6 Trials of the Weavers: Part 1
This short story was made using the solo RPG: 6 Trials of the Weavers, by tallywinkle.
CW: Insects, Spiders, Trypophobia, Body Horror
Holly’s bed was small, rickety, and at least a hundred years old. It had belonged to her grandfather, after it had been given to him by his grandfather, along with the tiny cabin. It had been the only piece of furnature in the cabin for years. Holly’s great great grandfather had been the chronically outdoors type, unwilling to do anything inside that could be done just as well outside. He cooked his food, mended his clothes, polished his rifle and sharpened his tools all outdoors. He only slept inside, and even then only when it was too cold, wet, or dangerous to sleep outside.
Holly’s grandfather was nowhere near as outdoorsy, so he had improved the cabin with some modern renovations. A sink, a fireplace, a few cupboards and shelves. It was nice and cosy, the perfect place to get away from it all.
Tap, tap, tap.
Holly turned over in her bed, creaks and snaps drowning out the tapping noise. Every time, she grumbled to herself. She was even less of an outdoors person than her grandfather, but even so she managed to make her way to the cabin every summer for a week or two. Every time, the first night was always a trial.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t tired; it had been a long day, driving all the way up from Anchorage, and her body was aching. Her mind had been fuzzy with fatigue ever since she’d arrived, and she’d even gone to bed early, considering how late she usually went to bed.
But every first night at the cabin, she just couldn’t sleep. Sometimes it was the wind, other times the sounds of critters rustling in the underbrush. Sometimes it wasn’t anything at all, she just stayed awake, staring at the darkness and waiting for sleep to come.
Holly took a deep breath, exhaling as she imagined the cool blanket of sleep pouring over her.
Tap, tap, tap.
It had to have been a branch from the tree outside the window, gently scraping against the glass. A night wind, stirring up the forest. It was nothing important. Nothing worth losing sleep over.
Holly’s mind wandered down its own path, imagining all the different ways she could stop the tapping and finally get to sleep. Some were practical, like ear-plugs, while others were fanciful and hardly conducive to sleep.
Tap, tap, tap.
Holly turned again, pulling the threadbare blanket tighter to her chin, when her foot poked through one of the holes. She grumbled for a moment, reaching down to reposition the blanket, when her fatigued brain clicked. Her blanket wasn’t threadbare — she had replaced the old one last year.
Holly’s eyes snapped open as she looked down at the sheet of strands and cobwebs that covered her body. With a yelp, she threw the cover off onto the dirty floor…
Her new blanket lay there, a faint cloud of dust tossed up from the floor.
Holly took another deep breath to soothe her pounding heart. Damn. The nightmare had been so vivid, so real, she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t still dreaming.
Well, if she was she was getting some sleep, and if she wasn’t, sleep wasn’t going to happen until her heart stopped thudding in her chest. Reaching out, she picked up her blanket from the floor. It was stiff and musty. Another cloud of dust flew into the air as though the blanket had been lying there for years.
Her heart still pounding, Holly looked at the window. Where was the tree branch? Did the wind die down?
Climbing out of bed, Holly opened the window to a still night. There was no moon, no breeze, no branch. The whole forest was quiet — quieter than she had ever heard. It was as if the whole world was holding its breath, huddled in some corner to wait for a storm to pass.
The cool air filled Holly’s lungs, dragging her fatigued imaginings down to reality. She wasn’t sleeping. She rubbed her eyes, yawning, and closed the window again, eager to try and sleep once more.
We have come to collect what has been promised us.
Holly wanted to scream. She wanted to lash out with her fists, her feet. She wanted to try and leap out the window, but she couldn’t move — something primal in her, deep in her soul, told her that if she moved, she would be chased. Hunted. Eaten.
The three figures drew closer. Their robes were dark and muddy, and scraped against the floor as they moved. Their glittering black eyes flickered in the dark, their mandables clacking together as faint drips of liquid slid down their fangs.
Prey, one whispered.
Sister, one crooned.
Toy, the last snickered. Their clawed forelimbs slowly reached forward, trailing whisps of white webbing behind them. Holly’s throat tightened still more, choking the breath out of her in abject terror.
It is time to begin.
Then, everything went black.
Holly opened her eyes.
Her first thought was that she was cold, and her quivering hands reached out to pull her blanket closer, but the gentle tug as she moved brought her out of her stupor.
In a panic, Holly clawed at the air, struggling upright out of the mess of cobwebs that covered her. Panting heavily, she shook herself free and pawed at the imaginary spiders that she could feel crawling all over her.
Around her, nothing moved. The trees stretched high overhead into a dark and cloudy sky, while mists clung tightly to their rough bark and gnarled roots. It was bitterly cold, yet there was not even a whisper of a breeze.
Holly looked around. This wasn’t the forest she knew. The trees were a strange and twisted breed, and there was no underbrush save the dry and crispy grass. The smell of dust and old smoke lingered in the air, sour and foreboding.
In the dim light, Holly could just make out what looked like a path leading off into the mists.
“Hello?” It was a squeak, barely loud enough to be heard. Her voice vanished into the fog, swallowed by the emptiness. She shivered, hoping against hope that no one answered her.
Her grandfather’s voice echoed in her mind. “If you are ever lost, stay where you are. It will be easy for me to find you, and I will be looking for you.” It had been comforting at the time, but now it felt like more of a warning.
With no better options presenting themselves, Holly stepped onto the path. A sickening crunch met her ears, like the sound of a crushed cockroach. Swallowing her fear, she took another step, and then another. Ignoring the chitinous snapping, she pushed forward through the mists.
The fog grew thicker the further Holly walked. Before long she could only barely see the path, the continuing crunch of her feet the only certainty she had that she was on the right path. The soundless swirls of fog slid past, ghostly shapes catching her eye and tugging at her hopeful heart. She had never felt so alone.
The fear of being found by something wanting to eat her had lessened somewhat — if they had wanted to eat her, why not have done so while she was unconscious? The fear of never being found, on the other hand, was rising swiftly enough that she found her voice. “Hello?” She tried again, louder than before. “Is anyone there?”
Only silence replied. Rubbing her arms against the cold, she continued forward.
Hello, sister.
Holly stopped as the mists slowly faded, pulling back like a curtain. Three or four yards ahead stood one of the strange spidery figures, still as a statue. Her eight eyes glowed as bright as the full moon, frighteningly warm and welcoming in the dark gloom.
Holly didn’t move. “Who are you?” she asked at last.
Questioning, the cooing voice drifted through the still air. Holly could see the mandibles shift in what could have been a smile, or a threat. Curious. Seeking knowledge. It is well you found me first.
“What are you?”
Weavers, their arm lifted, gently beckoning Holly closer. Keepers. Hunters. Death and life, mother and ice. Many things are we. Come closer, child.
“No, thank you,” Holly swallowed, idly wondering where she had found the courage. “I’d rather go home.”
Not your home, the weaver cooed. Not yet. Maybe not. You might feed us yet, or amuse us a while. Or…
“Or?”
I will not harm you. I will test you. Sister you might be.
“I’m not your sister.”
Not yet. Come, see. Another arm lifted and the mists pulled back again, revealing a small table at the weaver’s side. Holly stepped closer, making sure she always stayed at least two arms-lengths away from the strange creature. On the table lay a needle and thread, a thick red fabric, and a small scrap of paper.
“What do you want me to do?” Holly asked.
Questions, the weaver’s head shook. Always questions. Searching, but for what? Answers? Answers can never be given, they can only be found.
Holly looked back at the table. Found, eh? Her grandfather had loved giving her word puzzles and riddles to solve. If it was the only way out of here…