Along Came A Spider Ch 01

Thursday, 4:17 a.m.

Tabitha squirmed in her nest of sheets and comforters, blinked at her alarm clock, and glared blearily at the wall in front of her. Somewhere beyond the plaster, someone was stirring. Loudly.

Thud, thud, thud,

went the footsteps in the hallway, and then came the creak of the door and a faint jingle as someone tossed a set of keys onto a kitchen counter. After a moment of disbelief, Tabitha squinted back at the glowing red numbers on her nightstand and frowned. Good lord. It was four in the morning.

Two weeks ago, the VACANT sign had vanished from the door of 202B, where it had resided for several months. While Tabitha had originally been somewhat intrigued about her new neighbor, her enthusiasm waned drastically over the next few nights, when she was awakened by the soft whine of a door opening or clomping on the staircase in the wee hours of the morning. The few times she tried to poke her head out into the hallway to catch a glimpse of what she could only assume was the insomniac living next door, her endeavors had proved fruitless. She would arrive to retreating footsteps on the staircase or the quick click of a latch, and the hallway would be completely empty.

After her third attempt, she had just given up. Honestly, she was a bit elated to know that she would have a neighbor that kept to themselves. She just wished that they would do so a bit more quietly.

After a moment, she sat up and tensed in a long stretch. She didn't work until eleven thirty today, and waking early would allow her to get a head start on...something. A door clattered shut next door after a series of slow, lazy footsteps, and she rolled her eyes.

Goodnight, creepy neighbor. I hope you aren't cooking meth over there, or making hits for the cartel.

For a moment, her brain was alight with visions of burly, silk-dress-shirt-adorned men with cheap sunglasses and heavy brows. She wondered what it would be like, living next to an assassin. It would be interesting enough, she decided, but not at all practical in the long run. Could you be considered an accessory if you lived next to a gangster and didn't say anything about it?

Slippers. Bathrobe. Yawn. Her fingers worked with the precision of half-conscious muscle memory as she made the bed, then smoothed out the wrinkles in the comforter and buried the headboard in throw pillows. She tugged the scrunchie from her head and unwound the tendrils of her long, brown, braided hair, then shook them around her face. Bread, toaster. Mug, coffee. Coffee. Coffee? Her eyes stared muzzily down at the empty coffee pot, and she groaned. Of course. It wasn't even six o'clock yet, and the pot hadn't started. With a little sigh, she flipped the switch, and then sank drowsily into a chair at her kitchen table and listened to the machine gurble and growl to life. As she waited for the pot to finish, she contemplated the many ways she could exact revenge upon her neighbor. She could take up the clarinet. Drums. Electric guitar. Didgeridoo.

Bagpipes, maybe.

"Damn," she croaked as she opened her fridge and studied its meager offerings. She was out of jam. The thick, heady smell of toast toasting had already filled her apartment, and she withdrew a plastic tub of cottage cheese instead. Unceremoniously, she dumped the clumpy white substance onto a plate over her squares of toast and sprinkled a pinch of salt and pepper over it.

Once she had finished her little breakfast and imbibed enough coffee to keep her eyelids open, she spritzed the kitchen counter with Windex and gave it a quick wipe, then started on the dishes. She made sure to clang the pots together once she had rinsed them, as well as slam the cupboards with generous enthusiasm. The apartment next door remained quiet, but this time, the silence was inquiring. Curious, like someone was listening. After she replaced the last glossy white plate in her cupboard, she sat quietly for a moment and waited.

Thump,

said the apartment next door. Like someone had dropped something onto a carpet. Tabitha tilted her head curiously, then leaned against her stove and dragged her fingers evenly across a row of hanging pots and pans, eliciting a series of little clangs. Silence. And then...

Clatter.

Silverware, maybe. Keys, or a pocketful of change. Her pink lips quirked. Asshole.

Weary of their new, passive-aggressive method of communication, she made her way into her living room and opened her newest library book. Once she had tongued her index finger and found her spot, she sank into her armchair and let her mind race.

--

Thursday, 7:50 pm

"Tabby..."

Tabitha glanced over her shoulder at Luke, her boss, and tried to keep her features composed. There was a hint of a wince on his face. Tabby. It wasn't the worst nickname as far as they went, but for whatever reason, it annoyed her endlessly. Regardless, Luke was allowed to call her Tabby. Luke, nearing fifty and ever-diligent in the management of his bookstore, was quite possibly the nicest person Tabitha had ever met. His salt-and-pepper hair was always neat and his smiles were quick and easy, even when the whole world seemed to be falling apart. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the new stack of advertisements in his hands, thumbing the sharp corners, and she offered him a warm smile.

"You need me to stay late," she finished for him, and he nodded ruefully.

"Sorry. You don't have to, but Ross is still under the weather. I had to send him home."

"It's fine. You know I don't mind." She took a sip of her energy drink and rubbed her eyes, and Luke's smiling lips drooped slightly.

"You don't look so great either," he told her, and she grimaced before sifting her fingers through her long, glossy brown hair.

"New neighbor. I don't think I'm used to the noise yet, and they keep on waking me up really late...well...early, actually. I got up at four today."

"Jesus. If you don't want to stay--"

"No, no, it's okay. I swear I don't mind." She leaned over the counter hopefully. "I still have tomorrow off, though...right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Luke reassured her quickly. "I wouldn't dream of--"

"Perfect." She beamed at him. "What do you need me to do?"

"New delivery came in, Ross didn't get a chance to stock it. I'll finish that up if you can man the checkout area and count out the drawers."

"That's fine." She shifted so she was facing another register, then hammered in a code on the mechanical keyboard and watched the drawer clatter open. "You are aware that he's a hypochondriac...right?" she murmured, and Luke heaved a sigh.

"Don't I know it. That man needs help."

"He needs a good shake."

"Don't be like that. He'll come around," Luke called back with a chuckle, and she watched his broad retreating shoulders vanish around the corner and into the back. Tabitha gazed wearily out the window, where the world was collapsing into rows of spindly shadows and a yellow haze of streetlights. The cloud-choked sky loomed enormous overhead, dark and stung lavender with the last of the retreating sunlight. Even through the quiet music that filled the shop, she could hear the chime of resilient crickets that had somehow survived the cold snap that had besieged the city only a week prior.

"She's a killer.

Queeeeeeeen,"

Tabitha whispered along to the tinny sounds filtering through the ceiling speakers. "Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam..."

Ten thirty came fast, and Tabitha pushed the last of the registers shut with a rattle. Thin strips of white calculator slips and green forms were stapled neatly together on top of a stack of twenties, and she carefully placed the register trays on top of each other and topped them off with the paperwork. Luke emerged from the back room and ran his fingers through his hair. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

"All finished," she announced, and he rewarded her with a sleepy sort of grin.

"You're a lifesaver, Tabby."

"Open the safe for me?"

"Yes ma'am." She followed him into the gloomy hallway at the back of the store, balancing the trays carefully, and as his fingers worked on the keys, she saw a steady flash bathe the upper wall in a sudden, pulsing red glow. Tabitha's brows knitted together worriedly, but just as soon as it had come, it was gone.

"Did something happen?" she asked softly, and he looked down at her inquisitively. "I thought I saw police lights..."

"Weird." The door to the bookkeeping office creaked open, and their faces were lit by the soft glow of a single, fluorescent tube in the ceiling. Tabitha had a sneaking suspicion that the tiny office had once been a janitorial closet, with its tall cupboards and concrete floor. "I didn't hear anything." She shrugged and made her way inside, and Luke dipped down to punch a long stream of numbers into the pad of the diminutive safe. Once it had opened, Tabitha shifted the register trays and slipped them into the dark space, just so. They had to be tilted at a specific angle or they wouldn't fit.

As they meandered back out into the store, Tabitha's gaze flitted over the skeletons of bookshelves, the dead fireplace, the abandoned cafe with its pastry counter still aglow. Near the two tiny tables in front of the counter sat a handlettered sign: Take One, Leave One. The books were a disaster, and she winced. It had been her idea to set out a shelf full of the more unsellable used books as a sort of anonymous exchange, and she thought it had been going rather well until a few hooligans decided to begin leaving naughty magazines lying around and scrambling the order of the books into disarray. She was just about ready to abandon the whole project.

"Go on ahead--I'll lock up behind you," Luke called, and she shook herself before flitting to the front door.

"Thanks," she replied, and she stepped outside and into chaos.

There were two police cars parked across the street, and three officers seemed to be interrogating a frantic sort of man who was waving his hands wildly. One of them was scribbling fervently into a little notebook. She traipsed down the stairs and gazed out at the scene in front of her, more than a little baffled as she surveyed the streets for any sign of a tragedy. There weren't any dead bodies or cars upended, nor did there seem to be any weeping victims in the vicinity.

"Now, Mr. Jones, we're going to need you to calm down," a rather large officer was saying soothingly. His next sentence was lost to Tabitha as a large SUV passed her in a noisy hiss. "...anyone else who might have--" he continued, but the fretting man in front of him, (Mr. Jones, Tabitha assumed), clutched a tight handful of his short, sparse dark hair in exasperation.

"I know what I saw,"

he snarled, and Tabitha recoiled when she saw the whites of his eyes glittering wildly in the light of the streetlamps. He seemed to be whipped into a frenzy; the sort that people succumb to when a person in a position of authority won't listen to a word they've been saying. "You don't understand--"

"That's great, and I'm happy that you came forward, but I really don't know what you want us to do," a female officer said, the kindness of her tone tainted with frustration. "We've looked everywhere, and we've questioned everyone on the block. There doesn't appear to be any sign of...well, anything at all, and without evidence--"

"Or a picture, video, something?" the large officer interrupted hopefully.

"--our hands are tied. Now, you're sure nobody else saw--"

"Is that Bob?" Luke's voice said from behind her, and she jumped before glancing over her shoulder.

"Who's Bob?" she asked slowly.

"He owns that bar across the street. Poor guy. Someone slashed his tires the other day--probably some drunk he had to throw out. I bet they're at it again." He pulled the hem of his coat a little closer to his wide frame and shivered, then looked back down at Tabitha. "It's frigid out. You want a ride?" Tabitha's shoulders slumped in relief.

"Yes," she sighed gratefully. "Thank you so much."

"It's the least I can do. Besides, you know I don't like you walking home so late. When are you getting a car?" She fell into step beside him and zipped up her grey, sherpa-lined coat, then pulled up the hood. Her dainty leather booties padded a soft rhythm against the concrete as they walked. Not for the first time, she was grateful for the thick socks she learned how to knit last year.

"I don't really need a car in the city, and they're expensive. Besides, the bus is fine. Maybe I'll get a bike or something."

"Like a motorcycle...?"

"Eh, probably just a bike." He heaved a sigh.

"It isn't safe, Tabby..."

"You don't need to worry about me," she insisted, and he gave her a very worried look indeed from the corner of his eye.

"Really.

I've been doing it for years. Denver's not so bad, anyway." Luke's gaze slid pointedly towards the police cars behind them, and she rolled her eyes. "What, arsonists? What are they going to do, vandalize me?" she laughed, and he shook his head.

"I admire your faith in humanity and what not, but I do worry about you. And I'm going to continue to worry about you." The corners of his eyes crinkled warmly. "I mean, if something

does

happen to you, who's going to balance the safe every week, or manage the books? I'll be out of business in days. Or kidnapped by the IRS."

"I'm

touched

by your concern," Tabitha said, clutching her chest to contain the hypothetical joy that might have been filling her heart to bursting.

"You know I'm kidding." The door to his old, red Honda-whatever opened with a clunk, and she ducked inside, grateful for the barrier between her and the relentless, icy winds. "Hey, my son hasn't paid the bill for his car in months. I've had to front it for him, and my name is on the title. You could borrow it, if you wanted. That might teach him a lesson, too."

"That's really nice of you, but I think my permit's expired, so..."

"You don't have a license?" he exclaimed as he dropped into the driver's seat. They shut their doors, and she clicked her seatbelt into place as the ignition started with a coughing shudder. "What's wrong with you?"

"Sorry." She chewed pensively at her fingernails as the car lurched into reverse. "I never really saw the point if I wasn't getting a car." Half-heated air was gushing through the dashboard and warming the chapped skin of her cheeks, and she shuddered blissfully before holding her hands in front of the vents.

"Well, at least get some damned gloves. Those are your money-counting fingers."

"Luke..."

"What? I can't have them falling off."

The rest of the car ride passed in silence, with the exception of the crooning from the car stereo. Oldies. Luke liked his oldies. She had once tried to infiltrate the store speakers with a Gorillaz playlist, (it was mellow, as far as things went), but Luke had come barging straight out of his office, demanding to know who had turned off his Eagles. Upon hearing her protests that a newer set of songs would attract a newer demographic, Luke had only snorted and said something about hipster kids and how they liked old stuff anyway.

"But it's boring," she had insisted, and he gave her a horrified look before narrowing his eyes in spite.

"You're boring," he fired back. And then he had been forced to coax a devastated Tabitha out from behind the cafe counter, assuring her that she wasn't boring, that she was terribly interesting, actually, and that her choice in music was just really awful. "It's not your fault," he had told her. "Your generation just likes shitty tunes, and that's okay--it's perfectly fine."

Still, there were days when Tabitha wondered if that was actually the case. Maybe she was boring. She was twenty-four and co-managing a tiny bookstore, living on her own, and knitting furiously on the weekends. Without any context, that sort of description would have conjured up a mental image of a lonely old lady with lots of cats.

Except Tabitha didn't even have any cats.

"Here's your stop, Tabby," Luke announced, and the tires creaked to a stop outside of a very square brick building. The courtyard was a pit of darkness, lit only by sparse streetlights that sent menacing shadows spiraling up the walls from the twisted corpses of dead shrubs. "You want me to walk you to the door?"

"I got it. But you're sweet for offering."

"I'll just wait here til you make it in," he said stubbornly, and she sighed before patting his shoulder.

"Thanks, Luke. You're really great." She looked hopefully up at him. "I'll see you on Friday?"

"Yes ma'am." The lights from the dashboard, dim and green, glittered off his sincere smile. "You have a good night. Be safe."

"You too." She pushed her side open and dropped to her feet on the sidewalk, then shoved the car door shut and waved cheerfully before skipping quickly across the shadowy courtyard. The silence of the world was punctured here and there by the rush of cars in the distance and the occasional wail of a siren, but the stillness of it all was gargantuan and all-consuming. It felt like it could swallow her right up. After a few minutes, she reached the front door and pushed it open, sighing at the feeling of warm, heated air flitting over her skin. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her, and she jumped. Mrs. Holgier really needed to get that fixed. It was going to take off her fingers someday.

She hesitated as she reached the top of the stairs. Standing in front of the door to the right of hers was a tall figure dressed in a baggy leather jacket and slightly loose-fitting jeans, and he seemed to be fumbling drowsily with his keyring. Shaggy, glossy black hair hung down to just below his earlobes, and although he was buried beneath layers of winter clothing and she could only see his back, she thought he looked a little on the wiry side. She raised her eyebrows. This must be the new neighbor--the one who was very good at being heard, but not seen. Ever. Despite her irritation, she was a little crushed by the normality of his appearance.

Maybe he works in a night crew or something,

she wondered, and she padded tentatively up to her door.

Hopefully he's not one of the weird ones.

He raised his left arm to drag his sleeve casually over his mouth, as if to wipe something from his face, but when she reached her doorway, he froze mid-gesture. She swallowed hard and pulled her bundle of keys out from her purse, but when he didn't move, she paused and let her eyes slide slowly towards him.

For several moments they stood in perfectly still silence; half of his face still buried in his leather sleeve, her collection of keys tangled in her fingers. Although he was still facing his door, she could see dark, dark irises regarding her strangely from the corners of his eyes, hidden vaguely through heavy eyelids and a line of sooty lashes. Then, slowly--so slowly--his shoulder shifted as he lowered his arm and revealed parted lips that were smudged and stained messily with red, like he had been eating a black-cherry popsicle. Or wearing lipstick.

Or mauling something with his teeth.

The lock whined and rattled with the rotation of his wrist, and he kept his gaze trained on her as he pushed his door open. Then, with a new sort of terseness, he looked away and brought the pad of his pale thumb up to brush a smear of that violent red from his lower lip, and she watched in a daze as he sucked it briefly into his mouth right before he vanished through the dark doorway and shut the door quietly behind him. She heard the lock click into place, and it was only then that she seemed to be able to breathe properly again. Practically gasping, she wrenched her door open and flew into her apartment. Her shaking fingers scrabbled to secure the lock and chain, and once every inch of her door was firmly locked, she slid weakly down onto the tile floor of her tiny hallway.