Will you Walk into my Parlour?

Statement of the Mother

April 28th, 2017

Statement never written

Once upon a time there was a Fly named Jonny. Jonny liked to read. One day he opened up a book I wrote, but it was a Bad Book. I didn’t write the book for nice little boys like Jonny. I wrote the book for the mean little boys. Boys like George. George liked to pick on Jonny, so I had my book eat him.

Once upon a time there was a Spider named Martin. Martin was also a nice little boy, and he liked bugs and dirt. Martin wasn’t very good at reading. What he was, was very good at being Martin. He was also very good at being Lonely, so I sent him George. George had been a mean little boy, but now he was a nice little spider. Martin loved him very much. Martin's mum stepped on George. I don’t like Martin’s mum.

I would have liked to care for both my boys, but Jonny was too much an Eye. So I focused on Martin. I raised him as my own, just as his own mum refused to. I tucked him into bed each night with cotton and cobwebs and I sent my spiders to crawl into his ear and whisper him bedtime stories. My darling boy grew into a man.

I had always been jealous of Martin’s mum. I suppose all adoptive mothers must feel the same. I raised him, and yet he cared for her. Many a time I nearly snipped her threads just to have Martin as my own. If I had done so however, I knew Martin would never truly be my child.

One day, Martin did something very foolish. So I did what I always have and sent my spiders to help him. And then Martin did something extraordinary. He chose me. He chose me and George and Anabelle and all of my spiders.

Martin made a very good Spider, and he was in love with the Fly.

The Fly was a very stupid man, as most Eyes tend to be. He broke my table. That made me very cross with Jonny. It was a gift. Then my Martin saved Jonny, and Jonny kissed my Martin, and I decided to forgive them both. Jonny for being stupid, and Martin for having horrible taste in men.

Then the Big Eye killed a mean old man and Jonny was blamed for it. Jonny moved in with Martin and Martin covered their new little home with web and hid it away from the world. But then Jonny lied to Martin. He went to his friend Timothy and asked the man to distract the Spider while Jonny talked with the lady made of wax. The wax lady burned Jonny’s hand, so Martin wrapped it up in cobweb to stop it from hurting, and kept wrapping and wrapping because he didn’t know how to stop.

Once upon a time there was another Fly. His name was Timothy. Little Timmy wasn’t a part of my web. He wasn’t important at all until Martin decided he was.

Once upon a time there was a Fly and a Spider and another Fly, and the two Flies went Knock Knock Knock on Mr. Spider's door.

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,

“‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;

The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,

And I have many curious things to shew when you are there.”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.

“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in!”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, “Dear friend what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?

I have within my pantry, good store of all that’s nice;

I’m sure you’re very welcome–will you please to take a slice?”

“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “kind sir, that cannot be,

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I’ve a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”

“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple–there’s a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue–

Thinking only of her crested head–poor foolish thing! At last,

Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour–but she ne’er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed:

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

Tim bolted upright, clutching the sheets close to his chest. His dream… he didn’t remember his dream. He only knew that there were goosebumps on his arms and he had sweated through his nightshirt. It must have been a nightmare.

Slowly, Tim picked himself up out of his bed. He’d never been one to fall back asleep after a nightmare. Tim checked his phone.

5:13am. Not too terribly early. At the very least he wouldn’t feel horribly guilty about waking Jon up on accident as he clambered to the kitchen. Assuming the man had gone to sleep at all.

Jon had been staying at Tim’s flat for a couple days now. They hadn’t talked about why since that first night, though not for lack of trying. Every time Tim tried to ask Jon how he got webbed up, he evaded the question. Tim still wasn’t sure whether that was on purpose or if Jon’s tendency to ramble and make odd connections was to blame. The last time Tim tried Jon somehow spent half an hour info dumping about deep sea creatures. All of which the Eye oh so helpfully confirmed.

That was another thing. The Eye. That pressing feeling of being watched which was ever present at the archives had started following Tim home. Tim wasn’t sure if he or Jon was to blame. He didn’t want to examine it too closely.

There was a lot Tim didn’t want to examine at the moment. He didn’t want to think about the statements he had taken. He didn’t want to examine  the implications behind that. He didn’t want to think about the tape recorder church had taken up permanent residence on his coffee table and refused to be burned, crushed, thrown away, or blown to bits. It might have been multiple tape recorders. That didn’t change the fact that it refused to leave.

Jon was a surprisingly polite houseguest. Tim hadn’t been expecting that. He also hadn’t expected Jon to show up at his doorstep covered in cobweb but they were long past that. He might stay up late pouring over statements but he only recorded in the daytime to avoid waking Tim. His papers were strewn about, but only in the living room. He didn’t hog the shower, and Tim had even caught him vacuuming once. Jon also cooked, and he was good at it. That had thrown Tim for a bit of a loop considering the man looked like he hardly ate.

“Jon?” Tim called out. He wasn’t worried about waking Jon. It seemed after sleeping a full day Jon had decided to make up for it by refusing to sleep at all.

Jon didn’t reply. Tim figured the man had finally collapsed of exhaustion. Staying awake for 48 hours will do that. Tim hoped Jon had at least fallen asleep on the couch.

...oh who was he kidding, Jon was probably face down on the floor right now.

Tim rubbed his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to drag Jon onto the couch, but he could at least toss a blanket over him.

Tim crossed into the living room. He scanned it, the scattered papers, the crumpled blankets. His stomach dropped. He looked again. Then again.

This was fine. Jon wasn’t in the living room. So what? Tim turned on his heel, checking the rest of his apartment. The kitchen was empty. The bathroom light was off.

Calm down, Tim told himself, He probably went for coffee or something. Which he shouldn’t be doing since he’s a suspect for murder right now, but still. He’s fine.

One way to check. Tim pulled out his phone and started to type.

Where are you?

On the coffee table, Jon’s phone buzzed.

Shit.

Martin’s apartment felt odd without Jon in it. He kept turning the corner and expecting to hear the click of a tape recorder or the slight hum of static. It never came, and each time Martin staunchly ignored it. Well, he tried to at least.

Martin had fucked up, he could admit that. He freaked out. To be fair, anyone would freak out if their boyfriend came home with third degree burns over his entire hand.

He just wanted to make it stop hurting Jon. That was all.

So he’d wrapped Jon’s hand in web, and by the time he’d finished that his hands were already moving, weaving, knitting, purling, and he could have stopped he should have stopped but Jon’s worm scars were right there and they were hurting Jon still, even now, and Martin didn’t want to stop. He didn’t mean to command Jon.

The Mother hummed. Her laughter echoed on his threads.

He didn’t mean to command Jon, but he did . One loud, angry “Quiet.” and a softer “Stop squirming dear, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Okay, he didn’t mean to do the first one. The second- well Jon just wouldn’t stay still , and he really was going to hurt himself if he kept trying to get away and that wouldn’t do at all. Martin could hardly be blamed for wanting to soothe the scars that Prentiss left behind and anyway Jon was the one who lied to him. Jon had told him that he would, under no circumstance, talk to Jude Perry. They would find the answers Jon so desperately desired some other way. Together.

Jon lied.

He lied to Martin’s face and came back home with half his hand melted and skin fused together. So yeah, maybe Martin had gotten a little pissed and his powers got a little out of control and he didn’t try quite as hard to reign them back in as he let on.

Martin realized suddenly that the Mother had gone quiet. She’s never quiet, always laughing, always pulling, encouraging, wrapping him in her will and embrace. The only time she ever went quiet is when she stopped weaving, when Martin began pulling his own threads and the Mother watched with pride. When Martin’s thoughts spiraled away from him, into that realm which terrifies him most and-

Oh.

He was doing it again, wasn’t he?

Martin slumped down onto the couch, letting his head fall back on the cushions. He closed his eyes, ignoring the silver lines etched onto the back of his eyelids. Right. He needed to fix this, get his mind back right. Martin wished Jon were here. He understood what it was to tiptoe the line between human and monster.

Martin’s mind reached out before he realized what he was doing. It would be so easy to bring Jon here, to play his limbs like puppet strings and make Jon come home. The webbing was all there, all he needed to do was pull.

Martin stopped himself. Using his powers on Jon was the whole reason Jon wasn’t here right now. That’s right. It wasn’t Jon’s fault at all, and that line of thinking is the reason Martin was in this mess to begin with.

Martin took a deep breath. In. Out. He ran his fingers through his hair.

The Mother hummed in disappointment. Relief swelled in Martin’s chest. She wasn’t quiet anymore, and that meant she hadn’t won. Not yet. At least, Martin was fairly certain that’s what it meant. It was impossible to tell with the Web.

The Mother smiled smugly through a thousand dancing threads.

Mind games. Typical.

Martin ignored her. He had more important things to deal with, namely how to apologize to Jon. Martin pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed on Jon’s contact. His hand hovered over the call button. He should have done this in the first place, why hadn’t he?

Because you didn’t do anything wrong, the Mother gently coaxed.

No. No, Martin absolutely had and he was not about to follow that train of thought again.

He lied to you.

Jon did, didn’t he? He told Martin he wouldn’t meet with Jude Perry and then he-

No. No absolutely not.

Stop it. Martin hissed.

The Mother spun webs which were far from innocent. Stop what?

“Stop lying to me! Manipulating me!” Too late, Martin realized the words weren’t only in his webs. They bounced off the walls of his flat, angry and scared and not at all how he’d intended them to sound. “I’m not- just stop.”

Martin could feel it, the Mother’s coy grin stretched over too many teeth.

“I’m not like you,” Martin whispered, and how many times had he said that exact phrase? To Anabbelle. To the Mother. To himself.

Aren’t you now? The Mother’s voice lilted in challenge. Timothy is terrified of you.

“I know.”

And Jonathan is afraid.

“He’s afraid of spiders.”

He’s afraid of you.

Martin flinched. He hated it, but he couldn’t help the way his mind drew a connection between the Mother of Puppets and his own mum. The Mother knew that. That’s why she did it, why she said things just so, angry in a way that looks tired if you squint hard enough. Martin always squinted. That never stopped him from flinching.

The Mother liked doing that, taking old wounds and covering them with cobwebs.

Oh, Martin.

She cooed at him, gentle warmth filling his lungs as a spider skittered out of the shadows. The spider was soft, larger than it had any right to be, and it nuzzled against Martin’s hand. Martin obliged, petting it gently. It was comforting in an overwhelming sort of way that made Martin’s eyes well up.

I’m so sorry darling.

She wasn’t. If she was, she wouldn’t keep doing this. She sounded just like his mum though, the way he’d always imagined she would sound if she ever apologized. It hurt. It was comforting. It was everything Martin had always needed and he hated it.

The spider on his lap nuzzled his hand. It was nice.

There was a phone in his other hand. Jon’s contact was pulled up, and his thumb was hovering over the call button. Martin blinked. That was odd.

I’m only trying to help. You know that, don’t you dear?

There was cobweb on the back of his eyelids. “Yeah,” Martin found himself saying. “Yeah mum, I know.”