Page 10

Erica Silverman laced up her sneakers, the snug fit a silent promise to her dedication. Outside, Portland's winter chill nipped at exposed skin, but she wouldn't be deterred. A kickboxer by trade and tenacity, she knew the value of an unbroken routine. The streets welcomed her with sparse company; lone pedestrians bundled in coats, their faces half-hidden against the wind. Car headlights pierced the encroaching dusk, brief companions to her solitude.

She started her run, each exhale a white plume fading into the cold air. Her footsteps kept a steady rhythm on the pavement, a metronomic assurance beneath the street lamps' glow. Erica moved with purpose, her breaths shallow and quick, muscles warming despite the frosty evening.

As she jogged, Erica's thoughts drifted to the electrolyte drinks waiting for her post-run. Absorbed in visions of replenishment, she altered her path toward her preferred local haunt – a store that stocked her favorite brand. But halfway there, a jolt of irritation struck. She patted her pockets, finding them devoid of her credit card's familiar shape.

"Damn it," she muttered, the words dissolving into vapor before her. With a sigh, the convenience of a well-earned drink slipped from her plans. Resigned to her forgetfulness, Erica pivoted back towards home. The warmth of a hot cup of tea now beckoned, a small consolation amidst the biting cold.

Her pace hastened, eager for the sheltered comfort of four walls and a roof. Each step carried her closer to respite, away from the biting evening that seemed all too eager to swallow her whole. The city lights blurred past, indifferent spectators to her solitary figure cutting through the darkness. Erica focused on the promise of warmth, letting it fuel the final stretch of her unintendedly abbreviated run.

Erica's key turned in the lock, and she stepped into the dimly lit hallway of her house. She expected the welcoming embrace of her home's warmth, but instead, a peculiar chill seeped through her sweat-dampened clothes. It was an alien cold, one that didn't belong indoors, and it crawled over her skin with spidery fingers.

"Odd," she mumbled to herself, the word barely audible as she closed the door behind her. Her breath, visible in the foyer's air, swirled around her like spectral whispers. She frowned, unease coiling in her stomach. The thermostat, set on a timer, should have banished the winter's bite hours ago. Yet here it lingered, an uninvited guest.

Erica's eyes darted upstairs, wondering if negligence had left a window ajar. But no memory surfaced of her opening one before leaving. Casting off her shoes, she padded forward, her ears straining for the familiar hum of the heating system. Silence greeted her, deep and unnerving. A shiver shook her—not from the residual adrenaline of her run, nor the lingering Portland chill outside, but from something far more instinctual.

Her gaze swept the shadows pooled in the corners of her vision, searching for anything amiss. That's when she noticed the movement on the floor. At first glance, it seemed like a trick of the light, a mere flicker. Then another moved, and another, until the horrifying reality dawned on her: spiders. Dozens of them, skittering across her tiles, their legs clicking faintly against the hard surface.

A knot tightened in Erica's throat, her pulse thundering in her ears. This couldn't be real. Spiders weren't unwelcome in her home—she'd never dealt with more than the occasional stray—but this was an infestation. The sight sent a primal alarm through her veins, and without thought, her voice broke the silence, sharp and loud—a scream that splintered the stillness of her home.

The arachnids seemed undeterred by her panic, continuing their eerie dance upon her floor. Erica's mind raced; where had they come from? Why now? Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaos that writhed at her feet. Every instinct screamed to flee, to escape the crawling terror, but she was frozen, caught in the web of her own dread.

Her scream still hung in the air, a fading echo of terror that seemed to mock her paralysis. Before Erica could regain her composure or make sense of the eight-legged nightmare at her feet, darkness shifted into form. The man materialized from the shadows as if conjured by her fear, his presence abrupt and menacing. His hand clamped onto her arm with an iron grip, jolting her from fright to fight.

"You came home early," he growled, voice low and laced with threat. The words slithered into her ear, cold and sinister. Erica's skin crawled under his touch, and she felt the weight of his intention pressing down on her like a shroud.

Erica's mind reeled, struggling to piece together the inconceivable scene unfolding before her. Who was this man? How did he get into her house? The questions spiraled, each one amplifying her alarm. But beneath the surface of her panic, something else stirred—a hardened resolve honed from hours of rigorous training and sparring in the kickboxing gym.

Her breath quickened; her muscles tensed, preparing to react. Yet before she could channel her honed instincts into action, a new sensation sliced through her focus: the unmistakable kiss of cold metal against her throat. The sharp object pressed with a deadly promise, and Erica's world narrowed to the chilling touch of steel on her skin.

Panic flared, white-hot and blinding. Her heart thrashed wildly in her chest, a drumbeat of primal fear. She could taste the danger in the air, metallic and thick, choking her silent before words could even form. This was not about in the ring. This was real, raw survival.

The pain came without warning, a searing bolt that tore through her defenses. It ripped a gasp from her lungs, a sound strangled by shock and the beginning of comprehension. Danger had breached her sanctuary, and it threatened to snuff out her light with the ruthlessness of a shadow swallowing the day.

As the pain carved its message deep into her flesh, Erica knew with chilling certainty that her life teetered on the edge of a knife. And the abyss that yawned below was hungry.