Page 216 of Little Spider

And the worst part isn’t that he’s coming back.

It’s that he never really left.

He’s still here.

In the hum.

In the walls.

In me.

I watch Raven breathe, slow and even, her chest rising with the rhythm of someone who trusts what she shouldn’t. And I wonder—when she finally remembers that night, when shefinally sees him for what he was—will she still look at me the same way?

Or will she recognise the echo?

Because I wasn’t just made by him.

I was made to replace him.

And the only thing worse than being haunted by the past?—

Is realising you’ve become it.

The hum doesn’t stop.

It just changes pitch.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

RAVEN

Idon’t tell him I’m leaving. I just say I need air. He doesn’t stop me, but he watches, eyes sharp and mouth unreadable, one hand hovering near the keyboard like he’s pretending not to track me the second I’m out the door. I keep my voice light and my hands from shaking, even force a small smile to make it believable. He lets me go, but I don’t truly breathe until the door clicks shut behind me and the elevator swallows me whole.

The mirrored metal walls reflect me back — small, pale, eyes too wide. I hate the way I look right now. Like prey. The paper is still in my pocket, folded once, no name, no scent, but heavy enough to feel like it’s holding my ribs in place. I pull it out just to look at it again.

Do you remember what he took from you that night in the chapel?

I don’t. That’s the worst part. I don’t remember. I remember the pew — cold wood pressing against my knees, the dull ache of bone against age-worn grain, and someone humming behind me. Too soft to understand, too loud to forget. But not what happened. Not what he took.

The chapel was part of the old school, a building that was supposed to be off-limits after dark. I used to go there anyway, drawn to the silence, to the stillness, to a space that wasn’t a performance. I wasn’t alone, though. There was someone else. I never saw his face, but I remember his shoes — black, polished, laces tied like knots — always just outside the door, always lingering at the edge of the candlelight.

And now this note. This memory that won’t come clean no matter how hard I try to scrub it from my head.

I get off the train three stops too early. I don’t even remember deciding to. My feet move before I can think, like muscle memory pulling me somewhere I’ve been before, and when I lift my head, I see it — the school. The gates are chained, rusted through, ivy crawling up the stone. They moved the academy years ago, left this place behind like a husk. But the chapel still stands.

I circle the building, the windows dark, dust choking the sills. I find the back door half-hinged, the kind with an iron latch and a twisted handle, and when I push, it groans but opens. Inside, it’s all rot and silence. The pews are still there, the altar still waiting, the crucifix above the chancel blackened with mildew and time.

I walk to the pew I used to sit in — back row, third from the left. My knees remember the angle. I lower myself slowly, palms on the worn wood, and I listen. But the silence isn’t empty. It’s weighted. It’s watching.

Somewhere behind me, a floorboard creaks. I freeze. It’s not a full step. Not a breath. Just the subtle shift of weight — deliberate, intentional — and then nothing.

I swallow hard. My fingers curl tighter around the edge of the pew. I realise I’m shaking. This was supposed to be memory, but this… this is now. The air in here is colder than it should be — not night-cold, not the kind of cold that comes from anabandoned building, but something sharper, closer. Watched cold.

I stare down at my white-knuckled hands and tell myself it’s just my head, just trauma, just ghosts. But then I see it — something pale and thin slipped between the hymnals in the holder in front of me. A note. Cream-coloured. Familiar.

My lungs lock. I reach for it slowly, my fingers trembling. I haven’t opened it yet. I glance around the chapel, still silent, still empty, yet somehow alive. I can feel it — eyes on me. Not Damien’s. Someone else’s. Someone older.

I unfold the paper. One sentence. Handwritten in the same careful, slanted ink.