CHAPTER TWO #2
The air outside feels heavier, thicker, pressing down on me like a weight. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk fast, trying to convince myself the footsteps behind me are just a coincidence.
I glance back once—just once.
He’s there, a few paces behind, his gait unhurried, almost casual.
My breath catches, and I force myself to turn away, picking up the pace. My building is just a few blocks away. If I can just get inside, lock the door—the hum starts again. Low, almost a whisper, carried on the wind.
“Incy wincy spider…”
I freeze. My blood turns to ice.
I turn around, but he’s gone.
Just like that—vanished, as if he were never there.
I force myself to move, heart pounding, vision swimming. I don’t stop running until I’m inside my flat. The door slams shut and locks behind me. I press my back against it, gasping for air.
I slide to the floor, clutching my knees, my phone still gripped tight in my hand. The message replays in my head—Little Spider.
And that haunting, taunting melody that won’t leave me alone.
I sit there in the dark, too scared to move, too scared to breathe.
Because I know he’s out there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somehow, he knows my name.
The silence in my flat feels too loud. I squeeze my knees tighter to my chest, the edge of the hoodie digging into my skin, grounding me just enough to keep from spiralling. My breathing is ragged, and I force myself to count—one, two, three—until it slows, evens out.
I glance around the room, eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for any sign that someone’s been here. The windows remain shut, the blinds stay drawn. The door remains locked. I check it again, twisting the deadbolt just to feel the satisfying click.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I nearly drop it. My thumb hovers over the screen, heart pounding as I unlock it.
A new message from Sam:
Home safe. Please text me if you need anything. Seriously.
I swallow the lump in my throat and text back, trying to sound normal.
I’m fine. Just being paranoid. I’ll call you later.
I set the phone on the floor, shoving it away like it might bite. My hands are still shaking. I close my eyes and force my mind to go blank, even if just for a second.
But that song—his voice, low and taunting, stuck in my head like a curse.
“Incy wincy spider…”
I press my palms to my ears, rocking slightly, trying to drown it out. It doesn’t work. I can still hear it, even though I know it’s just in my head.
I push myself up off the floor, legs unsteady, and head to the bathroom. The tap squeaks as I turn it on, splashing cold water on my face. I don’t look in the mirror. I’m not ready to see how hollow I look—like something’s already drained me from the inside out.
I grab my toothbrush, forcing myself into routine, trying to pretend everything is normal. Brush, rinse, spit. I repeat it twice just to kill more time.
When I finally dare to look up, I catch my reflection. Eyes too wide, too bright, rimmed with exhaustion. I look like a ghost—like I’ve been walking in a nightmare for days.
The phone vibrates again from the living room, and I almost don’t want to check it. But I force myself to move, one step at a time, back to where it’s still lying on the floor.
Another message.
Unknown Number:
Did you like my song, Little Spider?
A strangled noise escapes my throat, and I clutch the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. I want to throw it, smash it against the wall, but instead I stare at the screen, heart hammering so hard I feel dizzy.
My fingers move on their own, typing back:
Who are you?
Three dots appear, then stop. Appear again. Stop.
I can barely breathe, waiting for the reply. Finally, it comes through.
You know me. You’ve always known me.
My hands are shaking so badly I drop the phone again, and it skids across the floor. I back up, pressing myself against the wall, staring at the device like it’s possessed.
A cold realisation seeps into my bones. He’s not just someone passing by. He knows me—knows me well enough to get inside my head, to whisper in my dreams.
I lunge for the phone and type back, fingers clumsy and desperate.
What do you want?
Again, the dots. My pulse roars in my ears, blocking out everything else.
To play.
I can’t stop the small sob that slips out, biting down hard on my lip to keep from losing it completely.
I know I should call the police, but what would I say? That a stranger called me a spider and hummed a nursery rhyme? They’d laugh or roll their eyes, maybe tell me to get a better lock.
But this is different. I feel it in my gut. He’s not just trying to scare me. He’s toying with me—like a cat batting around a half-dead mouse just to see how long it can keep moving.
I crawl onto the bed, curling up against the headboard, hugging my knees. My mind spins, running through every encounter, every face I’ve seen recently. Nothing fits.
My phone buzzes again. Another message.
Are you afraid of me, Little Spider?
I swallow hard, forcing myself to type back, trying to sound braver than I feel.
No.
A minute passes. Then another. I think maybe he’s done. Maybe I called his bluff.
Then the next message comes through.
Liar.
I throw the phone down, my pulse pounding, and pull the blankets tighter around me. It feels childish, hiding under fabric like it could really protect me.
Another message. I can’t help myself—I pick it up.
If you lie to me again, I’ll have to remind you who’s in charge.
My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them, it’ll all be gone—just a bad dream.
But when I open them, the message is still there, glowing bright and taunting.
A noise outside the window—like a soft tap. My breath hitches, and I force myself to move, crawling to the edge of the bed and pushing the curtain aside just a crack.
Nothing. Just the wind rattling the glass.
I drop back onto the mattress, my heart still racing. I clutch the phone to my chest, curling tighter, trying to block out the creeping, suffocating dread.
The silence is thick—almost too thick. I listen for anything: footsteps, a creak on the stairs, a breath that isn’t mine.
Nothing.
But I know he’s out there. Watching. Waiting.