"Where...where am I?!" a boy cried out, his voice hoarse and trembling as he jolted awake. Panic surged through him like a wave as his eyes shot open, only to be met with suffocating darkness. For a few moments, he could see nothing—just an endless black pressing in from all sides. He tried to steady his breathing, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
Blinking rapidly, he strained his vision, hoping to pierce the gloom, but the shadows refused to part. There was no light, no sound—only the cold, oppressive stillness that wrapped around him like a shroud.
"Shit...it's unbelievably dark," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might disturb something hidden in the Darkness.
Instinctively, he tried to sit up—but his body didn't respond the way he expected. A jolt of alarm ran through him as he realized he couldn't move. His arms, his legs—everything was pinned down. He struggled harder, squirming and twisting, but something clung to him, sticky and unyielding.
"What the hell...?" he gasped. The sensation was unmistakable—thin, fibrous strands clung to his skin, his clothes, his hair. It was like he'd been caught in a spider's web, the threads tightening the more he moved.
The boy was as slim as a twig and as weak as a dying insect—his limbs trembling, his muscles barely strong enough to lift his own weight, let alone break free. He writhed in the sticky strands with every ounce of strength he could muster, but the web refused to give. The more he struggled, the more entangled he became, as if the threads were alive—tightening, pulsing, sensing his panic.
"Come on… come on!" he gasped through gritted teeth, his breath ragged and shallow. His body was slick with cold sweat, and his heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape his chest.
Then, he heard it.
A sound—faint at first—like dry leaves being dragged across stone. A skittering, scratching, crawling noise that echoed from somewhere in the dark.
His blood froze.
It was close.
And it was coming closer.
The boy's eyes darted wildly, searching for something—anything—in the abyss. But there was nothing. Just darkness and that sound, growing louder, heavier, as if the creature making it had far too many legs… or worse, legs that were far too long.
There was no point in screaming. No one would hear. No one could hear.
Terror rooted itself deep in his chest. His body began to shake uncontrollably, his teeth chattering as the noise slithered nearer. And then, out of fear, a warm stream trickled down his leg. Shame washed over him, but it was quickly drowned by the horror crashing through his mind.
As the warm trickle of urine ran down his legs, pooling beneath him in the silence, something caught his eye—just the faintest glint, a shimmer like a dying star in the vast dark. His breath hitched. Something had reflected the piss-stained light—metallic, small, and wedged in the webbing just below him. It looked like… a boot knife.
Hope flared in his chest like a fragile spark.
Without wasting a second, he forced his trembling leg downward, stretching it with all the desperation of a drowning man reaching for the surface. His limbs were like brittle sticks, barely functional under the strain—but luck, for once, was on his side. His foot grazed the handle. Then hooked it.
"Yes..." He curled his toes around it, straining every muscle to lift it. The blade was slick, almost too slippery to hold, but his foot managed to clutch the handle. He began moving his leg, flailing it wildly in an awkward dance, tearing through strands of the web, desperate to free the blade.
When he felt just enough slack, he made a split-second decision—he hurled the knife toward his face.
It was reckless. Stupid. Insane.
But it worked.
The handle smacked his cheek, and his jaw snapped forward on instinct, clamping down hard. The cold, bitter metal dug into his teeth, and with it came the unmistakable taste of piss. His own. He nearly gagged, but the disgust was drowned out by pure adrenaline.
He began twisting his neck, using the knife like a blade in his mouth—cutting, sawing, yanking against the threads wrapped around his head. Fiber by fiber, the webbing gave way, snapping and sticking to his skin. He could move his head now.
But then—drip.
Something warm and thick splattered onto the top of his head. Another drop. Then another. It rolled down his hair, heavy and sticky like saliva.
The boy froze.
No sound. No movement. Just the realization that chilled him to the core.
The spider wasn't coming.
It had been there the entire time.
Right above him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Out of sheer shock, his jaw slackened—the knife slipped from his teeth and clattered to the ground below with a dull thud, swallowed almost instantly by the thick grass beneath the web. He let out a shaky gasp, frozen for a second too long. Drops of saliva kept falling on his entire body.
Driven by pure survival instinct, the boy flung his leg downward again, but this time it was easier, his toes clawing through the silk and wet earth until they found the handle of the blade once more. He gripped it tight with his foot, trembling and frantic, then stabbed it hard into the ground beneath him—anchoring it like a stake in the earth.
Without hesitation, he starts pulling himself with desperation. "Ggggh... C'mon... C'mon!" he grunted through clenched teeth, his arms and back screaming in protest. Every fiber of his body burned, tendons straining, muscles pulling, mind teetering on the edge of collapse.
And then—
Snap.
The tension gave way. The web tore like old rope, and with a final cry, he yanked himself free—launched downward by the force of his own pull.
He slams into the ground hard, the air knocked clean from his lungs. Pain shot through his ribs and shoulder, but he didn't care. Dirt clung to his skin. Grass tangled in his hair. He was free.
Breathing ragged, heart galloping, he looks up—And he saw it.
The spider.
Massive—unbelievably massive. Its grotesque body loomed above him, legs like twisted, obsidian pillars anchoring it to the trees and webbing high above. Eight glowing eyes burned into his soul, each one reflecting him—tiny, helpless, broken.
The boy's breath hitched. His body locked in place.
Frozen. Paralyzed. Terrified.
Then it screeched.
Not a hiss. Not a growl. A screech—a sound so piercing and unnatural it ripped through the silence like glass shattering inside his skull. It wasn't just loud—it was soul-crushing, a wail from some ancient nightmare.
His ears rang violently. Blood pounded in his head. Vision blurred.
And once again, warmth trickled down his leg.
His bladder gave out, fear too great for his body to contain.
But even in the haze of dizziness, even as the world spun and black crept at the edges of his vision—he moved.
With a cry of pure desperation, he snatched the knife from the dirt, forcing his trembling legs to obey. He staggered up to his feet, pain flaring through his shattered bones like fire.
He ran.
He ran.
Each step was agony. His legs weren't just bruised—they were breaking, bones grinding against each other, joints bending wrong. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His mind screamed, his nerves begged for rest, but survival was louder.
The knife stayed clutched in his hand, the only comfort he had in this hellish unknown. Webs tore around him as he crashed through the undergrowth, feet slipping on damp moss, heart thrumming like a drum of war.
He didn't know where he was. Didn't know how he got here.
He only knew one thing.
That creature—whatever it was—wasn't the end.
It was just the beginning.