This is a four-part story. The next three parts will follow shortly. Early on you may wonder when I am going to get to the incest theme. Hang in – it'll come along in future parts. The story within the story is italicized. All four parts are a product of my imagination. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Anne – Part 1
Andrew sat at his desk. The desk faced a pair of north facing, large French windows. He looked up from his desk to scan the frigid feel of the landscaped park outside his library windows. The elevated position of the house enabled him to see several kilometers in the clear air.
Winter had arrived early to the Northeast. The cold snap had frozen the small lake. A heavy dusting of snow, the first of the season, covered the rolling hills, glazed the tips of the fir and spruce trees and disguised the lake. Only the summerhouse that sat by the lake, with its bright Mondrian panels set into modernist architecture, gave a focus to the cool vista.
The envelope before him was the last piece of paper he had to deal with as the executor of his mother's estate. He had spent the last two months dealing with numerous lawyers, accountants and bankers as well as fending off the remainder of his family – his cousins and their offspring.
His mother had accumulated a huge fortune and everyone wanted a part of it. Fortunately, the process proved to be fairly easy since his mother had spelled out the disposition of virtually everything in painstaking detail.
Her remarkable endurance as the head of the conglomerate up to the age of 92 had kept everyone on edge awaiting her departure. She only lasted two years after retiring, although the people who took over from her had doubts that she had really retired since she seemed to call all of them almost every day.
His appointment as the executor was challenged and very quickly disposed of by the courts because of the prestige that was associated with the family. Still, that still some took time. Fortunately he had time.
He was semi-retired quite young as Professor Emeritus – pushed out by the young bucks that had new ideas and technologies to explore. His seminal work on medical engineering was recognized worldwide, but the new Nano-technology that produced diagnostic robots smaller than the eye eventually shunted him aside.
Andrew looked at the envelope with his name written in the distinctive hand of his mother. It said "For Andrew's eyes only. If Andrew is not alive to read the contents DESTROY this envelope and its contents immediately." The flap was sealed with a red sealing-wax seal.
Andrew slit open the fat envelope with his paperknife and slid the stapled sheets of paper onto the desk. On the first page he saw the date: January 2015. He immediately remembered the summer and fall of 2014 with absolute clarity. It started him on his lifelong career and sealed his emotional fate. He started to read...
* * * * *
January 2015
Anne screamed, threw off the duvet, fled into the en-suit bathroom, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Anne never would accept the idea that she was arachnophobic, after all she he had no problem using the flexible shower head to flush away the occasional spider that found its way into the bathtub. Yet the sight of two black, and quite sizeable, spiders on the ceiling immediately over her head as she awoke in her bed caused Anne to panic.
She had an instantaneous vision of them hitching their silk to the ceiling and descending upon her and wrapping her tight in their silk. It was a fanciful idea. Anne was not totally rational at that moment.
This was the fourth time she had seen the spiders. At first she thought she would be able to handle it the next time it happened and she had calmed down, but if anything her panic was getting worse each time.
Anne peeked into the bedroom after her heartbeat had slowed. The spiders had left. She returned to the bed lay on it and looked up. Nothing there. Anne realized she had to get help; otherwise she would have to move onto the small bed in the spare bedroom, which was principally set up as her office. That would be a pain, and she would miss her queen-sized bed.
Anne set up an appointment with her doctor. She had not seen him for about three years. She hated going to the doctor. She was fit and well, and had no need. The doctor was a man in his early sixties. Old school.
She was ushered into the consulting room on time. She hated the impersonal medical rooms with their benches with stirrups and drawers for who knows what. Anne's eyes drifted over the blood pressure equipment, the medical drawings and the charts as she waited. Dr. Wilson arrived quickly.
"Miss Kelly. I don't think I've seen you for quite some time. Before you tell me what's wrong let me just catch up for a moment."
Dr. Wilson turned to the computer screen and hit some keys, leant forward and squinted at the information before him. He much preferred the paper files he could open and peruse, picking and choosing the information he needed to reacquaint himself with the patient.
Anne Kelly, age 44, single, teacher, entered and exited menopause by the time she was forty. 'Early' he thought. Vaginal dryness and some bleeding. Hormonal treatment, continuing.
No other problems. He glanced up at Anne. She was slim, and had a good colour. Nicely proportioned and rather pretty.
"Alright. What's your problem?"
"Spiders."
"Spiders?''
"Yes. I am afraid of them. Arachnophobia I believe it is called."
Dr. Wilson thought to himself, 'This makes a change from sniffles and constipation'.
"How has this come about? Give me some background."
Anne explained about the spiders and her panic attacks.
"What had you eaten the evening before you went to bed? Did you eat in bed?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
Dr. Wilson just gave a slight frown in response.
Anne continued, "Nothing special. What I usually have. I'm a vegetarian – almost vegan – by way of clarification."
"Drink?"
"No booze, if that's what you are thinking. I may have a glass of wine a couple of times a month, but no more than that."
"Tell me precisely what you feel when you have these attacks?"
Anne gave a clear moment-by-moment account of what she thought and felt. She was quite articulate and precise.
"I see. A panic attack."
"What can I do?" Anne looked and felt sorry for herself.
"Do you exercise?"
"I run about 3 to 5 kilometers a week after school, two or three times a week."
"Impressive. Very good."
"Sleep well?"
"Yes, mainly. I go to bed early and get at least eight hours,"
"Boyfriend. I see our records as show you as unmarried."
"No. No one at the moment. Probably the last 5 or 6 years."
"Sexually frustrated?"
"No. Don't think about that much these days. Really I have no significant urges." Anne added smiling, "There are a few actors who are quite cute though."
"That's normal enough. As a first course of action I would suggest you, or have someone in to do this, thoroughly clean the entire bedroom – include the drapes, carpets and be sure to attend to under the bed as well. See if you can remove the problem. If the cleaning does not work bring in a reputable extermination company. Explain what you are expecting – to get rid of the spiders. Let's see if this works first."
"Ok. I'll do that. Makes sense. Thank you." Anne rose shook hands and left.
Anne was well organized. She had a professional cleaning company in the following day, and sent the drapes out to be dry-cleaned. She slept in the spare room using a sleeping bag on the bed. Two days later having retrieved and rehung the curtains and blinds she returned to her own bed. The two first nights were fine and then the third morning the spiders were back – four of them.
Anne's panic returned and she sat shivering on the closed lavatory seat in the en suite bathroom for a good half an hour before collecting herself together.
When she got to school, on her first break between classes she looked up and made contact with an exterminator to come over that evening.
The exterminator representative was a jolly man. He seemed to enjoy his job. The more he spoke and explained the process the less comfortable Anne became. She was worried that any living thing in her house would be killed, but worse she was concerned that a residual layer of chemicals would remain in the fabric of the house forever. The persistence of the residue was a selling point that prevented a return of any pests for at least two years, on which she would get a guarantee.
Anne was, or at least believed herself to be, sensitive to chemicals in general. She ate organic, and definitely no GMO, food. She used the mildest cleaning products wearing gloves. The very thought of the chemicals in her house sent shudders though Anne. She told the representative she would think about his proposal and get back to him if she decided to go ahead. She never called him back.
