Page 3 of Little Spider

I sit up slowly, letting the blanket slide from my shoulders. The air bites at my bare skin, and I reach for the hoodie crumpled at the foot of the bed. The soft, worn fabric smells like detergent and a little like fear. I tug it over my tank top, covering the skin that still prickles with that uneasy feeling.

I swear I heard something last night.

It wasn’t loud. Just… a murmur. Maybe the wind or the crackle of leaves against the window. Or maybe I was dreaming again—those half-nightmares where something crawls just out of sight, whispering my name.

I rub my hands over my arms, trying to chase the goosebumps away. It’s too early to spiral. The sun’s barely a suggestion through the dirty glass, and the city outside is still groggy and half-awake.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it, blinking at the cracked screen. A message from Sam—my only friend in this damn city.

Coffee? I’m dying.

A weak smile tugs at my lips. Sam’s dramatic at the best of times, and mornings are no exception. I thumb a quick reply:

Give me twenty.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing the cold, worn floorboards. They creak under my weight as I cross to the tiny bathroom, flicking on the light. The bulb flickers, humming like it might die any second. I stare at myself in the mirror—eyes rimmed with fatigue, dark hair a tangled mess around my face.

I pull it into a sloppy bun, splashing cold water on my cheeks to wake myself up. The prickling on my skin doesn’t fade. My eyes dart to the window—still locked, curtains drawn.

A part of me wants to check the door, just to be sure, but I force myself to ignore it. This paranoia can’t keep bleeding into my mornings. It’s just the leftover anxiety from last night—the sense that something was watching me.

I towel off my face and head to the kitchen, pouring the last of the stale coffee grounds into the pot. The machine groans inprotest before finally sputtering to life. The smell fills the space, masking the faint scent of damp creeping in from the window.

My phone buzzes again—Sam’s impatience. I roll my eyes, slipping into my jeans and boots. The hoodie’s long enough to cover my hips, and I don’t bother with makeup. Sam’s seen me worse.

Before I leave, I glance back at the window one more time. The curtains remain drawn, heavy and dark. My fingers itch to pull them back and look out—to see if anyone’s there.

I clench my jaw and head for the door instead, grabbing my keys off the hook. I don’t need to look. There’s no one out there.

The air outside is sharp, biting at my cheeks as I hurry down the cracked pavement. I try to shake the feeling that follows me—like something crawling along my skin, skittering up my spine. I jam my hands into my pockets, walking faster, eyes on the ground.

A laugh echoes from somewhere behind me, and I nearly trip, heart jolting into overdrive. I turn, but it’s just a couple of teenagers loitering by the bus stop, shoving each other and laughing too loudly for the quiet morning.

I breathe out, slow and shaky, and keep moving. I don’t realise I’m gripping my keys like a weapon until my knuckles ache.

When I reach the coffee shop, the bell above the door chimes, and the warmth hits me like a punch. Sam waves from a corner table, her eyes bright and tired, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

“God, you look like hell,” she greets, sliding a cup towards me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping into the chair. I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into my fingers.

She raises an eyebrow. “Bad night?”

I hesitate. Sam knows about the paranoia—the way I sometimes feel like I’m being followed. But I haven’t told her about last night—how the shadows felt thicker, how I could swear I heard someone humming outside my window.

“Just couldn’t sleep,” I say instead.

Sam studies me, her expression softening. “You’ve got to stop staying up so late reading horror stories. You’re psyching yourself out.”

I force a smile, sipping the too-bitter coffee. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But it wasn’t just in my head. I know it wasn’t.

Sam chatters on about her morning—something about her landlord being a creep—and I nod along, only half-listening. Mymind keeps drifting back to that feeling: eyes scraping over my skin, the wind whispering threats I can’t quite catch.

I glance out the fogged window, heart thudding. There’s a man across the street, leaning against a lamppost. He bows his head; his hair is wild and dark, and he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

I can’t see his face. But something about the way he’s standing—still, patient, like he has all the time in the world—makes my stomach twist.