Aug 21, 2026 · 24 min · 9 segments
*May 12th, 1920.* *The black spot is growing.* \** Hired to be a live-in nanny, Roberta is disconcerted to find an empty nest. \** Written by Hannah Brown Edited by Lee Seguinte Sound designed…
May 12th, 1920.
The black spot is growing.
I have a routine.
Laundry, downstairs bathrooms, upstairs bathrooms, turn-down bedrooms, sweep kitchen, go into the den and stare.
When I had first started working for Mr Pearson, the spot had been just that.
A speck on the ceiling, barely the size of a pea.
Nothing to worry about.
Not even worth fetching the ladder to see to.
But it's been three months.
It's the size of a large grapefruit.
But thin and
long.
Like a cocoon.
The
housekeeper who worked here before me hired me.
Not Mr. Pearson.
In fact, I never met him.
It doesn't matter.
I'm new to Melbourne, after all.
This is an opportunity.
My foot in the door.
Mr Pearson keeps very strict hours, leaving in the morning before the milk delivery and returning only after dark, when I am long gone.
He only communicates in those silly letters he leaves on the entryway table, next to the brand new telephone.
That horrifying appliance.
Mr Pearson is a businessman, owns a whole host of factories manufacturing all sorts of And his letters are always persnickety nonsense.
May 12th, 1920.
The black spot is growing.
I have a routine.
Laundry, downstairs bathrooms, upstairs bathrooms, turn-down bedrooms, sweep kitchen, go into the den and stare.
When I had first started working for Mr Pearson, the spot had been just that.
A speck on the ceiling, barely the size of a pea.
Nothing to worry about.
Not even worth fetching the ladder to see to.
But it's been three months.
It's the size of a large grapefruit.
But thin and
long.
Like a cocoon.
The
housekeeper who worked here before me hired me.
Not Mr. Pearson.
In fact, I never met him.
It doesn't matter.
I'm new to Melbourne, after all.
This is an opportunity.
My foot in the door.
Mr Pearson keeps very strict hours, leaving in the morning before the milk delivery and returning only after dark, when I am long gone.
He only communicates in those silly letters he leaves on the entryway table, next to the brand new telephone.
That horrifying appliance.
Mr Pearson is a businessman, owns a whole host of factories manufacturing all sorts of And his letters are always persnickety nonsense.
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