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.
