The bell above the shop door jingled, the sound faint and muffled to the woman in the cellar.  Heavy boots thudded across the floor, darkening the slats between the worn wooden planks and sending a shower of rust-colored dust into the earthen room below.  A customer.

The proprietress emerged from below, plucking sticky silver cobwebs from her golden hair, the stairs creaking slightly beneath her high-laced boots.  She paused, placing the threadbare carpet over the trapdoor.  Flicking her wrists to shake her fingers free of the clinging strands, she glanced at her reflection in the faded mirror.  A stray spider perched on her shoulder like a parrot.  Catching the arachnid in her hand, she gently lowered it to the floor, watching the shiny bulbous body skitter through a knothole.  Brushing the dust from her gray wool skirt, she left the storeroom to greet her customer.

As she passed through the doorway into the shop, she gasped, feeling the press of cold steel jammed against her jaw.  There was a loud click as the pistol’s hammer moved into position.

“Mrs. Black?” The man’s voice was gruff and strained with fear.

“I am.”  From the corner of her eye, Mrs. Black observed the gunman.  He was no more than twenty, his young body tall and well-muscled.  Pale brown hair clung to his neck, damp with perspiration.  The gun trembled against her flesh as his hazel eyes darted around the store, flashing rapidly across her inventory of cloth, canned goods, buckets, and feed sacks.  He was a scared, desperate man, but that was no surprise.  All who came to see her were desperate.

The young man swallowed hard, the barrel of the pistol dropping away from her face.  “They say you can help men . . . disappear.”

She nodded slowly, edging away from the gunman and moving behind the counter.  From her pocket, she withdrew a small brass key.  Fitting it into the cupboard lock, she slowly slid open the cabinet door and withdrew several sheaves of paper, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink.  “What do you need?” Mrs. Black ventured.  “New identity?”

“They say I shot Zeb Turner!”  The young man blurted, tears forming in his eyes.  “That’s a straight up lie!  I tried to tell ‘em, but nobody’d listen!”

“If you are innocent, perhaps the law . . .?” Mrs. Black suggested.

The young man shook his head.  “I’d never make it to trial.  They’d hang me first.”

Mrs. Black nodded sympathetically, only half-listening as the young man spilled his tale.  She had heard many stories in the past—some true, some fabrications.  True or false, it didn’t matter to her; she treated all men the same.

As the man finished his story, the store grew quiet except for the scratching of the quill on paper as Mrs. Black’s spidery script filled the pages.  After the ink dried, she handed the pages to the young man.

“Lee Channing?” he asked, reading the documents.

“A name as good as any,” she shrugged.

The young man rolled up the papers and tucked them into his vest.   “Thanks for your help.”  Lee holstered his gun, pulled a bulging pouch from his jacket, and tossed it onto the counter.

Mrs. Black examined the jumble of bills and coins.

“Is it enough?” Lee asked.

“Adequate,” she replied, motioning for Lee to follow her.

The young man looked anxiously toward the front door.  “Shouldn’t I be on my way?”

“In broad daylight?” Mrs. Black chided.  “It’s better to leave at night.”

Lee hesitated, staring longingly at the golden sunlight that glinted through the shop window, before following her to the storeroom.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Black smiled.  “Mexico will still be there.”

As their eyes met, Lee noticed for the first time how unusual hers were.  Almost completely black, the pupils and irises blended together perfectly like two lumps of coal in a snow-white face. Lee blushed scarlet.  He tried to look away, but something drew him back to her lovely face and arresting eyes.

Mrs. Black smiled.  He desired her.  How amusing.

Lee took a step toward her, his gaze locked on her enchanting eyes.  The edge of her chemise peeked over the neckline of her blouse, teasing him as she breathed.  Lee’s hand trembled as he reached for the quivering band of lace.  “Your husband . . . ?”

“Dead many years,” she whispered.  She could see the soft, kittenish hairs sprouting from his chin.  He leaned forward to kiss her.

The bell over the door jangled angrily.

“This way,” she urged, pulling the rug away from the trapdoor and hurrying him down. “Wait here.  I’ll return soon.”

Mrs. Black’s eyes flashed in irritation when she saw the man waiting for her.  Broad and thick, he was dirty, coarse, and not at all to her liking.  Her pale lips curled in distaste as he spat a stream of brown tobacco onto her wooden floor.

“You Fey Black?”  His voice was like an explosion, harsh and loud.

“I am.”

“Name’s Ben Trott.”  He introduced himself with an incline of his head.  “Rumor has it you make men disappear.”

“Disappear?” Indulgent laughter burbled up in her throat.  “Perhaps you think me some sort of sorceress?  Sir, we’re five miles from the Mexican border.  Men don’t need my help to disappear.”  The smile froze on her face.  What if he knew who she was—what she was?

Trott threw several rolls of paper onto the counter.  “Each of these men has a bounty on his head.  Yours was the last place they were seen.”  Trott’s cold blue eyes narrowed.  “I plan to collect that money, so you’re going to tell me where they went.”

Ah, a bounty hunter, not the law.  The widow’s smile softened.  “Of course they would come here.  Only a fool would chance the desert without supplies.”  She picked up Trott’s papers, pretending to study the faces.

“I remember them.”  She indicated two of the pictures.  “But I’m afraid you’ve missed them by several weeks.”

“What about this one,” Trott said, thrusting Lee’s picture in front of her face.

“No,” she replied coolly.  “Not him.  Not yet.”

“Hmph.” The bounty hunter growled.  “Mrs. Black, eh?  I’d like to have a word with your husband.”

Her face fell.  “I’m afraid he died long ago.”

“You inherit this place from him?”  Trott asked, scratching his stubbly cheek.

“My mother, actually,” she said wistfully, her hand absently moving to her belly.

Trott ransacked the store, slitting open feed sacks and overturning apple barrels, before moving to the storeroom.

Mrs. Black said nothing of his intrusion, willing herself not to look toward the rug and the secret chamber concealing Lee.

A floorboard creaked.  “Well, what’s under here?” he asked, beating the toe of his boot against the wooden floor.

“The cellar,” Mrs. Black replied simply.

“Nice place to hide things,” Trott said, pulling out his pistol.  “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

“Certainly.  I have nothing to fear from you. I sincerely doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for.”  She moved to the trapdoor, the bounty hunter at her heels.  Sliding the rug aside with her foot, the widow tugged open the trapdoor.  The cellar’s darkness loomed hungrily.

Trott waved his gun at her.  “After you,” he sneered.

The widow descended the stairs.  She remained at the base while Trott moved further into the cellar.  Meager sunlight shone through the trapdoor.  Trott sniffed loudly.  The room smelled of moldy earth and wet worms, but there was another, more subtle scent mingled with the stronger earthy odors, a hint of decay and moldering meat.

Cursing, the bounty hunter lit a match.  Small spiders dangled from the rafters like tiny pendants, their bodies gleaming in the firelight like delicate pearls.  As Trott drew nearer with his match, the spiders scurried up their silken threads, dropping down only after he had safely passed.  Finding the nearest corner empty, he swore in frustration.

“What were you hoping to find?”  Mrs. Black’s voice echoed with amusement.  “Bandits?  A treasure horde?”

Trott did not reply.  His first light dwindled and he struck another.  A shuffling emanated from the darkest corner, a dry noise like cornhusks rubbing together.  An old coal bin lay neglected in the corner, and something moved inside.

“Come out,” Trott called triumphantly as he moved into the heavy darkness, his match aloft.   “The game is up.”

Eight ruby eyes the size of silver dollars stared at him unblinkingly.  The spider was the size of a horse, its bloated body gleaming like polished obsidian in the dim light. The pedipalpi in front of its mouth twitched in excitement.  Clutched in the spider’s legs was a body wrapped in slender ropes like strands of spun sugar.  The face was shrouded in silken threads, save for the glazed, horror-filled eyes.

“What the— ” Trott recoiled and aimed his gun.

The blow came from the left side, striking the bounty hunter’s shoulder and sending him sprawling onto the earthen floor.  His match extinguished, Trott groped around in the darkness for his dropped weapon.  Pain ripped through his right calf.  Dazed, he rolled to his side.  The shadow of a second spider loomed over him.  The spider’s fangs dripped crimson fluid, and one hairy leg tapped noiselessly against the dirt floor.

Trott screamed and kicked.  His booted foot sank deeply into one red eye.  The spider retreated, but Trott heard soft rasping noises as more spiders crept out of the darkness toward him.

Trott crawled backward like a crab, a wave of nausea sweeping over him.  A stabbing pain shot between his shoulder blades, and searing, white-hot fire scorched down his spine.  Trott reached behind him and hurled the skull-sized spider into the advancing arachnid army. He instinctively reached for the wound, sticky fluid seeping through his shirt, as a huge welt bubbled up beneath his palm.

Trott rose, the soft floor tilting beneath him, and staggered toward the staircase.  Sunlight illuminated the exit like a path to Heaven. He could feel the venom surging through his bloodstream, attacking his muscles.  As his limbs grew numb, Trott struggled to keep moving.

Reaching the patch of light, the bounty hunter threw himself against the stairs, dragging himself toward the store and safety.  Three sharp stabs in his back and thigh sent pain ripping through his body like molten lava.  He didn’t turn around.  Only a few more steps to freedom.  Relief surged through Trott as he dragged his body up the last step and out of the nightmare.  He collapsed onto the storeroom floor, the sunlight warming his unresponsive limbs.

The widow stood over him like a dark angel, her beautiful face impassive.

Trott raised his eyes to her in a final plea.  “Please. . . please,” he stammered, blood bubbling down his chin.

She grasped his face in her long white fingers, a sympathetic smile on her pale lips.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I’m afraid I’m terribly venomous.”

The bounty hunter convulsed as her fangs closed around his neck, his heels pounding the floor and arms beating madly against his side.  With a careless shove, the widow pushed Trott down trapdoor, his body bouncing and tumbling as it struck each wooden step.  She followed him down, watching as the spiders moved in to claim their prize, her smaller offspring bobbing excitedly as they dropped to join the feast.

“Now, now,” she admonished gently.  “No need to fight. There’s plenty for everyone”

The widow smiled fondly as she ascended the steps, fixing her long braid as she went.  She replaced the rug and patted her belly.  The new brood was not due for weeks.  Humming softly, she entered the shop, warm with the contentment of expectant motherhood.

A few minutes later, the bell above the door jangled.  A bespectacled boy entered, wringing his hands nervously.  “Excuse me?  Are you Mrs. Black?  I’ve had some trouble with a girl and I need to disappear . . .”

THE END