Page 218 of Little Spider

She looks at me—shaking now. “You were,” she says. “You are.”

“No.” The word breaks out of me sharp and fast. “I wasn’t.”

I pull the second note from her coat pocket and read it aloud. “You always sat in the third pew. You used to hum when you thought no one could hear.” My fingers curl around the page. “I didn’t write that.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“I never stalked you at the chapel.”

“I know.”

“Then who the fuck did?”

Her voice fractures. “I don’t know.”

The paper falls from my hand. Something inside me splits cleanly in two, a soundless crack that leaves nothing standing. I was prepared to be her monster—but I was never prepared to share the role.

I lock down the apartment in under sixty seconds. Blinds drawn. Secondary deadbolt engaged. Internal camera loops restarted. She’s on the couch now, knees tucked up, face pale, eyes unfocused. I pace like something caged, every step too loud, every breath too close to breaking. Because I’m losing her. Not to freedom—to something worse.

“You’re not going anywhere alone again,” I say. “Ever.”

She doesn’t argue. That silence terrifies me more than any scream. Raven doesn’t obey quietly unless she’s truly afraid.

Whoever left that note didn’t just watch her. He knew her. Knew the things I never touched. Knew how to peel her open without laying a hand on her. Knew where to press—and he’s pressing now.

Ten minutes later, I check the external feeds. Motion scans, proximity alerts—the usual noise—and then I see it. A still frame from four minutes ago. Someone standing at the end of the hallway. Out of focus. Just a silhouette. Too far to trigger a knock, close enough to see the door.

And in his hand—a photo.

It’s small, grainy, but I recognise it instantly. Raven. Fifteen. Asleep on a pew, knees drawn to her chest. And behind her, a shadow leaning in.

My entire body goes still. I remember this photo, but I never printed it. Neither did she. I don’t think she ever even saw it.

I run.

Down the hall, gun drawn, bare feet hammering against the tile. The air hums with static, charged and thick, as if someone left the power running too long. I reach the door. No sound beyond it. No shadow under the crack. I throw the bolt, rip it open?—

Empty hallway. Dead quiet.

But there—on the floor—lies a single photograph, facedown, its edges weighted with tape as if someone wanted to make sure I’d see it. I crouch, pick it up, turn it over?—

And the world tilts.

It’s her. Raven. But not from a camera I placed, not from a system I built. She’s in our bed. This bed. The shot taken from the corner of the ceiling—before I installed my own equipment. She’s sleeping on her stomach, shirt rucked up, bare thigh exposed, and written in the lower corner, in the same precise ink as the notes:

She always made that sound when she dreamed.

I stand slowly. Every hair on my body lifts. The air feels wrong, electric, the hum growing louder until it’s almost a pulse beneath my skin. Someone was in my apartment. Before me. Before her. Before any of this began.

And I didn’t see him. Didn’t feel him.

Because he was already here.

I thought I killed him once.

I remember the sound—how the air tore out of his throat when the blade went in. I remember the blood soaking the marble, the smell of wax and salt and rot. I remember the way he smiled while he was dying, like he’d already won. I told myself that smile didn’t matter, that death would silence him the way prayers never could.

But silence lies.