Page 29 of Little Spider

RAVEN

The motel room feels like a cage—small, suffocating, every inch of space soaked in stale air and cigarette smoke from whoever stayed here before me. I press my back against the headboard, knees drawn up, phone clutched in my hand like it’s some kind of lifeline. My breathing is jagged, throat raw from crying.

I keep replaying the last message, his voice slithering into my head, taking up residence.

“I’ll make you feel it, Little Spider. Every inch of my obsession. You’ll scream for me, and when it’s too much, I’ll make you take more. You’ll never forget me.”

I can’t stop shaking. I pull the blankets tighter around me, even though the room is too hot, the ancient heater rattling in the corner. My hands are clammy, fingers twitching against the cracked phone case.

A thud from outside makes me jump. I bite down on a scream, cover my mouth with my hand, and strain to listen. Silence. Just the wind rattling the loose windowpane. I force myself to breathe, counting the seconds between each inhale, willing my heart to stop its frantic pounding.

I check my phone again—nothing new. No messages. It’s been almost an hour since his last text. My stomach churns with the silence, anxiety scraping its way up my throat.

Another noise—this time closer. My eyes dart to the door, and I can’t help but imagine him right outside, fingers tracing the paint, whispering my name through the crack.

My phone buzzes. I jump so hard the blankets slip from my shoulders. I fumble the phone, almost drop it.

A message from him. Just two words.

Open up.

My hands shake harder, and I force myself to type back.

No. Go away.

Three dots appear, and I hold my breath, waiting.

Don’t make me come in. You know I will. Be a good girl and let me in.

I clamp my hand over my mouth, trying to keep the sobs from spilling out. I can’t open the door. If I do, I’ll never be able to close it again. I know that much.

I can hear you crying. It’s pathetic. Stop it. Or do you like knowing I’m listening?

I grit my teeth, wipe the tears from my cheeks. I don’t respond. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll give up. Maybe he’ll go away.

The phone buzzes again—this time a voice message. My thumb hovers, but I can’t stop myself. I press play.

His voice, calm, almost playful:

“Let’s play a game, Little Spider. You like games, don’t you? I’m feeling generous tonight. You win, I leave. You lose, and I come inside. Easy, right?”

My pulse hammers. I can barely breathe. I force myself to text back.

What kind of game?

His reply is instant.

I ask questions. You answer honestly. You get one lie, and the game’s over. I come in. Understand?

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. I swallow hard, forcing myself to type.

Fine.

Good girl. First question: Why didn’t you call the police?

My chest tightens, and I stare at the words, the truth clawing at my throat. I know why. Deep down, I’m terrified they won’t believe me. They’ll think I’m just paranoid, making it all up.

I type slowly, hands shaking.