Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

She smiled around her finger, returned the box to its shelf. Her shirt rose to reveal the cream skin of her waist.

“I didn’t much like the charade of catching the bus.” She smiled, turning back. “But it was fun to play the part.”

She slid her feet just a little wider apart.

“Have you asked yourself, Nicholas,” she whispered, “why you’re not in hospital, too?”

Nicholas was shaking. His body was vibrating, fully alive. He wanted to stride over to her, rip down her jeans, rip off her shirt.

No.

“I needed your help with the little girl’s sister. Just a little help, for such a little thing. But you didn’t help me.” She smiled, mildly censuring. Her fingers reached for the buttons of her shirt. She undid the bottom one, the next, the next, exposing a triangle of perfect, pale flesh.

“Naughty, unhelpful man.”

She undid the second to the top, and then the last button.

Nicholas took a step forward. His legs were shuddering. His cock hurt, straining against his pants. Her fingers idled up to her lapels, then slid the shirt off. Her breasts were full and high, nipples brown and hard. Her mouth opened. Her neck was long.

“Take off your necklace,” she whispered.

“No.” But his hands went up behind his neck. “No,” he repeated more weakly.

His fingers undid the clasp. He watched his own trembling hand curl around the wood beads and the warm stone, then his arm straightened, and his quisling palm opened up to her. She smiled, as if this were a predicted part of a well-loved play, and gingerly lifted the necklace. His muscles jerked as the last protective bead left his flesh.

Get out! he shouted in his head. But his body was no longer his. One foot took another step toward Rowena. Yet another. He needed her. He needed to be inside her young, tight flesh.

Rowena smiled, and ran her hands across her shoulders, over her breasts, down her flat belly, down her jeans. She slipped off one boot, then the other. Her eyes were locked on his.

“You don’t see what the others see, Nicholas. When you were a little boy, you found the wee bauble I left for you. Not how I wanted you to see it, but as it was.” She shrugged, and he watched her breasts shift. “But you showed it to your friend, so…”

She licked her teeth and lifted her fingers slowly to undo the top button of her jeans.

“So, when your mother came in to have your school badges sewn on, I asked her about her boy. And found out your birthday. Your special birthday.”

She undid the second and last buttons of her jeans.

Every tendon in Nicholas’s body was taut and singing like bridge cables. He shuffled closer.

“That’s when I chose you,” she whispered.

She slid her jeans down. Her thighs were pale and slender, her skin tight and unblemished, a tightly cropped nest of blond on her pubic mound. She stepped out of the jeans and leaned back, placing her palms on the counter. She looked at Nicholas.

“Now,” she said.

He stepped to her.

Her hands flew like clever birds and unclasped his belt. Her chin raised and her eyes, wide and dark and hungry, ate his. Her lips were wet. She released him from his pants, hard and straight. She looked at his length: it pulsed in time with his racing heart.

“Aaah,” she hissed, and lifted her face to his.

Nicholas leaned in, to consume her, to fill her. His lips touched hers.

That instant, a torrent of revulsion tumbled through his veins-from his lips to his neck down his arm down his spine down his legs into his fingers into his penis. His eyes flew open.

She was hideous.

The skin of her face was gray and flecked with liver spots, heavily wrinkled and scarred. Her breasts were two flaccid sacks hanging over a puckered belly that looped on itself, pale and fishlike and splotched. Her legs were deeply creased twigs, bowed and knobby. Her skin hung off her shoulder bones like diseased hide hung over horns. Her eyes were shut in ecstasy, mouth wide and gums wet.

Nicholas gagged. And then saw the sly movement: she waved her gaunt fingers in a swift, dismissive gesture.

A spider as large as a saucer unfolded itself from its hiding place on her drooping mons veneris. It slunk around her slack waist to crouch patiently on the countertop. She spread her legs wider.

“God!” cried Nicholas, and hurled himself backward.

Rowena Quill jumped, her baggy eyes flying open. She grabbed for him, but only snatched his shirt. Buttons popped off, rattling on the floor like tiny teeth.

Nicholas retched and stumbled back again. His body shook. His erection fell like a dropped handkerchief.

“Nicholas?” she croaked, confused.

He groped for the deadbolt.

Understanding dawned in the old hag’s eyes. She looked down at his chest, through the half unbuttoned shirt-and glimpsed the shape he’d painted there.

“You fecker,” she hissed, and took a shambling step forward. Her clawed feet caught on her pooled jeans and she stumbled.

His fingers were wet with cold sweat and slipped on the chrome of the lock. Once. Twice. Come on!

Quill righted herself and walked toward him.

“You sneaky little feck,” she said, her accent thick and her voice as dry as ash. “You refuse me and you will rue it!”

His thumb slid over the nub of the latch. She stepped closer, and the spider eased down off the counter and stole up behind her, climbing the spotted skin of her spindly legs to perch on her shoulder. She paid it no mind; her eyes were dark with hate and fixed on Nicholas.

“I’ve had your mickey in me hand and I’ll have it where I please!” she croaked.

He could see every one of her hundred and eighty-odd years hanging off her like vapid curses.

“You get it in me, or your friendly widow will fess to the wee girl’s killin’!”

She moved fast, her hand whipping up like a snake. It grabbed his shirt and tore it open. She saw the mud rune there and let out a furious, animal gurgle.

“Garnock!” she shrieked.

Nicholas whipped his head up.

From around the corner of the storeroom, a long, unlikely leg thick with dark bristled hairs stepped. Then another. Garnock eased itself noiselessly into the room. Its eight round, black eyes, alien and rimmed with bristles, all seemed locked on Nicholas. The smaller spider leapt from Quill’s shoulder and jumped around Garnock like a puppy.

Nicholas looked down at the crone. Her eyes were dark and round and as inhuman as the spider’s.

“Open that door, boy, and there’ll be all Christ to pay.”

Nicholas changed hands and undid the lock-he fell outside. He slammed the door shut.

“Auuugh!” Her cry of fury tore the air like plates breaking. “Garnock-lob!”

Nicholas stumbled and ran, cock shrinking in the cold air. He looked over his shoulder. The door flung open and the giant spider landed deftly on the tiles under the awning. It crouched, turned, and locked its orb eyes on Nicholas. Its fangs slid out and up, large as butter knives, as the chelicerae that bore them engorged: a horrifying, twin parody of Nicholas’s own recent erection. The horn-black fangs were moist. Garnock hunched to pounce.

A thin stream of piss slid out of Nicholas. The edges of his vision swirled silver.

Don’t faint. You only get one shot.

He steadied his left foot, and drew his right back…

The spider leapt. So fast!

Nicholas twisted and kicked.

His boot connected with the hard, hairy plate of Garnock’s underbelly. Pain rocketed through Nicholas’s leg as a muscle overstretched to tearing. But the hideous spider flew up and over the rail under the awning. With a meaty thack it landed on its back, and scraped its legs like a dropped goat, scrambling painfully to right itself.