Page 81 of Whistle

She lost track of time. While she molded her rat-wolf, she reflected on why she was making it. Was she simply working out her demons? Was this anything more than an exercise? Did she really think she’d do a book with something this repellent? If not, what was the point?

What suddenly struck her was how quiet it was.

With Charlie outside riding his bicycle, the trains sat idle. Annie cast her eye at the world her son had created, the town within the large oval of track. The train was parked at the station, where Charlie always stopped it when he was done playing, a kind of courtesy to the imaginary crew, who could go in, use the bathroom, have something to eat.

The steam engine, the attached tender, the various cars, and at the end a caboose, sat there, motionless. The models featured such exquisite attention to detail. Even if Annie wasn’t into toy trains, as an artist she could appreciate the work that went into them. The little engineer in the window of the locomotive, his striped hat and red kerchief at his neck, thechuffchuffchuffsound it made when under power. The way the doors on the boxcar could be slid open, loaded with cargo, closed again, and—

Hang on.

Something, some small motion, had caught Annie’s eye from where she sat at her drafting table.

For a second she thought she’d seen the side door on the red boxcar move from its closed position. It had opened a fraction of an inch.

No, she had to be mistaken. She knew some of the accessories were motorized. A giraffe might poke its head up through the roof of a circus car. A helicopter could be launched from a flatcar. She knew, from looking at an online catalogue, that there was a wide selection of such items, including a cattle car that horses moved into by way of a miniature conveyor belt.

And, given that the transformer, which supplied power to the rails, was not plugged in, that boxcar door should not be moving. So—

It moved again.

Annie was certain this time. The door, no larger than a business card, had slid open another fraction of an inch.

Something long and black, not much thicker than a thread, had worked its way around the edge of the tiny plastic door, pushing it.

“No no no no,” Annie whispered.

Then a second thread—no, not a thread, because a thread didn’t have joints like, say, aleg—emerged to assist, giving the door another nudge, opening it the better part of an inch. And then something larger, something black and round, emerged.

It was a spider. Or, at least, somethingspider-like.

Its body was about the size of a dime, but as its legs fanned out it appeared much larger. It began to extricate itself from the boxcar, its legs like feelers, reaching down for the floor. Finding the smooth surface, it slid out completely and paused, as if looking around, taking in its surroundings.

Annie shivered briefly. She was not a fan of bugs of any kind, but spiders ranked right at the top of the list.

She looked about for a weapon. The pad of art paper was far too big to roll up as a makeshift club. What she needed was a magazine, or a can of Raid she could use to spray the little motherfucker. Her eyes settled on the coffee can filled with markers and pens and brushes, the bottom of it perfect for crushing an unwanted visitor.

But as she went to pick it up, she saw more legs reaching around the edge of the boxcar door.

Another spider came out.

And then another. And another.

Like passengers arriving at their destination, they disembarked and started to head off in all directions. They kept on coming. Dozens at first, and then what seemed like hundreds. Thousands. A section of floor became black with them, an undulating carpet of spiders, moving slowly toward Annie.

How could that tiny car hold so many? How had they gotten in there in the first place?

Annie’s breathing became short and hurried. She dropped the can, markers, pens, and brushes scattering across the floor. She had to get out of this room, out of this house, put Charlie in the car without bothering to pack one single fucking thing, and head straight back to New York.

She heard screaming and realized it was her.

She thought, for a millisecond, of Dolores. What had Daniel said?

“Even before I got to thehouseI could hear the screaming. Never heard a sound like that come out of my Dolores. I get in the house, and she’s just standing there at the base of the stairs. Rigid, like she’s at attention. Arms at her side, and she’s got her mouth open and she’s wailing. I’m standing right in front of her,sayin’ her name, saying, ‘Dolores, it’s me, it’s Daniel,’ and it’s like she’s looking right through me, like I’m not even there.”

Annie continued to scream.

She heard a noise from outside the studio. Someone racing up the stairs.

“Mom?” Charlie shouted. “Are you okay?”

---