Free Web of Lies by Brandilyn Collins Page B

I’ve told God so.”
    Annie shook her head. “I can imagine. I’d do the same.”
    Chelsea nodded, grateful for the understanding. Annie seemed so warm and kind. Even through her reticence.
    “Okay.” Chelsea focused on the yellow paper, looking through it. “The first thing I saw was an oval window. Then the picture widened into a shot of a small darkened room. The window was high on the wall, almost near the ceiling. Then I find myself there — in the room. Watching through someone else’s eyes — someone who’s there, like I’ve crawled inside this person’s skin.” She paused. “This has happened to me before. Remember the Trent Park case? When I had a vision of that murder, I was inside the body of the girl who was killed. I even felt the blows. I felt myself dying.”
    Annie drew in her shoulders. Chelsea blinked away the older memory. “So now I’m inside this person, though I have no idea who it is. Don’t even know if it’s a man or woman. But he — she — seems to sense that something shocking and chaotic is going to happen. I realize my feet are bare, and the concrete floor is chilly. I’m struggling to see, because the room is dark. I can barely make out someone else, a figure a few feet away, huddling on the floor. Then on my left, a voice starts talking in a scratchy whisper. A man, but I don’t see him — ”
    A sudden shiver gripped her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tumbled into her story. Heard that hate-filled voice, saying
    “Little-known fact about spiders. Some can’t even bite humans. Their jaws are too weak. And then there are the deadly ones . . .” A low chuckle. “The trick is telling them apart.”
    The figure on the floor shudders.
    “Hey, don’t be moving down there.” The whisper again, chilling in its feigned empathy. “They’re all around you.”
    Something clicks, and a red light filters through the grayness. Chelsea’s heart pounds, blood coursing through her fear-constricted veins. Her eyes pan across the cowering figure — a female, head bent, hugging both knees. The female’s feet are bare. Chelsea’s gaze rises, to a shelf built into the wall. Her focus sharpens.
    The wood is crawling.
    On it, under it, upon its sides — spiders. Small ones, others big and bulbous; some with long, long legs. Myriad webs hang underneath the ledge.
    Chelsea’s eyes widen in terror. Her gaze flicks away.
    Spiders on the wall. Lurking in the corners of the eight-by-ten room. Scuttling across the floor. More boxlike shelves around the room, more and more, creating nooks for weaving, creeping bodies.
    “They won’t hurt you if you leave them alone.” The whisper sounds oh, so casual.
    Scuffling noises upon the floor. Chelsea’s eyes fix on the man’s shoe. It slides forward, avoiding scurrying bodies.
    “Most of ’em aren’t out to get you. In fact, some are pretty shy. But if you scare one, like put your hand down on him, well, what do you expect?”
    The female says nothing. She will not look up. Chelsea sucks a ragged breath.
    “The harmless ones bite, and you may not even feel it.” The man takes another step. “Others sting like crazy, but their venom isn’t toxic. I have quite a few in here, though — ” he chuckles — “whose bites are something else. After a while your skin swells and feels real tender. The wound fills with pus, and you end up with a gaping hole. You’ll need a doctor. Unfortunately — ” sarcasm drips — “I won’t be bringing you one.”
    A rustle of clothes. The man’s hand reaches toward the floor, one finger caressing the narrow back of a large brown creature.
    “This is a hobo spider. Lots
of people mistake them for the brown recluse.”
    Chelsea’s skin begins to crinkle and crawl.
    “Only problem — ” the man’s foot shifts direction — “the poor hobos get trapped in other spiders’ webs and are gobbled up, ’cause their own webs aren’t sticky. They can’t walk on that stuff. So I have to keep