Spider's Loom

Lanternlight casts eerie shadows on the stark, brutalist walls of the abandoned Gregchild Textile Factory. Its position on the edge of London paints a portrait of the ocean, polluted by the patchwork of docks and ships that throttle the portside waters. What little of it you could make out through the grimy window. Coughing on the cold night air, a man looks into an equally grimy mirror, watching the surface of his face peel off. He lays the molting on the rusty metal cabinet beside the industrial sink and pulls his coat closer around him. Little else can be done to stave off the chill, save holding his hands over a container holding a crackling hobo fire. It’s not much living, but it’s a life. That’s more than most dead men could say.

Finding a dry place on the counter, he lays down the dossier folder containing his generous benefactor’s notes. He glances over his shoulder, where the shape of an old loom cast onto the wall conjures images of giant creeping spiders in his monkey brain. Fingers clench near the gun buried under his coat, but he holds them back. There’s nothing there. Just your imagination.
“Summoning circle,” he mutters the words, mouthing them so that his breath speaks as he reads them. “Follow my instructions exactly.” Popping the top off of a mason jar, he flinches at the metallic smell of the contents and grabs a paintbrush. “This is some serious cult shit.”

First, clearing away the dust. Then, a drawing a satanic circle on the factory floor in blood. Who’s or what’s he doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know. All part of the bargain. Should have read the fine print. Should have added some fine print.
The looming shadow-spiders still hover over the man’s shoulders as he stands and squints at the next line of the dossier. Reading by the light of his pilfered undertaker’s lantern is going to drive him to need glasses. Thankfully, the last step isn’t too hard. It amounts to fairy dust and ruby slippers. Thinking intentious thoughts, he lets a trail of dizzying, exhilarating sensation dribble out of his ears and declares, “Forge a contract with me. Assassin.”

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Pub: 28 Nov 2024 13:40 UTC

Views: 198