The Three Sisters Webster

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Its warm yellow glow was a beacon of comfort for any traveller hiking the hills as darkness fell.

The traveller in question, a young man clean of limb and square of jaw with floppy blonde hair and blue eyes, had hoped from the summit he’d be able to see Nelson in the distance. Yet the weather in these parts played tricks. He had set out on a cold, crisp late December day but, as he climbed, it turned violent.

Under lowering clouds, the lightning and first clap of thunder was only an overture to the icy squalls that started as he rounded Pendle Hill. Hastening his footsteps, he found an outcrop to hunker behind. He donned a waterproof jacket and cap from his backpack, whilst peering through the trees to find points of reference along the horizon. He breathed a sigh of relief when, to the left, a light flickered through sleet flurries. His map showed no signs of habitation – probably an outlying farm building – but any shelter was better than the prospect of an overnight exposed to the elements.

Standing to leave, something glistened white in his peripheral vision. A spider’s web caught the peak of his cap and he came face to face with the owner. Feeling his stomach go hollow, he brushed it away. He had hated spiders ever since his older stepsisters had held him down, forced his mouth open and dropped three, one-by-one, down his throat.

He strode back onto the path, the storm driving straight at him, rods of slush stinging his cheeks. The path sloped downward, and the map suggested a bridge across one of the many streams that merged in the valley to power the mills which once made the area famous. It was now a torrent, the bridge gone, the storm raging fiercer by the minute.

Over his shoulder the light still flickered. Where there was light there should be shelter. Putting the wind to his back he retraced his steps to a track he had noticed heading in that direction.

Whilst the storm did not abate, with the light as his guide, the going was easier. In a shorter time than he had estimated he found himself outside an old timber cabin. A sign blew back and forth in the gusting wind – he could just make out the legend on it – The Three Sisters Inn. He didn’t question why such a place was not on the map, or why it even existed out here in the backwoods, rather his mind focussed on the aroma of woodsmoke – the smell of sanctuary. The door was reassuringly hung with a festive garland of holly and ivy. When pushed, it opened with an eerie creak of old hinges. He stepped inside.

Logs burned bright in the fireplace. Candles, thrust in the necks of ancient bottles flickered in the draught. The door blew shut behind him. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked around.

‘Looks like you could use a drink and a seat by the fire.’ The deep, husky voice belonged to a raven-haired woman behind what seemed the bar, dressed in a heavy medieval-style red gown that did nothing to hide her voluptuous body. Turning a spigot on a barrel, she drew beer into a pewter mug.

‘Not the night for a Yuletide stroll, eh?’ The lilting voice came from across the room, where a smiling redhead in a figure-hugging green dress gestured to a chair. ‘You’d better sit by the fire and get dry.’

‘There’s stew in the kitchen,’ said a voice behind him. He turned to see a blonde in an off-the-shoulder blue gown, her skin white as snow.

‘Thank you. That would be very welcome.’

Soon he was steaming gently in front of the flames, quaffing beer, tucking into a hearty meal.

‘The Inn is called The Three Sisters. Is that you?’ he asked.

Raven hair nodded. ‘Yes, we are the Webster sisters. I’m Arachne, the oldest. Aranha is the middle one, Araignee is the baby.’ She indicated the blonde, and the redhead, respectively.

‘Your mother started all your names with the same letter?’

‘She was called Athena,’ all three replied in unison.

‘Ahh, right.’ He nodded, as if that made sense. ‘Strange your pub isn’t on the map.’

‘We don’t open often,’ said Arachne. ‘We’re more of a pop-up.’ The other two laughed deep in their throats.

‘Mostly we’re in the re-enactment business,’ chuckled Aranha throatily, caressing and flouting her costume.

‘We like to keep the past alive,’ Araignee added, holding her arms out and giving a twirl on tiptoes, her swirling skirt lifting to reveal buckled shoes and shapely ankles.

Arachne yawned. ‘There will be no more visitors tonight,’ she announced. ‘I’m locking up. Time for you two to be on your way.’

He stood up. ‘Can you point me towards Nelson?’

‘With pleasure. First let me see these two out.’ The women walked towards the door and went outside.

‘Remember, the feast has to begin before midnight’, Aranha said urgently, her breath hanging on the cold night air, mingling with the snowflakes that were falling steadily.

‘Worry not. I won’t play for long. Anyway, he’s a big strong man, there will be plenty.’

‘Why do you get to bed him!’ Araignee complained.

‘My year, my turn’ Arachne indignantly asserted. ‘Come back in an hour.’

‘Don’t know why you’re whining, I haven’t had a man for 66 years,’ Aranha muttered as they turned away. ‘You chose once every 33 years for the spell. So, it’s my turn next!’

‘There were three of us,’ said Araignee turning away.

Back inside, Arachne put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Why not stay the night.’

‘You have a spare bed?’

‘Just mine.’ She took his hand. ‘Come and keep me warm.’

Heady with the wine, warm from the food and fire, and not wishing to venture once more into the cold dark snowy winter’s night, he needed no persuading. She led him to an adjacent room with a four-poster bed and undressed him slowly, running nails the colour of pigeon blood sensuously over his skin. Seeing his arousal, she placed her hands on his chest making him gasp as she scratched him just hard enough to for blood to well. He tried to kiss her, but she resisted and pushed him firmly onto the coverlet, lifting her skirts and lowering herself on top of him. In his torpid mind he felt he heard a scuttling noise.

Afterwards, spent, exhausted and weather-beaten, he quickly fell asleep. She leaned forward and pressed her lips fully on his in a kiss worthy of a lover’s farewell. As she did so, a white gossamer thread left her mouth and sealed his lips. She kissed his hands and feet, and strands strong as steel flew to bind his limbs to the bed posts.

Her sisters arrived. Naked, they wrapped themselves around his body. Spiders poured from their every orifice and, as the women’s bodies shrank to nothing but flaccid skin, gorged on him, flesh, blood, bone, skin and hair. Before midnight, he was gone, the spiders scurrying back into their almae matres who, once more, resumed voluptuous feminine forms.

‘Nothing like a hot meal.’ Arahna coaxed a wayward spider into her mouth with her tongue.

‘This is one of yours Arachne, it smells of your lust’ Araignee pouted, balancing a spider on her finger which she transferred onto her sister’s cheek, where it scuttled into one of the green eyeballs. Arachne blinked and it vanished.

Arachne burped and a gob of gossamer shot out, only to be sucked back with an intake of breath. ‘I do find blonde men give me heart burn.’

‘Personally, I find those blue eyeballs delicious,’ Aranha chipped-in.

‘Me too. Just a shame there are never enough to go round,’ chortled Araignee.

Cackling gleefully the sorority stood back-to-back, shoulders touching, tumbling locks almost intermingled, and waved their hands in incantation. There was a thunderous crack as the earth opened and swallowed the building, taking the sisters with it.

Come dawn, the snow had blown away. As a weak sun rose, any passing traveller with keen eyes, although most knew to avoid this path which, clearly visible last night today seemed overgrown almost to the point of obscurity, might just have made out words etched into an ancient and much weather-worn nearby stone.

Interred deep in this hill lie the Three Sisters Webster – hanged for witchcraft by the Sherriff of Pendle upon the Eve of Christ’s Mass, in the year of Our Lord 1626.