A Spider Comes Calling Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Free Stuff

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Facts & Fiction

  Gifts for you

  Read More

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 Vered Ehsani

  A Spider Comes Calling

  Society for Paranormals: Case 6

  By Vered Ehsani

  from Africa… with a Bite

  Free Stuff

  GET 2 BOOKS for Free:

  That Night in Lagos ~ the prequel to the Society series, in which we learn how Mrs. Knight first met the Mantis, her arch-nemesis.

  From Africa… with a Bite ~ a compendium of African things that go bump in the night

  These books aren’t available in any store. For more information, go to http://veredehsani.co.za/free-books/

  Chapter 1

  WHEN ONE IS accustomed, as I am, to death, dismemberment and other inconveniences, one develops a certain equanimity with which most circumstances can be tolerated.

  There are of course always exceptions.

  This, I feared, was one. What with zombified plague patients, a pack of brain-devouring Kerit and two firefly vampires rampaging through the burning town of Nairobi, not to mention the departure of my best friend Cilla, I’d had a hectic time over the previous several weeks. After all the hullabaloo, I’d certainly earned a reprieve from anything more stimulating than a stroll through the garden.

  Alas, the moment I awoke, I knew that was not to be.

  “What a bother,” I muttered upon opening my eyes into absolute darkness. “I’ve been kidnapped again. Who is it this time?” I pondered the possibilities which sadly were more numerous than they ought to be. “Nameless?” I called out, wondering where the pesky dwarf was hiding, if he was indeed the culprit.

  It was a logical assumption. After all, he’d previously asserted that I would prove useful to his ambitions. What Nameless lacked in height, he more than compensated with a psychotic determination to eradicate all non-humanoid paranormal beings from the face of the planet, or at least from the lands of the British Empire which amounted to the same thing or thereabouts.

  As I lay in the strange surroundings, I quickly determined that Nameless couldn’t be involved on this occasion, as he was far too fond of tying up his victims and torturing them with incessant chatter. Wherever I was, it was intensely quiet and dark. Even my yellow werewolf eyes with their enhanced night vision were of no assistance to me. Only in one location had I ever experienced such a depth of nothingness: the world of Mrs. Cricket.

  “How aggravating,” I said, my voice muffled by whatever unnatural laws functioned there.

  Shuddering, I recalled my previous interactions with the dead woman’s demented spirit. At one point, she’d attempted to possess me. In my books, that was the spiritual equivalent of a visitor who lingers long after everyone else has left the party. I despised such lapses in social etiquette.

  “Gideon?” I shouted. “Lilly?”

  As my deceased, first husband Gideon and my cousin Lilly were the only other people who had ready access to this place, it was only natural to call for them. Truth be told, I was also a tad desperate, for Mrs. Cricket’s world was as close to purgatory as I ever wanted to approach. While solitude didn’t disturb me, isolation of this nature certainly did if for no other reason than the lack of a hot beverage and a plate of scones.

  “Wake up, Beatrice, wake up,” I shouted. Despite the sense of cavernous space around me, there was no echo. Nor was there any returning to my warm bed with its reassuringly heavy blanket and the soft breathing of my current husband by my side.

  With nothing left to do, I summoned my wolf energy which appeared in an instant. Around us was cast a globe of shimmering light which couldn’t penetrate the darkness beyond a limited circumference but at least provided some relief from the bleakness of the place. Shivering from a bone-piercing cold, I rubbed my hands against my arms and realized that something was amiss. I glanced down at my left hand and saw not the metal contraption that the inventor Dr. Cricket had created for me but my flesh-and-blood hand that my arch-nemesis, the she-demon Koki, had bitten off when I’d visited West Africa not so long ago.

  “Well, that’s most peculiar,” I commented and turned to my wolf. For its part, it was paying me no attention and instead peered out into the gloom, its hackles raised, its lips peeled back in a silent growl.

  Acutely aware of my lack of weapons, I squinted and could just perceive in the distance a form. Like my wolf, it was made of energy rather than matter, and its luminescence brightened as it approached. Without any other objects as reference, I couldn’t tell how far away it was.

  “Lilly? Gideon?” I raised the call again, hoping for an affirmative answer. I had no interest in engaging with an unknown entity with only my wit and my wolf to defend myself.

  The only reaction my noise produced was an increase in the speed of the other internee. Although diminutive in stature, the entity’s glow contained a certain ferocity that caused my shoulders to tense. What manner of creature could it be?

  “Beatrice?”

  Mr. Timmons’ sleepy, distant voice reverberated through the space around me. The world shivered in response.

  “And in the nick of time,” I said as I began to fade away. Just before I returned to my body and my bed, the glowing being floated close enough for me to glimpse its features. I awoke in my husband’s arms with a nagging sense that I’d seen that face before.

  Chapter 2

  LONDONERS HAVE NUMEROUS names to describe rain: drizzle, mist, downpour, sprinkle and so on. In Nairobi, there was only one word that could possibly capture the experience of the African rainy season: deluge.

  After a few years of drought, the rainy season arrived with a vengeance. I’d never experienced anything quite like it. While I realized this mild obsession with the weather was a peculiarity of the English, even Jonas, our gardener / driver / cook, deigned to comment on the matter, albeit briefly.

  “The roof’s leaking in the kitchen,” he grumbled, shaking his wrinkled head at the mess.

  The intensity of the water gushing from the sky was such that I could barely hear him over its pounding against the roof and windows, and the intermittent crack of thunder. By the time I had discerned the meaning of his words, our one employee had left on his own business, and I was forced to rummage about for a bucket.

  Even the perfume of tealeaves brewing in my metal teapot was overwhelmed by the ozone-ladened whiff of the storm mingling with the rich scent of earthy clay soil, sprouting herbs, dampness in the walls and smoke from the fireplace. Overnight, our world had transformed from a parched, dusty, wilted savannah into a flooded meadow exploding with new life.

  The paths and wagon tracks, so solid and clear a week b
efore, were now impassable channels of sticky mud and churning rivulets. For a few days, we were housebound, marveling at the forces of nature and wondering when the storms would let up. After the disturbing visit to Mrs. Cricket’s world, I was even more desperate to wander under an open, sunny sky.

  “What’s the matter?” Mr. Timmons shouted at me or rather shouted to be heard over the clattering of heavy raindrops above our heads and the clanging of the steady drip into the tin bucket.

  I hesitated in my response. We’d never discussed in any detail the possession by Mrs. Cricket’s disgruntled spirit that Lilly and I had undergone a few months earlier. I had volunteered myself to Mrs. Cricket so that she would abandon her efforts to take over Lilly’s body. Risking my own soul, I’d relied on Mr. Timmons’ identity-thieving, energy-stealing abilities to rescue me. The ploy had been successful but not without consequences.

  “A poorly constructed dream. It was nothing of consequence,” I yelled back while shrugging, my eyes fixed on my steaming cup lest I betray myself and reveal my deceit.

  There was a pause during which the kitchen filled with the violent melody of the storm and the ting of water against metal. Our wood stove struggled to keep at bay the cold dampness that swept in through the cracks around the outer door and windows. I leaned back into the cushion that padded the wooden chair and glanced about the room, enjoying the cozy familiarity of the lightly plastered stone walls and the orderliness of the copper and iron pots and pans hanging from hooks over the stone countertop. A watery light softened the scene further.

  “Mrs. Timmons,” a voice summoned me while a hand covered mine.

  Releasing a resigned sigh, I glanced up into Mr. Timmons’ steely gaze, the gray matching the leaden sky outside. I couldn’t help but admire his firm jaw, despite the unfashionable sideburns, and his well-proportioned shoulders. His dark hair, normally flowing about his face in unkempt locks, was this morning pulled back with a ribbon. But most of all, it was his eyes that captured me while also condemning me, for he saw through me as surely as I saw the energy fields of others.

  “Beatrice,” he said in a soft yell that held a warning in his tone, for he was not one to be dismissed so easily.

  “Yes, Simon?”

  He raised an eyebrow and tightened his grip on my hand as if sensing I might try to flee. If it hadn’t been for the risk of drowning outside, I might have done just that.

  Escape however was not an option, so I confessed. “I found myself in Mrs. Cricket’s world this morning.”

  I didn’t feel compelled to explain that it was the place in which she had imprisoned me. His jaw clenched, indication enough that he understood. At the time the possession had occurred, we had been no more than acquaintances and not particularly friendly ones at that. Still, he’d had feelings for me, of a sort, and hadn’t willingly consented to my plan to offer myself to Mrs. Cricket.

  “Was Lilly also there?” he asked, and I knew he was wondering if her husband, my half-brother Tiberius, knew of the matter.

  “No,” I said, “and I hope never to see her there. Who knows what effect that would have on the baby?”

  He nodded, scrutinizing me with those unfathomable eyes that both electrified and startled me. After a pause, he said, “I’d prefer you also remain outside of that space.”

  “As would I,” I said with a snort. “It’s not as if I cherish the experience. I truly don’t know what caused it.”

  Again there was a lull in the conversation, and I wondered at my reluctance to disclose all the details. What harm would there be in telling Mr. Timmons about the presence of the strange yet somehow familiar entity? Still, I refrained from doing so although logic dictated that I should do otherwise.

  “Very well, I suppose there’s nothing for it then,” Mr. Timmons said even as a frown tugged at his features.

  After breakfast, Mr. Timmons retired to his office at the back of the cottage while I tried to settle myself in the living room. Yet barely had I sat down, intending to read the book in my hand, when I rose to fiddle with the ornaments on the bookshelves. I glanced outside the window, yearning for the torrent to subside. Only after I endured a dreary couple of hours and consumed another pot of tea was my wish granted: the rain slackened to a mere drizzle.

  “I’m off to town,” I announced as I flung a cloak about my shoulders and gripped my walking stick.

  Mr. Timmons appeared and leaned against the doorway to his office. He seemed to be considering my pronouncement with a seriousness it didn’t warrant. Or was he worried I might be up to some new shenanigans that would put me in harm’s way? His concern wasn’t unjustified as I did have that tendency.

  I hastened to reassure him. “I’m just going to see if there’s anything at the postoffice.”

  His features softened for he knew what I was hoping to find: some news from Cilla, his niece and goddaughter, and my best friend. Her parents had summoned her back to England to face the unpleasant prospect of a semi-arranged marriage and a life under a sunless sky. I knew Mr. Timmons missed her as intensely as I did.

  Clearing his throat, he smirked and warned, “No chasing after strange beasties, Mrs. Timmons.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself, sir,” I retorted even as I smiled in return. We both knew well enough that restraint was not in my nature.

  By the time I was halfway to the little ramshackle building that posed as our barn, my boots and the hem of my skirt were covered with red mud, a sticky substance that would leave a stain on most fabrics even after a thorough scrubbing. Relinquishing any hope of remaining clean, I splashed through the puddles until I reached the barn’s entrance. Despite its shoddy appearance, the roof had withstood the onslaught of the recent storms. Inside was miraculously dry and scented with hay and warm horse.

  I slapped Nelly on the neck to wake her. The chubby, brown horse belched a greeting and promptly returned to her slumber. Her manners certainly hadn’t improved since ingesting a serpent spirit a few months ago. Apart from acquiring an aptitude for flying, she had developed as a result of the possession an increased appetite, particularly for flowering plants.

  As Jonas had vanished, I saddled the nag myself and with some cajoling woke her up sufficiently to lead her outside. She sniffed at the mud and, finding nothing edible, tugged the reins away from me in order to peer back at the comfortable stall she’d been forced to abandon.

  “It’s just a little water and mud,” I informed her as I tied on a hat to keep my hair dry and my tattered right ear covered.

  The only living creatures out and about were a few sorry-looking zebras at the edge of our lawn and a family of elephants further afield. Even the cheeky yellow weaver birds were uncharacteristically silent, huddling in the thorn trees nearby to avoid the rain. I allowed Nelly to pick her way through the swamp that was now our garden, her every movement accompanied by a sucking sound as the clumpy mud stuck to her.

  “I wonder if it’s cleaner and drier to fly,” I mused.

  At the thought, Nelly sprang up without warning, nearly unseating me, and flung herself through the air in a damp blur of gray and green. If I’d had the breath remaining, I would have cursed her soundly. All my efforts were centered on not sliding off and plummeting to my death.

  As it turned out, that mode of travel wasn’t any drier but it was decidedly less muddy.

  A few minutes later, I forced her to land in a wooded area outside of town. While I wasn’t concerned about anyone spotting Nelly while she was flying (they’d only see a blur if they did bother to look up), landing did require her to slow down considerably in order to avoid crashing. Once I verified the area was clear of observers, we trotted out of the clump of trees and into town.

  Outside the new post office, I glanced around warily before dismounting, for there were still a few zombies staggering about, the result of a mutated Bubonic Plague that had infested Nairobi. Save for their rotted limbs, the zombies were indistinguishable from many of the inebriated white hunters after their
all-night celebratory parties. Why they felt a need to intoxicate themselves after slaughtering defenseless animals was beyond me, but I couldn’t claim to comprehend the minds of such men.

  Victoria Street, I was satisfied to observe, was clear of both zombies and drunks. The few people visible were huddled under umbrellas as they hurried through the dampness. It seemed the Adze had succeeded in clearing the town of the infected patients; I just hoped the firefly vampires hadn’t, in their enthusiasm, picked off a few healthy people along the way.

  Leaving Nelly tied to a post, I hastened up the stairs and entered the brick building, patting the lock of hair that covered my mangled right ear. I nodded to the postmaster, Mr. O’Harris, who nodded back with mock solemnity before grinning broadly.

  “Mrs. Timmons, how do you do?” the cheerful fellow called to me, his blue eyes sparkling above round cheeks. He pushed back his dark red hair and waved me over. “Nasty bit of weather we’re having, isn’t it? Then again, a bit of rain won’t go amiss in this place, what with the drought and all. Might be a pleasant change, eh?”

  I smiled in a suitably vague way that acknowledged his comments without overly encouraging him to continue. I’d already indulged in some musings on the weather that morning and I had no interest in engaging in further conversation on the matter.

  “Is there any post for me?” I asked, as I had been asking every few days for the past few weeks.

  “Aye, there’re some envelopes for the master.” He rummaged under the counter, then swiveled to inspect a set of cubbyholes. “Oh, and a telegram arrived yesterday for you, missus.”

  It was all I could do not to reach over the counter and rip the thin yellow paper out of his hands. It had to be Cilla, for who else would correspond with me, now that I’d severed all ties with the Society for Paranormals? Then again, had its Director, the wily old werewolf Prof Runal, severed his ties with me?

  The shudder that afflicted me could have been due to the cold draft that gusted through the building as someone else opened the door. At least Mr. O’Harris said nothing about my reaction and handed me my post, the yellow slip of paper on top.