?"
"..oi...son..."
"Poison? She poisoned you?" Another incline of the head. She hoped that meant the paralysis was temporary. They didn't have time for effects to wear off, but she had an idea. If rubbing your limbs when you're cold helps you warm up by increasing blood circulation, maybe the same principle could be applied in this situation. "How much movement do you have?" Stiles' toes wiggled and his hands flinched against the sheet. She started there. Lydia propped Stiles up against the headboard, and then vigorously massaged his right hand between both of hers. She moved up to his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, and then worked on the left side. Rubbing between his shoulder and the crook of his neck, she noticed two small, red wounds on Stiles' neck. The skin around the holes was red and inflamed, so she avoided this area.
As Lydia worked, she counted the seconds in her head. She had already been gone too long. She hoped Allison could stall. "Try again," she commanded.
Stiles curled his fingers and angled his elbows. He was able to slightly bend his knees. Lydia was pleased with his progress. She knew how hard he must be fighting. "Keep trying," she encouraged. She leaned closer, and used her thumbs to massage his face, particularly around the mouth. He stared into her face, into her blue eyes hard with determination. It was the closest and most intimate contact she had ever had with a boy, but the danger kept her from pondering this thought, prevented her from any inkling of awkwardness. Her brain was in emergency mode, and her one coherent thought was that she needed to get Stiles out of here alive.
Stiles had regained minimal movement. Lydia put his arm around her shoulders, and she was able to slide him off the bed. She leaned his weight against her. She had to hobble forward slowly to keep them both from falling. She maneuvered him out the door and down the hallway. Her muscles screamed at her; they felt like they were on fire. He tried his best to help her.
"Att...tic..." He lifted his finger towards one of the closed doors.
"Stiles, we are not going up there." Moving farther away from the front door did not strike her as a good idea. She was worried enough about dragging Stiles down stairs, she would never be able to get him up.
"Att...tic." He said more strongly. "You. Go."
"You want me to go up to the attic?"
"Yea..."
"Stiles, I don't think that's very smart. I can't just leave you."
Stiles nodded sharply. "Leave...m-me...you...go...Other...ch-kids..."
Lydia's eyes widened in horror. "You think there might be other kids in the house?" Stiles nodded. As they passed the banister, he reached out and grabbed it, struggling to pull his weight away from Lydia and lean against it. She shifted his weight onto the railing, and looked into his eyes. They were tight in determination and bright with compassion. Stupid boy, she thought, always worried more about others than himself. She knew he wasn't going to leave until she went into the attic and checked.
Lydia opened the door. Its hinges creaked faintly. A waft of stale, rank air drifted down to her. The stairway was narrow, leading up into darkness. She swallowed, and glanced back at him over her shoulder. She hated small, dark spaces. "Be...lie...ve...you..." Stiles tried to smile and gave her a crooked thumbs up.
Lydia carefully climbed the ancient staircase. She groped blindly in the dark for something to hold onto. Near the top, she walked through the first of a series of cobwebs. She bit down a squeal. The white threads stuck to her arms and her face. They matted in her hair. The attic was warm and stuffy – and covered in spider webs. In the light of the moon pouring through the sole window, the white strands gleamed eerily. Lydia glanced around the room. She could see nothing but webs, certainly nothing resembling captive children. The space looked like the old woman hardly ventured up here.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Lydia could perceive various sized forms scattered throughout the room. She clawed her way to the nearest lump. It was laid prostrate on the floor, roughly four and half feet in length and round. The entire object was wrapped in the same sticky gauze as Stiles' eyes. She dug her fingers in, tearing pieces away until she had made a hole to peek inside. Lydia leaned closer for a better look. A partially decayed little face looked back at her with sunken eyes, a jaw hanging wide open in a silence shriek.
Lydia screamed.
She scrambled backwards, right into another of the wrapped packages. Something hard and pointed poked into her back. A bone, she realized with startling and frightening clarity. She was surrounding by cocoons containing corpses. The bones and rotting remains of unfortunate children who had knocked on the old woman's door.
Lydia dashed down the attic stairs. Stiles leaned against the banister, but he had regained more motion, particularly in his face. He was able to articulate more clearly: "What ...happened? What...did..you-?"
Lydia wrapped his arm around her and took his weight. There wasn't time to explain. "We have to get out of here. Now." She stumbled to the staircase, but a shadow blocked her path. The old woman loomed over her. How had she climbed the stairs so quickly? Lydia stared into blazing azure eyes, and felt she was looking into the dark abyss of hell itself. "You...you're not human."
Her friends were gathered at the bottom of the stairs. She could see the front door behind them. The only thing standing between her and freedom was the witch woman. Stiles shrank back against her. Lydia could feel his fear pulsating through him into her body. Run! She wanted to shout. Help! But no sound emerged.
A grotesque smile curled the old lady's lips. She stood tall and upright. Old age melted out of her. Limbs grew straight and strong. Wrinkles smoothed into healthy, rosy flesh. Color seeped along each individual strand of hair, turning white into a rich auburn. Then Lydia watched as the woman's legs and hips bloated and expanded, ripping through the fabric of her dress. The flesh of her thighs and buttocks exploded. Where there had been only two legs a moment before, there were now eight. From the bellybutton up, she was a woman, but her lower body was arachnid. Her voice was velvet: "Going so soon?"
For a moment, everything was still. Time seemed to freeze.
The spider-woman lunged for Stiles, wrenching the incapacitated boy from Lydia's arms. The redheaded girl crashed to the floor. The air was knocked from her lungs. She screamed as one of the eight hairy legs shot out and pierced her shoulder. She howled in pain.
"Jackson, call the police!" Scott ordered, running up the stairs. The turtle-boy scurried to the kitchen, where there was a landline phone hooked to the wall. He punched in the numbers 911 – the seconds the call took to connect were an eternity – and shouted at the dispatcher about evil old ladies with spider legs.
Scott charged the woman mindlessly. She caught him in two of her legs and tossed him aside like a rag doll. Allison and Isaac grabbed the nearest weapons at their disposable – her witch's broom and the plate of cookies. The stairs gave them the disadvantage. Allison ran up one side, and Issac up the other, in an attempt to surround the woman. Allison swung the broom, and successfully crippled one of the spider legs. The woman hissed viciously and struck out at Allison, knocking the girl backwards. Allison tumbled down several of the stairs, before managing to catch herself. Her head swam with stars.
Isaac broke the plate across the woman's back. Cookies flew into the air, and the ceramic shattered into pieces. The woman caught Isaac by the head in two of her great legs. "Sorrow is my favorite flavor. Maybe I'll save you for a later snack." Isaac squirmed in her grasp, and managed to wrench himself free from the sack. He tumbled down after Allison. The woman laughed. She stepped lightly over the fallen children. She cradled Stiles in her human arms, drawing him close to her breast. She caressed his face tenderly. He whimpered at her touch.
"Let...my...friends...go..."
"That's why I wanted you Stiles." She put her face close to his hair and inhaled. "You smell wonderfully of sorrow and courage and...love." She put her head up and fangs sprouted suddenly from her mouth. She swooped in to Stiles' neck, when she was bashed in the side of the head. Lydia tossed aside Allison's broom and pulled Stiles from the woman's arms. She and Stiles collapsed in a heap on the floor. The woman touched her finger to her mouth. Blood trickled from a cut. "You meddlesome girl!" she hissed. "I'm going to kill you slowly." She advanced on the children. Lydia threw out her arms and shielded Stiles with her body.
"Hey witch!" Scott's eyes flashed angrily. He stood to one side of the hall, panting. The woman turned to look, and he charged her again. He enclosed his arms around the massive body, and tackled her. Boy and spider tumbled down the stairs. They sprawled motionless at the bottom. Allison and Isaac rushed down to their friend. Scott was dazed, but otherwise alright. They helped him to stand. The spider stirred and opened her eyes. The children cowered back as she started to rise. She snarled and spit venom at them.
With a mighty roar, Jackson appeared from behind. He leaped on the beast and stabbed her in the heart with a pair of knitting needles. She fell to the floor, sputtering and clutching at her chest. She convulsed as the life drained from her eyes. Jackson shoved the needles in deeper. The spider twitched a few times and released a final exhale.
"Is it over?" Isaac asked.
The spider exploded in an cloud of dust. In her place was nothing but a pile of dirt, cobwebs, and a pair of knitting needles. Police sirens screeched to a halt outside. Red and blue rotating lights lit up the windows and the wallpaper. Sheriff Stilinski burst through the front door, his weapon drawn.
"I think," Lydia said, panting heavily, Stiles leaning against her shoulder. "It's finally over."