The Shadow Weaver

It began with a thread. A single, dark strand of silk strung across my bedroom doorway. I thought nothing of it at first, brushing it aside as I left for work. By the time I returned that evening, the thread had multiplied—dozens of them crisscrossing my hallway like an intricate web.

I didn’t own a spider large enough to weave something so elaborate.

That night, I barely slept. The threads seemed to hum faintly, vibrating as if alive. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of a figure cloaked in shifting shadows, its hands pulling at invisible strings. Its face was obscured, but I felt its gaze as surely as a hand pressed against my chest.

When I woke, the threads were gone.

Days passed, but the threads returned, always at night. They grew denser, forming patterns I couldn’t decipher. Shapes emerged in their design—faces, hands, eyes. Always eyes. They stared at me, unblinking, from the dark corners of my home.

I tried cutting them, burning them, even leaving the house for days at a time. Nothing worked. When I came back, the threads were always there, waiting. My once cozy apartment now felt like a trap, each thread tightening the noose.

The worst part was the dreams. The figure grew closer each night, its hands working tirelessly, weaving the threads around me. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. It whispered as it worked, its voice like the rustling of dry leaves:

“Every thread binds. Every thread claims.”

One morning, I woke to find a single thread wrapped around my wrist. It burned when I tried to remove it, leaving a mark that resembled a knot. The threads had claimed me.

I began to notice changes in the real world. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t, lingering long after the source had gone. The hum of the threads grew louder, an unrelenting drone that followed me everywhere. People avoided me, their eyes darting away as though they sensed something wrong.

The final night came without warning. I woke to find my room filled with threads, so dense they blocked out the light. In the center stood the Shadow Weaver, its form now fully visible. It was tall and thin, its limbs unnaturally long, its fingers tipped with needle-like claws.

It didn’t speak this time. Instead, it reached for me, its claws weaving the threads around my body. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was its face, finally revealed—a blank, featureless void that seemed to devour the light.

I don’t know where I am now. There’s no light, no sound, only the endless hum of the threads. They’re all around me, binding me tighter with each passing moment. If you find a single dark thread in your home, leave. Burn the house if you must.

Do not let the Shadow Weaver claim you too.