Welcome to micro Terrors, scary stories for kids where it's always the spooky season,
full of chills, thrills, and spine tingling spooks. Micro Terrors are
family friendly frights for those ages eight and up, and while our stories are
for younger years, we are still talking about things that go bump in the
night, and some children may not be able to handle what others can.
Parental consent is recommended now for tonights micro terror Rattle Clink the Spider Jars by
Tom Levine. Rory avoided the basement. Any sensible person would. Basements were
a dark, b spooky and c possessed of ancient spirits with spectral pincers,
desirous of nothing more than snipping off the heads of little boys. That's why
Rory avoided the basement. Well, that and his father's collection of spiders.
Rory had been down in the basement exactly one time when his older brother,
Timothy It's always an older brother in these scenarios, invited him down for candy.
Candy the sweet lie of candy, and Rory had fallen for it.
Granted he'd been only six at the time and Timothy ten. Timothy had spent
many years finding out where father hid the key to the basement door, which
she always kept closed and locked. Father had begun his itch inducing hobby not
long after mother passed, as it happens, from the bite of a black
widow spider. Mother had not been well in the first place, and local
physician doctor Joshua opined that this long illness of hers undiagnosed, played a role
in the spider's fatal bite. Rory, who bore his mother's cold black hair
and serious blue eyes, was only three at the time. Seven now,
he had precious few memories of her. She'd spent most of her time in
bed in the upstairs extra bedroom, the very same bed in which she died.
Timothy said outside of father's hearing that her illness was Rory's fault, that
somehow his infant body had poisoned her during birth, and the black widow had
come along to finish the job. Sometimes Timothy smiled when he made these claims.
At other times the words came from a grim slit of a mouth.
At those times, Rory believed his brother's accusations. A week after his mother's
death, Rory heard his father cry out. At first, he assumed the
cry was one of grief. Father made such sounds many times after she passed.
Then Father came bounding down the stairs, holding a mason jar in both
hands. Before him got one, he cried, passing Rory. With a
glance within the clear glass, Rory saw a long legged and rather hairy specimen
of the sort that inhabited the outbuildings. Wolf spiders, everyone called them,
though there were clearly multiple species falling under this broad moniker. Even as he
stared at it, the creature leaped against its prison. Rory had shrieked and
covered his eyes While in this pose. Rory heard, rather than sow,
his father opening the basement door, rushing down it and giving another cry of
triumph. When he heard the door close once more, Rory lowered his arm.
He'd never seen Father quite so exultant. There, he'd said, that's
one. Well, what are you gonna do with it? Rory asked,
voice tremulous. Father fixed him with a fanatical glare. Keep it and watch
it die the way that they made me watch your mother die. He raised
a thick finger and pointed it at Rory's nose. You or your brother see
any more any kind anywhere? You grabbed them or come get me and I'll
grab them, all right, son, Rory nodded, knowing the gesture was
a lie. He had no intention of coming anywhere near Interacnet, not after
watching how his mother passed her pain, he remembered that more than he remembered
any hugs or time stories before the bite, Mother had mostly been weak and
sleepy. After it, she screamed at all hours of the day and night.
She screamed, Rory, peeking in fascinated horror through the crack in the
door as father and doctor Joshua tried to treat her, watched her arms,
legs, and abdomen mercilessly constrict. Then came the endless vomiting, which frightened
Rory more than her clenched muscles. The symptoms went on for hours, while
Father gripped his hair, shouted at the doctor, tried holding mother's hand,
all of it worthless. From the capture of that first wolf spider, Father
kept the basement door locked. He did not, he told the boys,
want them to accidentally knock over one of the jars and risk letting one of
the skittering beasts free. But ain't they dead? Timothy had asked blunt,
as always father had grinned not yet bell die. Slowly, very slowly,
he bought canning jars by the flat, built shelves with fresh lumber, stacked
the jars side by side by side. The more his collection grew, the
more he spent his free time there, grinning and eventually muttering. By the
time Timothy pulled his older brother with candy routine, father had amassed fifty jars
No. One hundred each with its own inhabitant. There were two shelves full,
one set on the right and one set on the left. The shelves
started just a few feet beyond the flat area at the base of the wooden
steps. I've got fudge, Timothy told Rory a year ago, almost to
the day. What some It's in the basement. Rory's little brother instincts kicked
in. Why the basement to keep it cool? Of course, Rory frowned,
thinking, A there was a perfectly good ice box in the kitchen,
and b where would Timothy have gotten fudge without him knowing this latter question?
He prepared to ask, but Timothy had already shrugged and swaggered toward the basement
door, which gleamed in a ray of afternoon sun from the kitchen windows.
Timothy brandished a brass key and deftly unlocked the door, to Rory's thunderstruck amazement.
His brother then sauntered down the steps, flicking on the light at the
top of the stairs as he went. He didn't even have to dangle the
promise of candy again. Rory followed him out of his own sheer curiosity,
down the wooden staircase, down to the shelves where the spider jars stood in
perfect rows. Well, where's the candy, Rory had asked, and licked
his lips for more than one reason. Over there, Timothy pointed at the
beck wall, where it's coolest, and fool that he was. He walked
the aisle between the spider jars, trying to keep his gaze fixed on the
dark, damp stone wall and not at the row upon row of a rachnids
waiting to pounce upon him. Rory reached the wall where it was darker.
He searched the shadows. I don't see it, Timothy gripped one's shelf and
gave it the easiest shake. The jars rattled and clinked. Rory flinched dout.
Can you imagine, Timothy said, with another shake, rattle clink.
If these all came down it once, crash. Rory flinched a second time.
That's sent a terrified glance at the nearest jar in it. A black
widow moved sluggishly. Timothy tapped a jar. The monster inside responded immediately,
jumping against the smooth glass, still alive. I wonder how long they last
in there? I don't know, Rory said, where's the candy? Timothy
raised an eyebrow. Wait right there, despite every instinct he had to the
contrary, Rory waited right there. Timothy rattled the shelf one more time,
rattle clink, before racing up the stairs and shutting off the light. No,
Rory shrieked, What if they all fell right now? Timothy's voice came
out of the pitch black. You'd be trapped, he went on, trapped
with all these spiders. Rory suddenly needed the washroom very badly. Turned the
light on. Timothy. You know it's your fault, right what you did
to mother. No, I didn't you heard Timothy's stealthy steps on the wooden
staircase. That spider wouldn't have killed her if you hadn't made her so weak.
Stop stop, stop it. Rory's bone marrow filled with ice water as
Timothy's footsteps quieted, but then were replaced by the rattle clink of the jars.
I bet these bigger ones can knock their jars off if they wanted to,
Timothy said. Rory heard. Timothy was closer now, but he couldn't
make his feet work. They'd just bang up against the side of the jar
until it fell right over. Rattle clink, rattle clink, rattle clink.
Rory felt his bladder, wanting to let go, felt a scream unlike any
other build in his lungs, terror crawling over his skin like one hundred Timothy,
please, Timothy sighed. In the blackness, Rory heard his footsteps on
the stairs again. The light popped on, blinding him. With a sneer
of disgust, Timothy unleashed a volley of insults at him. Words Timothy would
never dare say a father was around. They all meant the same thing Ward
at the time, Rory didn't care. He bolted up the stairs and straight
to the washroom, muttering harsh words of vengeance he'd have one day on his
older brother but he didn't tattle. Mother went on collecting his spiders, ignorant
to both Timothy's knowledge of the basement key and the terrorizing of his little brother.
The collection grew. For Rory, dreams of revenge slowly faded to dreams
of his mother's death and that he wished he'd never seen it. Now a
year later, there stood Timothy, brass key in his hand, faint smile
on his lips, tempting Rory again. Father was in the city and would
be for some time. Rory had just come in from playing in the garden.
Summer had arrived early, and sweat ran down his legs in between his
bare toes as he wiped his feet on the mat inside the kitchen door.
Timothy made no pretense this time. I'll give you a dollar to walk to
the end of the basement and back. You don't half a dollar, Rory
said, thinking of the candy. Timothy pulled a silver dollar coin from his
pocket and brandished it see Rory took a step closer, wondering if it could
be faked. Where did you get it? It doesn't matter where I got
it, Timothy said. What matters is what I want to spend it.
On. What's that my little brother not being a coward. The words had
an instant effect. Rory scowled and marched over, reaching for the coin.
Timothy definitely raised his hand away. Uh uh uh, you have to do
it first. Rory crossed his meat little arms. Just in the wall and
back. Yep, with the light on. Of course, I wouldn't want
you to crash into the spider jars and get hurt. Just touched the wall.
Yep. Only you can't run, you have to walk. Timothy opened
the basement door while Rory contemplated the offer. He had no illusions about what
was on Timothy's mind. He'd reached the wall and poof, out would go
the light. So the question wasn't whether or not he could walk to the
wall and back. The question was could he walk back in the dark between
the two shelves of arachnids. Timothy opened the door and stepped aside, with
exquisite big brother smarm on his face. Rory, surprising himself, grinned back
fang, he said, and stepped boldly onto the first step and flicked on
the light. He was thrilled to see the surprise on Timothy's face, even
if he didn't follow through with his promise of the dollar. That expression was
enough of a victory to encourage down the stairs. The wood felt splintery beneath
his feet. This bravado quickly evaporated when he reached the basement floor. The
two shelves stretched out before him and seemed to somehow grow longer, the wall
farther as he stood still. Just remember, Timothy called they could knock themselves
off the shelves any time. Rory didn't believe him, mostly, but used
his brother's voice to motivate himself. Just walked to the wall and back,
he thought, go. He took a step, The light went off.
Rory tensed. The light came back on. Just kidding, Timothy teased.
Rory didn't even bother looking back. Responding would only encourage Timothy. Instead,
he took a step, then another. Eyes fixed on the back wall,
just as he'd done during the candy trick. Just keep walking, he thought,
Just keep walking. One million eyes followed his every movement. He felt,
each one glaring. They hated him, They hated his father for trapping
them here, and by extension, hated Rory. They wanted to bite and
venom, feast, rattle, clink. Rory froze, then turned his head
Timothy. Timothy was outlined by light in the doorway at the top of the
stairs. What keep going, You're almost there, But did you hear that?
Hear what? Rory snapped his mouth shut and moved quickly toward the wall
walk Timothy reminded him. Rory nearly didn't listen, but the silver dollar glinted
in his mind, and he slowed. The spiders watched rattle clink. Rory
panicked as he reached out for the wall and touched it. The stones were
cool. Taking a relieved breath, he spun to face the stage. The
light went out, the door closed. Timothy, from the other side of
it, laughed. Rory's internal organs shrank and shriveled inside him. Knew it,
he thought, Timmathay, his older brother, only went on laughing.
The sound was demonic. Rory clenched his teeth and hands forward. He thought,
just move forward. He took a step, easy, no problem,
another, then another, sliding his bare Rory stopped bare feet. I'm not
wearing shoes. Why didn't I put on shoes? Rattle clink, Oh no.
He took another shuffling step. The dirt floor felt cool beneath his soules,
but his body felt racked with fever. Just keep going, just keep
going straight. He bumped into a shelf. Rattle clink, I don't clink.
Instinctively, he pulled away, sliding his feet, but in his growing
panic, he overestimated and backed into the opposite shelf. The jars of spiders
rattled and clinked louder. Now Rory abandoned any want for the money or even
to show up his brother. He screamed in the dark devity. His only
response was the key turning in the lock. Rory ran. All his primal
instincts came to the foray as he shoved away from the shelf and rushed blindly
in the direction of the stairs, or what he thought was the direction.
Timothy had blocked the base of the door with something a towel, perhaps to
keep any light from shining. Without this beacon, Rory had no sense of
direction. His terror drove him at an angle until he smashed into the other
shelf. Rory released a small animal whine as the jars moved. Oh,
rattle clink. He heard the jars sliding across the boards. Then, in
the dark you heard the sound of a thousand breaking jars of glass. Thank
you for listening to micro Terrors. Join us each Saturday for another scary story.
For more fun, visit our website at microterrors dot com, where we
will also have spooky games you can print out and play like wicked word searches,
mysterious mazes, and more. Microterrors dot com is also where you can
find us on your favorite social media and even send in your own scary story
for us to tell. Plus, you'll learn more about our author, Scott
Donnelly, who has other horrors for both young and old. I hope you'll
join me again soon for micro Tells scary stories for kids.