Will you Walk into my Parlour?

Tim was trapped. Or no- that wasn’t right. Martin was lying on the floor of his apartment, the real Martin, the one that wasn’t a Spider. He was caught in the moment of his death and Tim had trapped him there.

He Watched, as worms writhed in and out of the holes in Martin’s skin. He drank in the terror of that moment. How long had it taken for Martin to die? It had to have been hours.

(As soon as I opened it the worms were there, and then they were on me and in me, and I was screaming. I thought at the very least someone might have heard that, but no one ever came. I must have laid there for hours.)

Something loomed over him and Tim Knew he was not alone. He looked up, into the endless space above. There was a single unblinking eye staring down at him.

It wanted him to gaze at the scene before him, to turn his eyes downward. The Eye needed Time to Feed, in order to Feed itself. Such was how it went, how it always went. For Jon and for Gertrude and for all the others who came before them both. It’s servants fed the Eye to sustain themselves. They Looked and Watched and Gluttoned themselves with terror.

Through it all, the Eye looked upon them. It did not expect them to look back, although they sometimes did, and the Eye loved those servants as much as such a thing can be said to love.

“No,” Tim said. He was frozen in place, unable to stop the scene before him. The Eye was drawn to Fear, and the Eyes itself was Fear. He could not look away, but he could look up.

Though it was vast, it was not intelligent, and so it could not understand what Tim meant to do, could only reel back in pain as the Eye cannibalized itself.

“No.” He said once more.

…

Tim awoke with a start.

The room was dark, and Tim fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand. There wasn’t one. He frowned. Right, he wasn’t in his apartment, was he. Luckily, Tim’s phone was on the nightstand. Someone must have taken it out of his coat pocket. Tim wasn’t certain if he’d been the one to do that. The events of the day before blurred together, hazy in a way that was unfortunately familiar.

Tim used the light of his phone to look around the room for a switch. He flipped it on.

It revealed a perfectly ordinary bedroom, aside from some sound equipment in the corner of the room. There was a chair, near the bed. Jon had fallen asleep in it. He must have changed at some point into pajamas. Given he was in a chair clearly stolen from someone’s kitchen table, and not on a bed or sofa, he must not have actually intended to sleep. Jon had fallen asleep from pure exhaustion then.

His eyes darted around from beneath their closed lids. Tim wondered if they’d had the same dream. He hoped not, but it seemed likely from the way Jon twitched in his sleep. It reminded Tim of the way Martin had writhed when Prentiss’s worms finally burrowed into his skin.

Tim thought about waking him from the nightmare. He elected against it. Jon clearly needed the rest.

He stepped out into the hall and flipped the lights off, closing the door gently behind him.

A television played down the hall, quiet so as not to wake anyone. Tim walked towards it.

“Hello,” a woman said. Tim recognized her vaguely from his blurred memories. This must be her apartment then. Tim hoped it wasn’t Jon’s apartment since he apparently shared it with Martin.

“… Hi.” Tim kept his distance. He studied her for a moment. She was dressed casually, in sweatpants and a ratty Ghostbusters t-shirt. Her hair was tucked away in a bonnet.

“I’m Georgie.”

Tim recognized the name. “Melanie Georgie or Jon Georgie?”

“Both actually,” she paused. “I’m waiting for Melanie to get back. Didn’t want to be asleep for it. You can choose what to watch if you like, I’m not, well I’m not really watching it.”

She wasn’t facing the TV at all, Tim noticed. Her eyes were trained firmly on the door.

Tim considered her offer. Jon seemed to trust her, enough to fall asleep in her home. Although, Jon’s trust wasn’t a terribly high bar. He’d trusted Martin after all. Tim thought there was a part of Jon that still did.

Tim remained where he was. “My memories are still blurry.”

“You were pretty out of it,” she agreed.

Tim realized he recognized her face, as though he’d seen her once without glasses and now had them on. He didn’t recall much, just her and Melanie

“Why were you there, at Elias’s office?”

“I came with Melanie. I don’t think I was supposed to be. That’s what the spider-thing said. Jon’s boyfriend? Ex? I honestly don’t know.”

“Martin was there?”

“Yeah, Melanie chopped his head off.” A pause. “Jon said he wasn’t dead.”

Tim thought about it for a moment. He looked down to the webbing at his wrist. It reached halfway up to his elbow now, and Tim tried not to think about what that meant. Somehow he Knew that it still connected back to the spider who wove it. “He’s not.”

“This Martin guy, he also said something about a trade. Do you know what that means?”

Tim didn’t remember the words anyone had said, just brief flashes of images and sound. He recalled the way Martin's hands had woven through Jon’s hair, like a particularly beloved pet. He saw himself, frozen in place with little more than a word. Watching. Just as he had stood and watched his brother be skinned alive by those horrid clowns. Just as he had watched the Thing that was not Sasha. Seeing but not comprehending. Paralyzed by his own fear.

“Nothing good,” Tim said.

He studied Georgie once more. He didn’t know if he could trust her or not, but then there were very few people he trusted to begin with. It was better to be distrustful on a comfortable couch watching Telly than it was to be distrustful standing awkwardly by the wall.

Tim crossed the room and sat down. He picked up the remote.

Georgie flashed him a friendly smile, more out of politeness than anything else. She turned back to the door to watch for Melanie.

…

Annabelle’s manor was a grand and glorious thing. It was extravagant in every way, decorated with silvery tapestries and web that glinted with diamonds. Of course, it wasn’t technically her manor, but the man who owned it had long given up on asking her to leave, instead opting to pack his own bags in order to escape those long spindly legs of a thousand spiders crawling across his skin.

Annabelle had her spiders drop off the bag on the bed of one of the guest rooms. She cut the bag open with a pair of ornate scissors so as not to dirty her hands.

A head rolled out of the bag. Completely dark insect eyes stared up at her, mouth open in surprise. His expression was the exact same as the moment Melanie swung.

She lifted the rest of him out of the bag, piece of piece. Melanie had certainly done a number on him. She’d taken him down in one blow but that hadn’t been enough to satisfy her- no, she’d kept going. The slaughter was a terribly messy affair after all.

Anabelle opened up a small ornate box. There was a needle inside, a purchase from Salesa. She threaded it with a small bit of web. Better to start with the head and reattach it to the torso. 

“Hello, brother.”

The needle sank into Martin’s flesh, bloody and gruesome. She knotted the thread and pulled it off.

Martin’s eyes blinked from black to his usual blue. Immediately, he grunted in pain. “I- Annabelle?”

She pierced his collarbone with the needle. Tears welled in his eyes. It should be much harder to sew skin back together. His skin should be tougher, tighter, made that way for being cold in the dirt so long. As it was, the needle glided as though through the softest silk. It was an exceptional thing.

“Stop! Stop-what? Annabelle, what's going on.”

“Shh,” Annabelle cooed. “I’m just putting you back together. You’ll be alright. You’re in much too bad shape to do this yourself like I did.” She gestured vaguely to her own head before turning her eyes back to the task at hand. Her stitches were small, neat. She took her time with them.

“It hurts,” Martin said. There was fear in his eyes. That was good. The needle wouldn’t work without fear.

Finally, she knotted the end of her line of stitches. His head was attached to his torso though it was far from over. Anabelle concentrated on his left arm next, which was hanging on just barely to his shoulder. The needle pierced his skin again and again and again. Martin grit his teeth and help back a scream.

A drop of blood dripped from the needle onto her gloves. She scowled.

“You’re going to owe me for this you know,” Annabelle spoke. She pulled the thread taught, rougher than she needed to at that moment. She so hated getting her hands dirty.

Martin was sobbing now, an ugly sort of expression on his face. He looked so terribly human. She was careful not to let his snot touch her. “What- what do you want?”

Anabelle finished her line and moved on to his right arm. “I want to help.”

“Fine.” Martin was in no position to argue. He didn’t like Annabelle’s idea of help. This right now was her idea of help.

Martin’s arm jerked. “Hold still,” Annabelle spoke.

“I'm trying ,” he grunted. “You could go a little faster, you know.”

“And ruin my stitchwork?” Anabelle sounded genuinely offended at the thought. “No, no. When I’m done with you, you’re going to be art .”

Martin had seen Annabelle’s artwork before, the elegant gruesome things. He couldn’t deny the artistry of her hands though it made his gut churn when he remembered their faces. He hadn’t wanted to see that, but Anabelle insisted on ‘family bonding’ and he’d had no one else to turn to when he first Became.

“I’m not one of your damn tapestries Annabelle.”

Anabelle hummed noncommittally. She yanked a bit too hard on her thread just to prove she could. Martin yelped. “So, about that plan of your’s.”

“There’s not-”

“Oh don’t bother denying it, that’s so terribly boring of you.”

“Fine,” Martin relented. He was doing a lot of that today. “So what if there is? It's none of your business.”

“It is now .” Annabelle knotted the end of her line and threaded her needle once more. “You said I could help.”

Martin had. He chose his words carefully. “Mother has a plan. I can’t stop it, but I can change some of the details.”

“Well you’ve done a rather shoddy job of that so far,” Martin hated the condescension in her tone. “That little trade of yours went off just so well. It's not like you returned in a body bag at all .”

Martin grit his teeth. “What do you know? Tim’s already compelling people and he’s been marked three times now, the same number as Jon. Sure Elias didn’t make the trade but he would have if not for… well, this. It’s only a matter of time.”

Anabelle chuckled. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that much.

Martin winced as a needle pierced his wrist. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Martin. Oh that’s just brilliant .”

He glared at Anabelle. “You meant to do that.”

“Of course. You know I think much too highly of you to say those things without some ulterior motive.”

“Why must you always have an ulterior motive?”

“Why do dogs bark? Why do birds sing?”

Martin sighed. “It was only a matter of time until you figured it out on your own anyway.”

“Yes, quite.” Anabelle smiled. “All you have to do is switch the lynchpin, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Annabelle knotted the end of her line. “I think Tim will make an excellent Archivist. Your Jon though, are you sure he wants to leave the Eye? ”

“It doesn’t matter,” Martin decided. “I promised I’d look after him. And if mum won’t let me stop the world from ending, the least I can do is make sure he’s not the one to do it.”

Annabelle grinned. “See this is why I like you Martin, your plans are so much fun . Now be a doll and pass me your other hand would you?”