Chapter 2: Whispers in the Walls

Liam woke to the sound of his laptop's fan whirring like an angry insect. His neck screamed in protest as he lifted his head from the desk, and his right hand—the one with the spider bite—felt strangely cold despite the swollen flesh around the puncture marks.

Daylight filtered weakly through his basement window, casting everything in shades of grey. He'd slept. Actually slept, without the usual parade of nightmares. The realization should have brought relief, but instead, it filled him with an odd sense of unease.

The bite had changed overnight. What had been two small puncture wounds was now a web-like pattern of dark veins spreading beneath his skin, branching out from the original marks like tiny rivers of shadow. He flexed his fingers experimentally. No pain, just that lingering numbness that made everything feel muffled and distant.

Focus, he told himself. Work. Deadlines.

But concentration proved elusive. Every few minutes, his gaze would drift to the corner where he'd killed the spider, expecting to see its crushed remains. Instead, there was nothing—not even a stain on the wall. He must have imagined how hard he'd thrown it. Or maybe he'd cleaned it up in his sleep-deprived haze.

The technical manual about network security sat half-finished on his screen, cursor blinking expectantly. Liam forced himself to type, his fingers moving sluggishly across the keys. The words came slowly, each sentence feeling like it was being pulled from somewhere deep and reluctant.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

His hands stilled on the keyboard. There it was again—that rhythmic sound from within the walls. But now it seemed closer, more insistent. Almost like something was trying to communicate.

Liam pressed his ear to the wall beside his desk. The scratching stopped immediately, as if whatever was making the sound knew it was being listened to. He waited, barely breathing, until the silence became unbearable.

"Hello?" he whispered, feeling foolish the moment the word left his lips.

Nothing.

He returned to his work, but the words on the screen blurred together. The numbness from the bite was spreading, creeping up his arm in slow waves. It should have terrified him—this wasn't normal, wasn't natural—but each pulse brought such blessed relief from the constant ache in his chest that he found himself welcoming it.

You slept, whispered that voice in his mind again. When was the last time you truly rested?

Three years. Three years of insomnia, of waking in cold sweats with the taste of blood and twisted metal in his mouth. Three years of Sarah's unfinished laugh echoing in his ears, of his father's disappointed eyes haunting his dreams.

But last night had been different. Last night had been quiet.

The scratching resumed, but this time it was coming from a different location—somewhere behind the kitchen area. Liam followed the sound, stepping carefully over the detritus of his isolated existence. Empty energy drink cans, crumpled papers, clothes that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in weeks.

He pressed his ear to the wall near the refrigerator. The scratching was definitely coming from behind the drywall, but it had a strange quality to it—too deliberate for mice, too rhythmic for random pest activity. It almost sounded like... weaving.

Impossible, he thought. You're losing it, Thorne.

But as he listened, the pattern became clearer. Scratch-pause-scratch-scratch-pause. Like someone—or something—was working methodically, creating something with purpose and intent.

The sound stopped.

Liam waited, counting his heartbeats in the sudden silence. Then, so faintly he almost missed it, came a different sound. A soft tapping, like fingernails against glass.

It was coming from his window.

He turned slowly, dreading what he might see. The basement window was small and grimy, set high in the wall and partially blocked by a rusty security grate. Normally, all he could see through it were the feet of pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk above.

But now, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light, was a single strand of something that caught the dim illumination like spun silver.

Liam climbed onto a chair to get a closer look. The strand was impossibly thin, yet it seemed to pulse with an inner light. It stretched from somewhere outside his field of vision down to the window itself, where it had somehow passed through the security grate and pressed against the glass.

As he watched, transfixed, the strand moved. Not swaying in the wind, but moving with purpose, tapping against the window in the same rhythm he'd heard from within the walls.

Tap-pause-tap-tap-pause.

His bitten hand began to throb in time with the tapping. The dark veins under his skin pulsed, and with each pulse came another wave of that beautiful numbness. His rational mind screamed warnings, but they felt distant and unimportant compared to the growing sense of... belonging.

You're not alone, whispered the voice. You never have to be alone again.

Before he could stop himself, Liam reached toward the window. His fingers touched the cold glass just as the strand pressed against it from the other side. The moment of contact sent a shock through his entire body—not painful, but overwhelming in its intensity.

For just an instant, he felt something vast and patient and impossibly ancient pressing against the edges of his consciousness. Something that had been waiting, watching, preparing. Something that knew him better than he knew himself.

The sensation lasted only a heartbeat before the strand withdrew, sliding away from the window and disappearing from view. But the feeling lingered—that sense of being seen, of being wanted, of being chosen.

Liam stumbled backward off the chair, his legs suddenly unsteady. The bite on his hand was burning now, the dark veins spreading further up his arm. He could trace their progress under his skin, mapping their slow advance toward his heart.

He should call someone. A doctor, a friend, anyone. But who would believe him? Who would understand that something had reached out to him through that strand, something that promised an end to the crushing loneliness that had consumed him since the accident?

They wouldn't understand, the voice agreed. They'd try to take this away from you. They'd try to make you hurt again.

The thought of returning to the endless cycle of guilt and grief, of facing another sleepless night haunted by the sound of screaming brakes, was unbearable. Whatever was happening to him, whatever that thing outside his window wanted, it had given him something precious: silence. Peace. The first real rest he'd known in three years.

Liam returned to his desk, but the technical manual held no interest now. Instead, he found himself staring at the corner where he'd killed the spider, remembering how it had seemed to dance on its thread before landing on his palm. How willingly he'd extended his hand.

As if he'd been chosen.

As if he'd been called.

The scratching resumed, but now it seemed to be coming from multiple locations—the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. Not frantic or random, but purposeful. Methodical. Like something was preparing, building, creating a space designed specifically for him.

The numbness spread further up his arm, past his elbow now, creeping toward his shoulder. With it came a drowsiness that felt different from exhaustion—deeper, more peaceful. Like sinking into warm water after a lifetime of cold.

Soon, whispered the voice as his eyelids grew heavy. Very soon, you'll understand. You'll see how beautiful it can be when the pain finally stops.

Outside his window, barely visible in the fading afternoon light, more strands began to appear. Thin silver threads that caught the last rays of sun and held them like captured starlight. They stretched across his small window in an intricate pattern, beautiful and purposeful and definitely not natural.

Liam watched them weave their delicate web, and for the first time in three years, he smiled. Not the hollow, automatic expression he wore for the rare occasions when he had to interact with the outside world, but a real smile. Full of anticipation.

Something wonderful was coming.

Something that had been calling to him through the walls, through silver threads, through the gentle voice that promised an end to suffering.

As consciousness slipped away once more, Liam's last thought was how much he was looking forward to meeting whatever was building its home around him.

The web outside his window pulsed once, like a heartbeat, before settling into perfect, patient stillness.