A Nest of Nightmares

‘Of course, he can’t feel a thing,’ Peter continued. ‘He’s alive, but only in the most superficial sense. That paralyzing poison the wasp filled him with has effectively deadened him. A more advanced creature might torment himself with fears about the future, the inevitability of his approaching death – but this is just a spider. And what does a spider know?’

Ellen walked away, saying nothing. She expected him to follow her, but when she looked back she saw that he was still on his hands and knees, watching the wasp at her deadly work.

Once inside the house, Ellen locked the front door behind her, then went around locking the other doors and checking the windows. Although she knew it was likely that her aunt had given Peter a key to the house, she didn’t want to be surprised by him again. She was locking the side door, close by her aunt’s room, when the feeble voice called, ‘Is that you, dear?’

‘It’s me, Aunt May,’ Ellen said, wondering who that ‘dear’ was meant for. Pity warred briefly with disgust, and then she entered the bedroom.

From the bed, her aunt gave a weak smile. ‘I tire so easily now,’ she said. ‘I think I may just spend the rest of the day in bed. What else is there for me to do, except wait?’

‘Aunt May, I could rent a car and take you to a doctor – or maybe we could find a doctor willing to come out here.’

May turned her grey head back and forth on the pillow. ‘No. No. There’s nothing a doctor can do, no medicine in the world that can help me now.’

‘Something to make you feel better . . .’

‘My dear, I feel very little. No pain at all. Don’t worry about me. Please.’

She looked so exhausted, Ellen thought. Almost all used up. And looking down at the small figure surrounded by bedclothes, Ellen felt her eyes fill with tears. Suddenly, she flung herself down beside the bed. ‘Aunt May, I don’t want you to die!’

‘Now, now,’ the old woman said softly, making no other movement. ‘Now, don’t you fret. I felt the same way myself, once, but I’ve got over that. I’ve accepted what has happened, and so must you. So must you.’

‘No,’ Ellen whispered, her face pressed against the bed. She wanted to hold her aunt, but she didn’t dare – the old woman’s stillness seemed to forbid it. Ellen wished her aunt would put out her hand or turn her face to be kissed: she could not make the first move herself.

At last Ellen stopped crying and raised her head. She saw that her aunt had closed her eyes and was breathing slowly and peacefully, obviously asleep. Ellen stood up and backed out of the room. She longed for her father, for someone to share this sorrow with her.

She spent the rest of the day reading and wandering aimlessly through the house, thinking now of Danny and then of her aunt and the unpleasant stranger called Peter, feeling frustrated because she could do nothing. The wind began to blow again, and the old house creaked, setting her nerves on edge. Feeling trapped in the moldering carcass of the house, Ellen walked out onto the front porch. There she leaned against the railing and stared out at the grey and white ocean. Out here she enjoyed the bite of the wind, and the creaking of the balcony above her head did not bother her.

Idly, her attention turned to the wooden railing beneath her hands, and she picked at a projecting splinter with one of her fingernails. To her surprise, more than just a splinter came away beneath her fingers: some square inches of the badly painted wood fell away, revealing an interior as soft and full of holes as a sponge. The wood seemed to be trembling, and after a moment of blankness, Ellen suddenly realised that the wood was infested with termites. With a small cry of disgust, Ellen backed away, staring at the interior world she had uncovered. Then she went back into the house, locking the door behind her.

It grew dark, and Ellen began to think longingly of food and companionship. She realised she had heard nothing from her aunt’s room since she had left her sleeping there that morning. After checking the kitchen to see what sort of dinner could be made, Ellen went to wake her aunt.

The room was dark and much too quiet. An apprehension stopped Ellen in the doorway where, listening, straining her ears for some sound, she suddenly realised the meaning of the silence: May was not breathing.

Ellen turned on the light and hurried to the bed. ‘Aunt May, Aunt May,’ she said, already hopeless. She grabbed hold of one cool hand, hoping for a pulse, and laid her head against her aunt’s chest, holding her own breath to listen for the heart.

There was nothing. May was dead. Ellen drew back, crouching on her knees beside the bed, her aunt’s hand still held within her own. She stared at the empty face – the eyes were closed, but the mouth hung slightly open – and felt the sorrow building slowly inside her.