The 14th Pan Book of Horror Stories

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY or LITTLE MISS MUFFET Myc Harrison

Thin mist curled grey against the lush, green, open field as the morning sun rose slowly in a cloudless sky. It was to be a day of work, for the spider, at least. Spinning silken threads amid the early morning dew; and all, perhaps, to catch one single, lonely fly.

Which would die.

Yet for the naked girl, spreadeagled in the mist, morning had arrived too late. Strong fingers had sought her neck and throat that night gone by and the seeds of death sowed flowers on her open grave. Face up to the pale blue sky she lay, eyes open wide and backward turned as though searching for an answer within herself. The gentle swirling mist formed halos round her head.

Quite dead.

Then slowly, from dreamless sleep, the spider came awake. Uncurling from a little round ball, he stretched, eight black, hairy legs in sets of two. A big, full-bodied beast, full of overt caution whilst lacking the subtle finesse of fear. He looked around, four pairs of compound eyes feeding on the landscape. His web long gone, trampled beneath the thrashings of the night just passed. A web of steel that hadn’t seen the morning.

Or mourning.

A trickle of dew ran down the naked shoulder to disappear in the blades of grass. Those compound eyes caught the movement as instinct sent him forward; crashing over the broken terrain, he came scurrying through the mist. Up the blades of grass and over cold, damp flesh, hauling himself up till he reached her breast.

Or chest.

This place was right, raised above the ground to catch the passing trade. An elevated web. He moved sideways, crablike, down the gentle slope of breast to the neck and on up again, pausing at her open lips. Thick legs explored the soft, textured mouth, the enamel whiteness of her teeth, then moved on, shuffling at the cold orifice of her nostril, half in, half out.

Look out!

The shadow of a bird passed over, blotting out the sun. Yet the early bird catches the worm and the spider lived a little longer. He stayed put, like some thick blob of mucus. The bird soared higher, lost in the haze of the sun and on to pastures new. The spider crawled out on to her cheek, finding an open eye above. The lower lashes curled under, thick and strong. Each he carefully tested before weaving his silky thread around them, his spinnerets working hard to bridge the gap.

To set a trap.

Back and forth he trudged across her body, pulling tight his sticky threads round blades of grass and wild grown flowers, then back, once more, to face and eyes. He worked hard and fast, precision the virtue of his weaving. Whilst all the time his eyes kept watch to warn him of approaching danger. And then, at last, he had finished. The silvery web, glistening from his sticky secretion, was suspended like some safety net at a circus. He doubled back to sit in its centre, pulling in his legs and squatting like an ancient, ageless Buddha. Faking silent sleep or death and waiting for vibration.

Come to life from hibernation.

And all the time the sun beat down, warming up the prostrate body. A faint odour, of death itself, speckled the air and all the while the spider remained immobile as the fly came down to feed from the human form. It reached the web, overlooked in the headlong rush of greed. The taut threads quivered, sending vibrations back and forth to meet in the centre. The fly was fighting harder now, tearing threads to escape its hungry killer. Then the spider moved, fast and efficient, flashing along the radial spokes of the web, closing on his prey. The fight was savage, animal and insect locked in mortal combat. Until, at last, the spider closed his jaws around his prey, injecting the poison to paralyse him.

A death so slow.

Yet the battle was not over yet, for up above a bird wheeled across the pale blue sky. Sharp eyes watched from above, unsure of the human shape below. The spider saw his chance, dragging the fly across the broken web, down between the rise of breasts, spinning more thread to hide his victim. He pushed and pulled, seeking refuge as the bird moved closer, its wings swept back in graceful flight.

A deadly, feathered kite.

Frantic now, the spider stumbled forward, skirting the shallow, sunken navel, moving lower, the fly in tow. Even then, he almost missed the fibrous growth, doubling back, triumphant, towards it. He pulled his prize deeper into the course, textured strands, struggling to escape the daylight and the bird on high. And then the fibres parted, plunging down all soft and sloped.

Into which the spider groped.

Then crawling forward, his prey behind, he entered thankfully that dark and musky place. Deeper and deeper he pulled his foe, into those soft, surrounding walls. A place of silence to devour his prey. As dark as any tomb.

And safe as any mother’s womb.