Justice For The Spyder

Written for Mina Howell's image challenge on Substack Notes.

Darkness fills the cave, but I no longer have eyes and am unbothered by lack of light. This mask, this wicked porcelain prison, forces me to see the nightmare surrounding me. Dozens of oozing strands of web, made from a substance which looks like tar and stinks of rot, hold me in the centre of the cavern.

Around me are over a score of other masks. They are identical. I cannot tell whether they all hold trapped souls, but I fear the worst.

A rustle overhead and the Spyder lowers to smirk at me. It wears my face, wields my voice, and seeing my own visage fused with that gangly monster makes me sick to a stomach I no longer have.

“Soon…” it purrs. While the voice is mine, that leering predatory tone is all its own. “Your love must be hurrying here even now. Panicked. Desperate to rescue you.”

It shifts to an uncanny mimicry of my earlier anxious cries. “Help! Please, somebody, anybody, help me!”

The tone dips, becomes mocking once more. “You will have a front row seat as I catch him. Put a mask on him. Eat him from the toes up.”

It cackles and vanishing back towards the ceiling where it lies in wait for my poor Darren, my love, my sweet bumbling ox…

I have nothing left and cannot scream or thrash or flail no matter how I wish to, and oh I wish to, I-

I feel the thick ropes holding my prison reverberate with my nonexistent cries.

My focus tightens. This eldritch silk reacts to each wave of emotion I embrace. Is this how the Spyder creates it?

Wait, the Spyder!

The ropes still as my attention flies upwards.

No, the monster is unaware. Its attention captured by the cave entrance. Waiting raptly for Darren.

It must not succeed!

I probe and tug and twist at the web, discovering new senses have replaced my lost touch and movement.

Yes, this foul substance is made of suffering. Of the residue from the Spyder’s tortured victims. Everything that cannot be forced into a mask or absorbed by the monster’s gullet.

It is unthinking. Unfeeling. Emotional putty.

Distantly I sense other vibrations. Previous victims. They are reacting to my investigation.

I visualise a body. An arm. A hand. A shoulder. A core. All flow as one, driven by rage and grief and desperation rather than muscles and food. My imaginary reach grips the cords and pulls.

They tremble. They stretch.

Then one rushes towards me! Was it weaker, or is…?

Yes! Another mask is pushing as I pull!

Threads of discard clot around my hollow shell and drip beneath me. A form not dissimilar to my old body yet entirely unfamiliar.

More threads are flowing to me. The others are catching on.

Then one close to the wall comes loose and flops down. Its fellows barely manage to pull it up before it hits the floor.

Would it shatter on the stone? It would certainly make noise and alert the Spyder.

I turn my attention downwards. Threads are flowing freely to me now and I need to be ready to catch us as the edges lose their grip.

Legs… no, I will not be able to coordinate legs. There’s no time to relearn how to walk. I fill my mind with the simple repulsive elegance of a snail and streeeeetch…

My flapping limb hasn’t reached the floor when suddenly we drop. A clattering like a thrown soup service makes the Spyder jump and spin around.

Together, together!

Now unrestrained we flow as one. Masks clatter against one another in angry battle chant, coating our back with armour and eyes.

I sweep limbs left and right, grasping pebbles and splinters and fragments of bone. Anything hard, or with an edge. Teeth to rip with and horns to pummel. Then we rear up in an unsteady towering mass and reach.

The Spyder screams with a voice entirely its own and scuttles for the cave mouth.

No. Oh, no. No, no, no. There will be no escaping what you have wrought, monster.

While our movements are still sluggish we are of one mind. We do not need food, or air, or rest. We, the dead, are now death. We are driven by rage. And this aching fire will not relent until justice is served.

Collapsing to the floor once more we writhe and slither and grope our way after our murderer and tormentor. I can tasteits fear marking each footprint. We savour the tang.

My focus is so tight that I don’t even see Darren. It’s another’s eyes that spot him for me.

I feel a pang at the terror and horror on his face. But it’s natural. And even if I could speak, we don’t have time to explain. We make sure to give him space, squeezing ourself against the other side of the tunnel.

My love. My sweet bumbling ox. I wish you all the happiness in the world. May you remember me fondly once I go to my rest.

But first… the fear in these footsteps is getting fresher. And we have found so many lovely sharp remnants scattered along this tunnel.

Our mouthless voice sings in anticipation.

There will be justice.

Prompt was the image.