Arachnodactyl by Danny Knestaut Page A

obvious sign of his intrusion, he closed the door behind himself.
    On the left side of Cross’s house, a lantern or a sconce glowed and exposed a neighbor’s room through windows cast open to the settling coolness of the spring night. On the right side, the harsher glow of electric light lit the rooms. Though the neighbors weren’t visible, their homes smoldered with signs of life. Between them, Cross’s house sat black and impenetrable. A hole in the row of lit houses. Rose sat inside, isolated from the petty needs of people.
    Ikey crossed the yard. A lot of time and patience would be required to fathom how Rose operated.

Chapter Nine
    N o signs of life made themselves evident when Ikey entered the house. Often, before his mum and sister died, Ikey would work alone in the barn in the evening, tending to a trifle that needed or held his attention. As the hours slipped past and the sun settled into the ground, he found it easy to believe a great, horrendous occurrence had left him alone now—the last person in the world, and from that point on, he would be safe. But a cold filled him after such a thought. It was one hard life traded for another. After he put aside his tools, extinguished his lantern, and left the barn, the soft glow from the house’s windows trickled hope into him as he followed the trail of light. When he opened the door, and his sister and mum saw it was only him, they resumed their chatter as Ikey took a seat between his uncle and the fire, and he shut his eyes and listened to their voices, the clicking of knitting needles, the turning of pages in Uncle Michael’s lap, and the pops of stove wood. Underneath it all, however, lay the silence in which they waited for the thunk-shhwip , thunk-shhwip of his dad’s boots scraped clean on the edge of the porch.
    Inside Cross’s house, no chatter peppered the air. No light shone beyond the small shell cast by his lantern. He picked up his satchel from beside the sink and slung it over his shoulder. In the cupboard beside the sink, he found a box of matches as promised. He slipped a few of them into the pocket of his trousers before he resumed his course through the house.
    The double doors at the back of the dining parlor sat open to more darkness. Ikey circled the table. With each step, the shadows in the room shifted around, studying him for weakness before pouncing. Only the lightest steps on the hardwood floor kept the music boxes silent, but the floor itself let out a plaintive creak every time he shifted his weight. Stealth inside the house was impossible. And what sounds did stalk through the dark rooms came back echoed and magnified, grown large off the meat of something fed upon in the dark.
    A clicking and scraping noise trickled through the room. Ikey stopped. It was a small noise, light, but it scurried through the room at a steady rate. A click followed by a slight, metallic scrape. Familiar. But off. Like a favorite song played on a different instrument, a different pace.
    Knitting. It was the sound of knitting needles rubbing together. As Ikey approached the open door, the lantern’s light fell inside and illuminated a small, oval-shaped table sitting low to the floor. Music boxes covered its surface. Behind it sat a sofa with threadbare patches reflecting more light.
    At the doorway, Ikey leaned forward and peered into the room. Rose sat to his left in a high-backed chair. Each hand clutched a silvery knitting needle. A mass of dark wool spilled from her needles and into a pool in her lap. Ikey watched her work. Her right hand held its needle stiffly while the left hand wrapped the yarn around the needle and pulled the new stitch onto the left needle. It was different than how his mum and sister had knitted.
    Rose asked, “Are you and Cross done for the night?”
    Ikey looked to the floor, then glanced around the room quickly. A sparse gathering of furniture sat under another shelf that brimmed with music boxes and circled the room. A