My phone vibrates again. I don’t look at it. I can’t.
The driver calls out the next stop, but I don’t recognise the name. I don’t care where I’m going as long as it’s away from him. My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.
A memory slips through the cracks of my mind—being followed before. Back in that small town where I used to live. Notes on my car, things moved around in my yard. It had been a boy from school—someone I’d barely noticed until he made it impossible not to.
This isn’t the same. This is different. He’s different.
My phone vibrates again, and I glance down without meaning to. A message from Sam.
Where are you? Are you okay? You didn’t come back to the shop.
I type back with shaky hands.
I’m fine. Just needed some air.
I want to tell her the truth. I want to dump this fear on someone else’s shoulders, just for a minute, just to breathe. But the thought of saying it out loud makes it more real, more suffocating.
The bus jolts over a pothole, and I grip the seat harder. My phone buzzes again—another message from the unknown number. My stomach churns, but I open it anyway.
You look lost, Little Spider. Want me to guide you home?
My heart slams against my ribs. I scan the bus, my gaze darting from face to face. An old man, a woman with a sleeping child, a guy in a hoodie staring at his phone. None of them look at me. None of them feel like him.
My breathing speeds up, and I try to steady it, pressing my fingers to my temples. I shouldn’t have run without a plan. I’m making it too easy for him.
The bus pulls to a stop, and I realise it’s near the river—the same murky water that snakes through the city like a dirty vein. I get off without thinking, feet hitting the cracked pavement. The air is colder here, damp and sharp, and I pull my hoodie tighter around me.
There’s a small park by the water—rusted swings creaking in the wind, paint peeling from the metal frames. I sit on a bench, the wood splintered and rough beneath me.
I glance at my phone again. I don’t want to see another message, but I can’t help it. It’s like picking at a scab.
I unlock the screen. Nothing new. I almost feel disappointed.
My pulse thuds against my skull, and I force myself to focus on the water, the sluggish way it moves under the iron-grey sky. I try to ground myself—breathe in, breathe out.
The phone buzzes, and I flinch so hard I nearly drop it. A voice message. My thumb hovers, but I can’t stop myself. I press play.
His voice is low, intimate, almost like a lullaby.
“Incy wincy spider, crawling up her spine,
Hoping that the shadows keep her safe and fine.
Down comes the whisper, brushing past her neck.
And the poor little spider knows she’s caught in my web.
Tears slide down her cheeks, thinking I’m far away.
But I’m just a breath behind her—she’ll never get away.”
I drop the phone onto the bench, covering my mouth to keep from screaming. My entire body shakes, and I press my back against the wood, wishing it would swallow me whole.
Another message pings. I force myself to look.
Why are you hiding from me? You’re mine, Little Spider. You know that, right? I’m the only one who sees you.
A sob claws its way out of my throat, and I bury my face in my hands. I don’t want to believe it, but a part of me knows it’s true. He’s always watching. He’s always there.
