A spider only knows that you’re lying if the moon is in its first quarter and the cat’s milk has turned sour overnight. That’s what my great aunt always said when she suspected me of telling less than the facts. Though it always confused me as to the purpose of a spider and the divination of the truth.
Six tall pine trees waved skywards towards their cloud companions that summer as I idled away the hours at my Great Aunt Dorothy’s large house. She was accompanying an elderly friend on a long desired excursion to Egypt and with no children of her own, she had asked me, her only nephew, in a position of unemployed leisure, to keep an eye on the old place whilst she was away.
This involved feeding her various cats, of which I believe there were nine but could never be entirely sure, and ensuring that her beloved mahogany long case clock in the hallway was wound each day. She was highly specific about that. The clock had never stopped in over forty years, striking the hour, every hour, ever since her long deceased husband Hector, had set it running on the day of their wedding.
Poor Great Uncle Hector had come to a particularly sticky end eight summers ago when a rogue combine harvester had somehow strayed beyond the neighbouring field and onto the front lawn of the house. Since then, it had been essential to Dorothy that the cogs should never cease to turn and the clock never fall silent.
And so, I spent the days journaling ideas for the novel that I had always believed I could write, and meandering through the house and garden, savouring the beautiful objects and furniture that my great aunt had curated over the years and enjoying the pretence that I was a successful young author in his country pile.
It was on the third night of my stay, a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, that I forgot to wind the clock. This oversight was not intentional. I had gone to bed earlier than usual, lulled by an oddly heavy dusk.
The cats, who were typically a rowdy bunch at twilight, were instead silent little silky creatures and had arranged themselves in a perfect half circle on the drawing room rug, each one facing the fireplace as if waiting for something I was not intended to witness.
I was far too tired to question such a peculiar feline congregation, and left them to whatever it was they were doing, climbed into bed and drifted into a heavy sleep filled with the scent of lavender and something that reminded me of wood smoke, but dry and brittle, almost perfumed, unlike the logs that burn in my great aunt’s fireplace in the winter months.
The following morning, there were only eight cats. At first, I thought perhaps one was under a bed, or crouched in one of the many dark corners of the house. But as the morning wore on, it became apparent that the large black one, I called him Obsidian, though I’m not sure that was his real name, was nowhere to be found. The dish of milk I’d put out the evening before, sat untouched, curdled and cheese-like on the kitchen floor.
It was then that I noticed the silence. The hallway clock, normally so constant, ticking away the days in the background, was still and silent. Its pendulum hung motionless, the hands frozen at precisely thirteen minutes past three. I opened the case and wound the mechanism with a shiver of panic that I could not explain. The chain clicked as I pulled the heavy lead weight back to the top of the casing, but something inside the mechanism clicked in a way I had never heard before. I closed the door, opened the glass to reset the hands, chiming through the lost hours of the morning. Then something caused me to quickly step back.
A dark brown spider, the size of a tea cup sat just behind the clock, motionless by the skirting board. Its legs bristled with fine hairs that caught in the light as if they had been dusted with powder, and its body bore a distinct marking, not quite an eye, but oval in shape with a dark centre. As I crouched to get a better look, it withdrew behind the case with astonishing speed, vanishing into the narrow gap between the clock and the wall.
I eased myself back to my feet, making a mental note to be wary of eight-legged creatures in small spaces, and then turned to see a line of eight cats, their tails perpendicular, walking in procession down the hallway towards the front door, where a mackerel tabby who headed the entourage, yowled the instruction to be let outside.
That afternoon, the first postcard arrived from Aunt Dorothy. It was postmarked from Luxor with a black and white image of Karnak Temple. Her message, written in her unmistakable hand, was in dark blue ink.
‘The sun is too large and too hot here, but in the cold of the nights, I dream of ticking. There are statues of Bastet everywhere. You’d love them, darling. They look like they know something. Our next excursion is to the Valley of the Kings. All those bodies! Do keep the clock wound.
Your loving Aunt, D.’
That evening, after checking each room of the house and calling out his supposed name across the gardens, I gave Obsidian up for lost. But I left a bowl of milk out all the same, even though the others never touched it, and I made sure to wind the clock with extra care.
Two nights later, I saw the spider again. It was no longer in its usual place, lurking behind the clock. I spotted it at the top of the stairs, on a small oak table, poised beside a vase of dried lavender. It stood up high on its long legs, not flat as you would imagine a spider should be. When I moved towards it, it didn’t flinch. Instead, it lifted two of its brown hairy legs, as if rearing on all fours, which a spider can’t do but the effect was the same. Then it turned and slipped down the side of the table and shot between the banisters, vanishing with an almost menacing silence.
I had not intended to follow it. I am no fan of spiders, but as long as they leave me alone and don’t crawl over my face in the night, I am content to let them be. But I found myself descending the stairs in the direction of the increasingly familiar arachnid. The hallway was dark. None of the cats were around and they hadn’t carried out their geometric pursuits on the drawing room rug again as far as I was aware. All was quiet except for the clock, which ticked away, the heartbeat of the house.
I sat at the bottom of the stairs and waited. I didn’t know what for. Perhaps it was for Obsidian but he didn’t come and the spider had retreated, I supposed to the space behind the clock. Eventually I retired to bed where I dreamed of a huge empty sarcophagus floating down the Nile, Great Aunt Dorothy at the helm, and a tall dark cat perched at the opposite end beside the gold painted feet.
During this time, between cat duty and clock management, my notebooks and journals were gradually filling themselves with thoughts and notions. The odd part was that I could not recall having written them, though they are quite certainly in my hand and scribed with my preferred brand of ink.
Everything seemed to be written in a manner that made no real sense, as though taking the truth of a matter and bending it so that it no longer resembled anything familiar. But there was something in it, and I kept my books carefully secured in the cupboard of my room where they could come to no harm.
The second postcard arrived the following Monday. This one bore an image of Bastet the ancient cat goddess, smooth and sleek, carved from basalt with gold earrings and the eyes of a creature that had watched for many years. I brushed off the sticky cobweb that had somehow attached itself and read my aunt’s latest news.
‘There are so many cats here, and they don’t run off when you watch them, they just stare. Sometimes I think they are not cats at all. One stood in the middle of my hotel room last night and simply looked at me and the air smelled of something quite ancient. Please don’t forget the clock. It’s not just about the time, you know dear. It’s about the space between the beats.
Much love, D.’
I didn’t quite like the sound of that. I turned the card over again and again, as if some hidden meaning might suddenly appear. The ink of my great aunt’s words had smeared a little as if she’d been in a rush and when I brought the postcard closer to my face, I noticed a faint scent of dried wood and lavender.
The moon was dark that night having in previous days waned to a faint sliver that had now completely disappeared. The cats yowled at the front door for a while, then appeared to canter anticlockwise in wide circles across the lawn and between the pine trees, for a good half hour. Then, stealthy and dark, they wound their way back towards the house where they sat in a line outside the French windows of the dining room, staring in, amber and green eyed.
The eight cats watched me from the shadows. I counted them twice to be sure. No more, no less. None of them blinked and eventually I opened the French windows and they filed in, each glancing up at me before heading into the hallway, where they sat in a semi-circle around the ticking old clock, counting the hours.
And later that evening, just as the clock struck midnight, the spider reappeared. Not in its usual place by the skirting boards, but as I opened the door to wind the clock, it was now on the inside of the long case, crawling slowly across the pendulum as if looking for something I could not see. Riding time as it beat its rhythm. And the cats sat and watched.
It was at that moment that a loud thump sounded from the kitchen and as I turned to look down the hallway, I was surprised to see the dense feline shape of what I imagined to be Obsidian, strolling towards me as if he’d never been away.
The ninth cat made his way through the semi-circle and positioned himself beside me, where he fixed his eyes on the spider, still swinging back and forth on the clock’s pendulum.
With all the peculiar happenings of the previous few days, I half expected the black cat to speak, to explain where he had been and what the meaning was behind the mysterious antics of his fellow cats. But he did not. He seemed to ponder the situation for a moment, as if he could feel the eyes of his companions on him, sitting still and expectant in their feline arc.
And then, the spider leapt from the pendulum. Obsidian struck out a glossy black paw, but missed and the spider shot down the hallway, disappearing into the drawing room, where it was followed by the cats in a stealthy procession. Obsidian glanced at me and then followed.
This was all becoming too much. The cats seemed to have the measure of things and knew the peculiarities of the house so much more than I ever could. It seemed sensible to leave things in their capable paws, so after ensuring the clock was fully wound, I took a sleeping tablet and went to bed.
That night, I dreamed again but this time not of the Nile. My fitful sleep took me into places where I was alone except for the clock itself, standing tall and open like a doorway. Inside, instead of cogs and chains, I saw a staircase descending into somewhere of complete and utter darkness. A single golden cat waited at the top, unmoving and silent.
I awoke at three thirteen exactly. The night was quite black with clouds that scudded across the waxing new moon allowing just a smattering of intermittent moonlight to be caught within the walls of my room. The air felt heavy as though full of voices that made no sound, and compelled by something I could not discern, I put on my gown and descended the stairs to the hallway. It was there that I found that the clock had stopped again.
And this time, no matter how I wound the chain, no matter how many times I reset the hands, it wouldn’t start.
The cats did not come when I called them. The house felt hollow, thick with waiting and watching. Only Obsidian remained. He was sitting in the hallway, watching the clock with such intensity that I could not look away from his gaze.
I am unsure how long the black cat and I sat in the hallway, nor am I sure as to why I did not return to the warmth of my bed. I can only be sure that I was there and that this is my truth.
I was woken by the clatter of the letterbox. Stiffly I rose from the floor, noting the clock still pointing to thirteen minutes past three. Thick cobwebs had appeared around its pointed black hands and a thick layer of grey dust covered its mahogany casing. From the kitchen I could hear a cat yowling.
A single postcard lay on the door mat. A picture of the great pyramid at Giza on one side. Great Aunt Dorothy’s unmistakable handwriting was on the other.
‘Tell the spider the truth, or it will keep asking.’
And below that, in the same ink, a bizarre picture. The ink was quite smeared but I could make out that it was a drawing of nine cats, circled around something too dark and obscure to see clearly.
Dazed and bewildered, I returned to my room. But when I opened the cupboard where I kept my journals and notebooks, I found the top one open. All the pages that I had not yet written in, were filled with a dark red ink, from corner to corner in my hand. Not my words. Not my ink.
I leafed through the pages with trembling hands. Words that spoke of unheard and unseen reckonings. Prose that shook the earth in thick waves as the script seeped across centuries.
And on the last page, in a thin, web-like script that wasn’t mine at all, were the words:
‘It knows now. And all nine remember.’
A soft creak came from downstairs in the hallway. I turned from my room and stepped out onto the landing at the top of the stairs. My body suddenly rigid as my eyes scanned the shadows below. But all was still and nothing was there. And then, in a wave of cold terror, I heard it through the deafening stillness.
A dull rhythmic sound. Not quite mechanical. Not quite natural. But unmistakably… ticking.
In the hallway, the clock stood as it had before. A sentinel, its hands still at thirteen minutes past three. Its pendulum hanging motionless.
And yet, the hollow ticking sound persisted. Not from the clock, but from somewhere deeper and further away. Somewhere beyond the house.
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So, I have a few questions. First – why do all fictional relatives go to Egypt, and nobody even sends me to Lidl? Second – why is the spider bigger than my life motivation? And third – is it even legal for a clock to stop at 3:13 and open a portal to ant... antique hell? This story is delightfully creepy, elegantly bizarre, and absolutely brilliant. Cats as semi-divine beings, a spider that knows when you lie, and time behaving like a spoiled child – it all made me Google protection rituals. Your writing style is top-notch, the atmosphere thick enough to slice with a knife. Well done – now excuse me while I go check on my cats and see if I forgot to wind the clock. 🫣💖
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You just made me smile Jelena! Thank you so much for your comments. Egypt, cats and creepy antiques... what's not to like?! 😃 I'm getting a bit more confidence in trying to embrace the weirdness that I love in my writing, so your comments mean a lot. Thank you!
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Penelope,
You just made me smile in return! I’m so glad you’re leaning into the weird — your writing absolutely shines because of it. Embrace it fully. Egypt, cats, antiques, and spider-portals are clearly your superpowers.
I’ll be here, cheering from the shadows (probably with a can of tuna and some Google sage-burning tips).
🐾💖
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Got to burn that sage! 🌿🪄
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Exactly.
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Wonderful, Penelope. This is absolutely in the style of the great gothic story. Shades of Poe, shades of Bram Stoker ... the ghost writing in his journals, the ancient myths that still captivate us, and all within the setting of an English country pile. My hat off to you, dear lady, yet again, for a superb and compelling piece of prose.
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Thank you so much Rebecca! Your support means a lot!
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I can't believe how engaging this story is. You caught my attention, and then you fed it a diet of clues. This story is a close cousin of Poe, but it's told in the voice of a modern narrator. I knew you would end with an even deeper mystery, but I kept reading HOPING everything would get resolved. Nope! I am still locked into the fate of the spider, the cats, the aunt, and the narrator. Perfect.
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Thank you so very much Derek! I decided to leave a little mystery with this one! Glad you liked it!
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That was a good choice.
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Hi Penelope,
Clocks are fascinating aren’t they? This one was the heartbeat of the house. Mysterious, a character in its own right, presiding over time. The awesome Obsidian and the cats, a very freaky but fascinating spider, and the Egyptian cat goddess Bastet. It felt like different worlds seeping into one. Nice closing paragraph leading the story open to all kinds of possibilities. Totally my cup of tea. 🐈⬛
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Thanks Helen. I liked the idea of the cats doing strange things and just went with it! Glad you liked it 😀
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Haunting, this one! Incredible use of imagery. I would probably not even agree to any of this. Too weird. Hahaha! Lovely work!
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Thanks Alexis. Totally weird! 😀
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🕷️😺😸😹😻😼😽🙀😿😾🕰️
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😁 🙏 thanks Mary!
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I loved the eerie atmosphere and how the clock slowly became more than just a clock—like some kind of portal or connection to something ancient and mysterious. The cats, the spider, the dreams… it all built up in such a quiet, unsettling way. The open ending was perfect—just enough to leave me thinking. Good job 👍
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Thank you Raz. I tried to keep things ambiguous whilst creating a sense of unease. Hope it worked!
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Yes, it worked. At first, I thought it was heading in the direction of "The Shining", with the lonely writer left to watch over the house, but the mention of the cats and the connection to Bastet from Egypt was very clever. The dreams and the appearance of the spider added a mythical, mysterious, and timeless feeling.
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his story is an exquisitely eerie, literary gothic tale that weaves mystery, dread, and a deep sense of mythic unease into a finely detailed narrative. It reads like a forgotten chapter from the works of Neil Gaiman or Shirley Jackson—an elegant descent into the uncanny where time, memory, and meaning are all delicately fraying.
What stands out most is the richness of atmosphere. From the scent of dry lavender and perfumed smoke to the ghost-silence of the house when the clock stops, every sensory detail is alive with foreboding. The mood is consistent and masterfully maintained, giving the entire piece a dreamlike quality without ever losing narrative clarity.
The decision to center the story on three key symbols—the clock, the cats, and the spider—creates a mesmerizing, ritualistic feel. These are not just set pieces, but characters in their own right, with intentions just beyond human understanding. The clock is particularly powerful: its 3:13 stasis and refusal to resume ticking act as a metaphysical rupture—a broken beat in the heart of reality. The moment the spider rides the pendulum like a dark sentinel is pure horror poetry.
The recurring number nine—nine cats, nine lives, nine watchers—is deftly used without over-explanation. It hints at ancient systems, rituals, or reckonings that remain partially obscured, which only increases the tension.
Aunt Dorothy’s postcards are a brilliant narrative device. Her cryptic, loving tone grounds the supernatural in the mundane, making her both comforting and ominous. The final line of her last message—
“Tell the spider the truth, or it will keep asking.”
—is unforgettable. It chills the spine while deepening the mystery.
The voice of the narrator is wonderfully nuanced—curious, polite, slightly unreliable, and slowly unraveling. His passive slide into something mythic feels earned. The journals writing themselves, the feline procession, the dream of a sarcophagus captained by Aunt Dorothy—these surreal elements are never forced; they flow naturally as if drawn from deep archetypes.
Strengths:
Evocative, literary prose with an incredible command of rhythm and imagery.
Unfolding dread without ever resorting to gore or cliché.
A hauntingly original blend of folklore, horror, and magical realism.
Thematic resonance around memory, time, truth, and the spaces "between beats."
Suggestions (minor):
You could pare back a few early descriptions just slightly to heighten the pace in the opening quarter. The setup is lovely, but the real story ignites once the clock stops.
A few lines (e.g., "not quite mechanical, not quite natural") verge on repetition—intentional for rhythm, perhaps, but worth tightening if word count matters.
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