The Spider and the Fly

‘And now dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.’

-Mary Howitt, The Spider and the Fly

It was a quiet and windy day in February.

Evening had fallen upon the Himachal pines, through which the winds concocted up quite a tempest – moaning, shrieking like demons who perhaps had had a bad day of digestive problems…

Along the winding mountain path, Davis was returning to his silent home, next to the verge of the Shiwaliks. He was thirty, with chiseled features and blue eyes which would make any girl be smitten with him.

Hmm, Davis thought. Smitten. Up until now how many girls had he been in relationship? Countless. Wife? Had one, but died about three years ago. Parents? None. Job? A chemistry professor at a university. But that was not his main source of enjoyment. He loved chemistry, but other than that…hehe..

‘THUNK!’

Davis suddenly fell face-down on the muddy mountain path. Oh God! What was that damn hell of a stone doing over there?

Sweet Jesus, muttered Davis, as he saw his leather windcheater completely drenched with the mountain mud. He was soaking wet from top to bottom. Regaining his strength, he now began to walk a bit faster. Above, the clouds were darkening…if he didn’t get to his house fast, then pneumonia was in his plate then…

But perhaps the guy upstairs was probably having a bad day, for a few minutes later, large drops of rain began to hit the ground. Strong winds began to blow too. Great, Davis thought. He would now either to run towards his abode, or maybe…

The cottage came into sight as he was running between the pines. It was located at a clearing in the forest. It seemed to have recently been occupied, for the cottage seemed not to be too old. Light was coming in through windows. Wonderful, Davis wondered. It would be enough for one night. Walking back home in this tempest was just a fool’s thought…

‘Hello?’ Davis cried, as he rapped upon the wooden door. ‘Is anyone there?’

There was no reply for some moments. He was about to knock again when a voice came from the inside. It was of a woman.

‘Who is it?’

‘My name is Reginald. Please let me stay at your residence for this night. I’m afraid that I cannot make it further to my house. Please help me.’

There was silence. Then, the door opened up. ‘Come in’, said the voice from inside.

Davis rushed inside the cottage and closed the door. Jesus! What a storm it was outside!

Trembling slightly, Davis moved towards the fireplace, where now seated was a young woman. She had an extremely fair complexion, her eyes were a twinkling light green, and her red lips gave off a radiant smile to the visitor.

A sight indeed, thought Davis. A sight indeed.

‘I’m sorry for keeping you out that long, Monsieur Reginald. No one comes – you know – in these parts. So I was unsure whether or not to enter you.’

‘Sorry, but are you French?’ asked Davis. He never heard being addressed as ‘Monsieur’ in the hilly regions.

The woman gave a sweet laugh. ‘Yes, I suppose you figured that out from my addressing you. Yes I migrated from Paris just a year or two ago. Wanted to find some peace, you know. France was becoming so stuffy…’

‘Oh, silly me! I’ve forgot to introduce myself. My name is Charlotte Harrison. Now you sir, need a good dinner, and some warm clothes to help you get through the night. You’ll find them in the bedroom to your right. We’ll discuss affairs again once you dress up. Well then, Monsieur.’ She finished off, motioning Davis to the room where his clothes lay.

‘Thank you, Mademoiselle.’ Davis replied, as he entered which was only illuminated by two lanterns, two candle stands, and sudden bursts of blue lightening which struck the ground, giving of a dreadful shriek…

As they seated down for supper, Davis was startled by the low and metallic gongs of a clock, which told the time as eight o’ clock in the night. Outside, he could see the winds still furious as ever, howling the most peculiar sounds.

‘Tell me, Monsieur.’ Charlotte said, as he poured the soup from the pot. ‘How did you get in this condition?’

‘Me? Oh, well, nothing much. I had walked down to the Simla Bazaar for buying groceries and stuff. When I had begun to return, it had already began to darken up, and just as I was walking through this forest, the gods above began pouring their wrath!’ Davis replied, as he helped himself to breadsticks and a bowl of chicken soup. Mmm! It was delicious.

Just as Charlotte. She was wearing a light red semi-transparent gown. She had those eyes. Those dreamy eyes which he had seen in every girl…

‘But what about you? How did you come in this condition?’

‘Well, that is a bit of a long story. I was having a great life. My husband was good, lived in the calm, romantic streets of Paris. But then one day, scandals started to happen. My husband was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Davis replied. The curry suddenly stopped in his mouth.

‘Yes. He had been stabbed through the heart during the night. I was sleeping at that time, and knew nothing, but people accused me, and told many lies…’

‘Lies? What lies, Mademoiselle?’ Davis said. He could feel a sympathy developing for her.

(Those eyes.)

‘The people lied that I was having an affair with another man, and out of that…well, it was a long time back. I came to India to just clear up, to remove my past. I live over here simply, just going to the market for supplies.’

‘You do a job?’

‘No. I have enough- oh God!’ she accidentally tossed over the salt and pepper stand, which fell with a clatter upon the floor.

‘I’m picking-’ began Davis, but she had already groped down to pick them up. As she did so, her hand touched Davis’ for a second. A warm sensation was sent down through Davis’ veins. How lovely, how sweet was that touch! It was…it was…

Davis could feel the blood pumping in his heart. Oh, but this time it was reversed. This woman had something…had something..

‘Sorry for that, Monsieur.’ Charlotte said. But what a sweet voice it was…it was so warm…it was so romantic. It was the voice with which the female half of a couple said when they were out on a date.

They talked on for some more time. When they finished, it was quarter-to-nine in the night.

After supper, Charlotte said, ‘Monsieur Davis, please make yourself comfortable. The sleeping quarters are over there – where you changed your clothes.’ She said in a low, warm, and tender voice.

‘Thank you again, Mademoiselle. Your hospitality has sure been a boost to my strength. Won’t you come?’ Davis said. He wasn’t ready to sleep alone. Well, it was dark, and the surroundings had become cold all of a sudden. Besides…

Besides the warmness of a young lady was just the thing….hehe…

Washing his face up, he crept into the blanket of the bed. Ah, what a warm feeling it was! It was the much-needed comfort required by one in a such a rainy night. After some time, he heard the sound of a piano playing. No, not a piano, but a violin, a trumpet…

‘I’ve set up a record. I put up one when I go to sleep.’ Charlotte said, as he entered the room.

Davis’ skin tingled up. What was he seeing before him? There was an angel of exceptional beauty. She had changed into her nightdress, which was electric blue in colour and semi-transparent. Her eyes were dreamy, and her face seemed to lit up even the darkest corners of the room. Also, the air was filled with a scent of lavender and jasmine…a warm atmosphere…

Truly a warm atmosphere!

‘Monsieur Davis?’ she said, as she slipped in beside him, ‘Are you okay?’

‘Definitely, Mademoiselle. Mmmm, the room is nice.’

Charlotte laughed aloud. There was honey in her voice…honey that was so tender…so sweet…

‘You know, I feel scared sometimes. What if an animal came over here? What if a storm completely ravaged it? And what if a man…oh no…’ her voice trembled, and she suddenly became close to Davis.

Reginald felt the warm touch once again. So gentle…so soft…

‘Come on, darling, no one’s going to hurt you now. For one night you are safe…’ Davis said, his voice becoming the same one which he would take up among young women.

The record began to grow a bit louder. Davis could feel the feminine hands hugging her even more…his eyes began to dose off…it was as if he was drinking honey…

But suddenly, his inner sense told him to open his eyes. But why? Why should he? He was in heaven right. You didn’t get angels everyday…especially in these lonely hills, you don’t.

A loud laughter made Davis suddenly open his eyes. He saw Charlotte sitting up on the bed – her face had that same sweet smile. But what was that in her hand? He couldn’t see it clearly…it seemed to gleam in the faint candlelight, was it –

The instruments in the record had now entered into a calm, nocturnal setting. But they were all of a sudden interrupted.

Interrupted by a discordant scream. It was as if a man was in great pain, unable to gasp for breath.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!’

After some time however, the interlude ended, and the instruments once again came back to their nocturne. Outside, the February winds began to moan again, like ancient phantoms, echoing the voices of the Great Ones above…

***

The hair on my hands literally stood upright.

‘Then? Makbul Saheb, then what happened?’

‘Alas, the story was never completed. The chemistry teacher named Reginald Davis was never found. However, his clothes turned out in the river two days later, along with a blood-stained knife. Apparently, it was assumed that the French lady had done it.’

‘So, why did the police arrest her?’

‘Not enough evidence, Sir. Not enough evidence. The police tried everything but in vain. Miss Charlotte Harrison remained innocent…she got off, just as she had done previously.’

‘Oh my goodness! More?’

‘Yes, Sir. Official records say that at least twenty men went into that cottage and never made it out alive. There was only one case, however. He came to the police, shivering and losing blood. But sadly, the man did not live for long. The day after tomorrow, he died, so it was impossible for anyone to solve the mystery as to whether he had really been in that house…

Then, taking a breath, he said – but now in a low voice – ‘You know, writer sir, that woman was something else. Have you seen a spider catching his prey? How she seduces the fly in drawing towards her? Miss Harrison was just like that. If you dig up files, you’ll find that similar cases had occur back in her native place in France. Married an Englishman, one morning he was found dead, stabbed with a knife right through the heart. The woman had affairs with many, but then…’

‘What about Charlotte? Is she still living?’

‘No Sir. Died seven years ago. Poisoning case it seems…okay Sir, I have to go now. Rush hour for our bookstore. Good day.’

‘Good day, Makbul Saheb.’ I replied, as the old red-haired gentleman disappeared among the bookshelves.....

After completing my shopping list, I started walking back towards towards my house, located right outside the pine forest. It’s been ten years since I had started living in Himachal with my wife. The weather was clear most of the time, but at the beginning of the year, it rained hard – hard enough to create massive roadblocks for days.

I walked back on the forest path. It was a quiet February day, evening was just settling in, and the sky was already filling up with dark clouds. If it rained again…

A chilling thought suddenly crossed my mind. If the story was true, then Reginald Davis also had walked down on such a path, in such an atmosphere…

Pssht, I thoght, that was forty years ago. The world has changed a lot by then. The ‘70s are now roaring times for one to be alive!

My peaceful walk through the windy trees however did not last for long. Very soon, it began to rain. My walk became brisk, which soon turned into a run, as I made my way through the pines, trying to keep up with the lashing rain. As I came into a clearing, I suddenly stopped. The umbrella had already been ripped off, and I stood there, being drenched and soaked by the rain.

That scent. That scent of lavender and jasmine!

My eyes turned straight towards the clearing. There was a cottage over there, in a dilapidated condition – rain and wind eroding it away…

And from there, I felt I heard a voice…a feminine voice. It sounded so sweet in this violent storm…so warm…

That’s when I saw her.

I could clearly see – through the misty rain – that a woman of a very fair complexion and hypnotic eyes standing behind one of the broken windows, giving off a infectious sweet smile…it was so intimidating, as if she called me…

Suddenly, a gust of wind nearly toppled me down. That was when I realized.

Oh, what a fool I am! There was certainly no one in that broken down cottage. As I returned my eyes over there, there was no one. Rain continued to pour through its darkness.

I chuckled. An illusion. Just an illusion created by my active imagination upon hearing the story...

When I returned, the rain had ceased, and my body was racking with pain. Alas, pneumonia!

As I went into my bed that night with my book, my eyes suddenly turned towards the wall.

A spider had been weaving its web along one corner of my study. It had just caught its first prey – a fly had foolishly been entrapped…

Just as Miss Charlotte Harrison had done with the smitten men, all those years before.

If I am not mistaken, this act of the spider and the fly will continue, for days, months…and years to come…

***

M.Macabre

09.07.2021

 Writer's Notes:

It may seem the same old story to you...but, well....