The Face in the House

43

MOTHER OF SHADOWS . . .

FEEL OUR POWER . . .

The words rang inside her head, strong and confident. They were speaking to her, guiding her, sharing their power with her. She gasped as she felt the full effect of it, that feeling that she'd felt briefly from her hand now pulsed in every part of her body. The power had spread through her veins, to her heart, to her head, everywhere.

She was strong. They were strong. They were her and she was them . . .

MOTHER OF SPIDERS . . .

SPINNER OF WEBS . . .

They came in a great mass from the shadows of the room, hundreds of identical black spiders. They reached the bed where she laid, and she didn't flinch as they climbed and clung to her body. She wasn't afraid. She'd never be afraid again.

She would never be alone again.

She stood, moving with no effort, no thought of her own. They moved as a group, as one being, a collection of hundreds, maybe thousands -- but one mind, one soul, one body. They climbed up her legs and covered her back, the sensation like a warm, heavy, living coat. She took the candlestick from its holder on the bedside table and walked calmly out of the bedroom, through the hallway, and into the kitchen. She didn't have to think about where she was going. She didn't have to think much at all.

When she reached the door at the top of the cellar stairs, she watched as a passive observer. Her hand reaching out, grasping the doorknob. Her hand was bare, untouched so it was free to use, but her arm appeared to be adorned in some thick, unusual black lace. Lace that moved and tickled and hummed with life.

MOTHER . . .
MOTHER . . .
MOTHER . . .

The hissing voice echoed in her head, a constant, soothing reminder.

She would hold them. She would carry them. She would protect them . . . and she knew something behind that door would threaten them. She could feel the way they bristled, tensed their many legs like little pin pricks into her flesh in anticipation

The door swung open and she stepped into the darkness, the flickering light of the candlestick lighting the way. At the landing, she nearly collided with Malcolm and Owen.

They screamed, startled by her sudden appearance, and frightened at the sight of her. She felt thousands of tiny legs dig deeper into her skin, defensive, threatened by the two boys before her. Anger flared in her too. How could they not understand that the spiders needed her? How could they scream in fear at the sight of their beauty?

Why were they trying to leave her?

"Oh my God, Teddy," Owen said, voice sputtering.

They looked at her, momentarily stunned, and Teddy could smell the fear, could taste it in the air. They were afraid of her, but they were also afraid of something else. Someone was screaming, a hysterical, murderous shriek. It seemed to fill the cellar, bouncing off the harsh stone walls, bouncing off the inside of her skull. Arabella White, she knew. She was here, and she was strong.

Defying us. The thought, and the anger that came with it, seemed to come from nowhere. The anger redirected to the boys standing before her.

"Were you going to leave without us?" she heard her own voice, understood that the words came from her mouth, but she couldn't make sense of it. It was her voice, but it wasn't. The inflection was wrong, the tone was off, something was off . . . but she felt too disconnected from her own mind to do anything but observe it.