6 Trials of the Weavers: Part 4
This short story was made using the solo RPG: 6 Trials of the Weavers, by tallywinkle.
CW: Insects, Spiders, Trypophobia, Body Horror
Wretched thing.
Holly opened her eyes. The bugs were gone, her flesh was whole. The path was nowhere to be seen.
We are not Spiders. We do not Lie.
The mists slowly began to receed, drawing away like reverant attendants. Holly stood up, her eyes scarcely believing what they were seeing.
We are Weavers, and we have tested you thrice.
The three figures were there, standing at the other side of a long bridge. The buzzing that had filled her head now echoed from deep below in the chasm.
One final test awaits you.
Hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, Holly stepped forward. The wood of the bridge was rotten, eaten away by time and termites. The hissing and crackling from below was joined by tiny flickers of red light, clustered about like eyes of distant monsters.
Holly couldn’t think. It was too hard to piece the world back together to some form of reason. All she had left was a distant memory; “But… you said six tests.”
One of the Weavers shifted, mandables clacking in what could only have been a smile. You have also tested yourself.
Another cocked its head, arms reaching out to gesture towards the ragged bridge. A deep chasm separates us. You can cross it, but will you? Or will you test yourself again?
Holly looked at the bridge again. The wood didn’t look particularly sturdy, nor did the sily strands that held them together seem particularly stable. There were tendrils of silk hanging off the edges, easily grabable if she slipped or fell, but for all the clear signs that this bridge would send her hurtling into the chasm below, she could only hear the words of the Weavers.
We do not lie. You can cross it.
Holly closed her eyes, and stepped forward.
She heard the creaking, the faint snapping of cracking wood and ripping silk provided faint rhythm to the crescendoing buzzing melody beneath her. She ignored the sounds, letting her steady pace carry her forward until she heard the familiar crunch of her feet on the path.
She opened her eyes.
The three Weavers stood still as statues, surrounded by twisted trees as smooth as insect shells. Curved as they were, they looked like religious statues in a church’s alcoves, the very picture of saints and priests. Webbing hung from their robes and the trees like leaves, tapestries, and threadbare stoles.
Not prey, the Weaver on the left shrunk in on itself, disappointment plain in its hissing tone. Learned something of herself, she did. Perhaps helped?
Only tested, I did, the Weaver on the right shuffled in its robes, smiling its horrific smile.
Only test we shall, the Weaver in the middle raised a withered claw. The three fell silent again, staring at Holly with glowing eyes, as bright as the moon, speckled with stars.
She felt naked. Utterly exposed. Her skin had been peeled away, her bones were hollow, her soul — what was left of it — was on display for these creatures to look at. It was worse than a nightmare, it was worse than real; it was some horrible combination of the two.
Do you know where lost dreams go, my pet? The voice was horribly soothing and grating at the same time, like a nostalgic memory of terrible pain, or the dark joy that comes with being wicked. Some primal part of Holly screamed at her body to move, run, do anything to keep these monsters away from her, but it was too late. Her every part of her being was trapped in these creatures’ web, and there was nothing more to be done. They had her, and they would toy with her until they had finished.
Every time you wake, every time you feel the tendrils of that dream slipping away from you, unable to grab onto it, we have taken them from you.
We keep them safe, tucked away, so that we can later weave them into something of our own creation.
Something to play with. The Weavers’ faces spread into their horrible smiles, as their clawed limbs raised into the air.
They plucked dangling silk threads from their robes, from the trees, from the mists that still danced about their legs. They waved their fingers like they were dancing, their limbs twisting in impossible ways. Did the fog rise to meet their ministering claws, or did they create more mist from the tiny strands of white?
The mists drew closer, reaching towards Holly like pleading ghosts and angry memories of long forgotten nightmares. Dreams of loss, of pain, of the things that had followed her since she was a child.
The corpse of a dead crow, half meat-stained skeleton wreathed in maggots, half muddy feathers and cracked beak stared back at her from the floor of the forest. She screamed and screamed for her grandfather to come, but the cabin was further and further away…
Her mother’s face, twisted with fangs and glowing red eyes, shut the door and locked her in the darkness. Something was in there with her, snarling and craving her flesh…
She stood on the dance floor, music blaring loud enough to hurt. She clapped her hands to her ears while her eyes remained locked on the punch bowl. If she watched the punch bowl everything would be okay. Whatever horrible thing was going to happen wouldn’t happen so long as she kept her eyes on the punch bowl. She wanted to turn around, but she couldn’t, because the punch bowl was right in front of her…
She struggled to push the men away as their forks fell again and again, but her arms wouldn’t move. She called out for help, but the passers-by didn’t do anything but stare with eye-less faces as the men laughed, and chewed, and smiled…
She was falling…
She was running without moving…
They weren’t listening to her…
No one was helping her…
They were hurting her…
She was alone…
The buzzing! The buzzing pulsed in her ears, like an alarm. Three short hums, then a pause. Then three more.
Something pressed to her ear. She heard a voice. Was it hers? “Hello?”
“Hey, sis! Just thought I’d give you a call to make sure you had everything for your trip. Anything you need me to run over to you?”
“No, I think I have everything. Just finished packing actually.”
“Great! I left some coffee and dried jerky up there, you’re free to use any of it.”
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to do that.” It was all so normal.
“I hope you have a great time. And if you ever need to call me, for any reason at all, please do. You know I’m always here for you, sis. I love you.”
She hung up the phone. Somehow, for the first time in months, it felt like there was light at the end of the tunnel. She was floating, her feet barely touching the ground. The crunch of insects became the crunch of leaves, then the soft susurrus of sand falling away beneath her.
She wasn’t falling anymore.
Holly opened her eyes.
In the corner of the ceiling, just above her head, was a spiderweb.
She was awake in an instant and jumped away, instinctively retreating from the imagined spider descending towards her face, but there was nothing there. A phantasm created from her nightmare.
Had it been a nightmare?
She looked around. The immediate familiarity of the cabin was at once soothing and unsettling, after the vivid imagery of the Weavers and their domain. It couldn’t have just been a dream. It couldn’t have.
She looked at the web again. It was almost like a hammock, spread out like a drape from corner to corner. She had always been fascinated by webs as a child. There was something mathematical about them, something pure and elegant. Some were radial structures with small sticky strands, others were like a fabric curtain. All of them had a spider waiting patiently for prey to get caught in their trap, and once you were caught you were trapped forever. They’d toy with you, eat you, devour you up until there was nothing left of you. They were cruel monsters to a younger her.
But somehow, she couldn’t see them that way anymore. What once had looked like a pattern, a precise construction, now seemed almost random. A tear here, a misplaced thread there…there wasn’t a plan. There was no solving a spider’s web. It was something that just happened, and if you were a lucky insect you’d never feel the spider’s venom injected inside you, eating you from the inside.
It was bad luck to kill a spider, her grandfather had told her once. They were wise and generous things, spiders. They ate mosquitoes and other pests, things that hurt people. Spiders never hurt you unless you tried to hurt them.
As she looked at the web, she caught sight of the spider in the corner of the web, sitting patiently. She watched it for a moment, before she thought she saw its foreleg lift off the web and wiggle once, like a wave.
Holly slid out of bed and started to dress. She needed to finish unpacking, maybe take a quick dip in the lake, and then head out to the dirt road about a mile away. She needed to make some calls.
She didn’t know what her future would bring, but she knew she was never going to kill a spider again. She knew she needed all the luck she could get.
###