Chapter Text
Tommy Bradstaff doesn’t scream when Mr. Spider takes him, and Jonathan Sims doesn’t run, and sometimes Jon wonders if either choosing differently would have changed anything. Had Tommy screamed, perhaps someone would have heard, someone who might have been able to help more than the eight year old complication-with-legs from Brixton Street, and had Jon ran, perhaps he wouldn’t have been there to see the legs reach out and pull him in, and perhaps he wouldn’t have seen the book tumble from his hands and thud dully against the pavement. Perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed any of it, and perhaps he would have never seen the book again. Perhaps someone else would have found it there, corner slightly dented from where it hit the ground, and they would have picked it up and taken it home, flipped through it perhaps, paused at the last page like Tommy had before them, pressed it against a door and raised it to knock—
It’s that last image that gets him, really. It’s the thought of those spindly legs that makes him do what he does.
The book is there, gleaming dully in the lackluster sun, and it will eat whoever picks it up.
And so Jon picks it up.
He doesn’t want to, okay? He never wants to touch that book again. He hated it from the moment he saw it, and he hates it now, hates it with every burst of blood pounding through his weak-walled heart. He’s scared of the book, if he’s being perfectly honest. Of what it will do.
Except.
Except it ate Tommy Bradstaff. And it’s going to eat whoever reads it next.
Only Jon knows not to read it, which is why, in a stunning moment of stupidity that he is never, ever able to take back, he decides he must be the one to destroy it.
He scuttles to the book, right up to where it lay by the blood-rusted door. He doesn’t pause to pick it up, barely even slows, just hangs his hands low and catches around the cover before he’s off again, sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him. He’s so scared of the door in that moment, of it opening, of the legs folding out and around him.
But the door doesn’t open, and the legs don’t come.
Jon sprints the whole way home.
~*~
He doesn’t dare open the book again. He can barely bring himself to look at it.
When he gets home, he goes straight to the shed, where no one has been since his grandfather died. He takes the book and stacks a paint can on top of it, and then the tool box, and then anything else he can wrap his fingers around and add to the stack.
He stacks for ten minutes, wrenches and screwdrivers and rakes assorted being added to the teetering monument to his fear, most of them tumbling to the ground directly after being added to the tower. He doesn’t care. He keeps stacking.
Then, all at once, the fight goes out of him. He stumbles to the other side of the crowded, wooden room before curling up in a ball on the ground, watching the tower with a weary fear.
(Tommy Bradstaff is dead, and Jon thinks it might just be his fault.)
He has to destroy the book. That much is obvious. He can’t let Mr. Spider get anyone else. The book must be a… door… of some sort. It must open some kind of horror dimension, where Mr. Spider waits to feed.
He should burn it. Shouldn’t he? Burn the door, burn the way it gets through. That’d be enough, wouldn’t it?
Jon thinks of the door to his own house, of it burning, and he can’t help but think that it’d be so much easier to get inside or out if that door was gone.
Does the door let Mr. Spider out? Or does it also keep him in?
Jon barely makes it outside before he throws up.
(Tommy hadn’t screamed when it took him. There hadn’t been time. But Jon wonders if it had hurt for long. He wonders if he had been afraid.)
Jon closes the door to the shed behind him, and makes sure it locks. It will keep for now.
He needs to figure out what to do.
~*~
He makes a list. It reads:
Burn it.
Bury it.
Freeze it in ice.
Toss it into the ocean.
Encase it in cement.
Burning it is out. He doesn’t know what that would do, if turning it to ash will make it better or worse. He’s too afraid to try. He thinks burying it might work, but he doesn’t know where he could put it without the risk of it being dug up again. He doesn’t think he could dig deep enough on his own to make it any real difficulty, and there are plenty of dogs and kids alike who like to dig. The ice stops making sense not long after he comes up with it--ice melts, after all, and he needs the book to be locked up for good. Perhaps the ocean would work, but he can’t exactly leave it near the shore. Waves might wash it up again, or divers might find a childrens’ board book encased in the muck, might bring it back up to the surface with them, might wonder what it says…
He’d need a boat, at the very least. One that could take him to a point where the ocean is dark and deep, where he could put the book in a bag and fill it with rocks and then send it sailing down below. But he doesn’t know where he might possibly find a boat, or anyone willing to take him out.
The last one is daft. He doesn’t even know where he might find cement.
In the back of his mind, Jon can still feel the book in the shed. Waiting. Like a spider on a web.
~*~
At dinner that night, Nan says that Tommy Bradstaff was supposed to come help her today, and he hadn’t, and it was so unlike such a responsible, punctual boy to not so much as ring. She says it in the pointed way that means she thinks Jon has something to do with it, that he’s somehow to blame.
He doesn’t make it outside before he throws up, this time.
~*~
Jon wakes to wet, cold grass beneath his feet and a sharp pain in his foot.
It is night, and he’s in the back garden, moonlight on his skin and cobwebs in his hair. He had stepped on a rock, and it had sliced up the sole of his bare foot.
The shed key is in his hand. He doesn’t have to wonder long how he might have gotten there, or what he might have been looking for.
He doesn’t sleep again for the rest of the night. But when he’s pressed against the mattress that night, the door to his room locked firm, he thinks of the feel of the pages against his skin, the words sliding against his brain, the press of the covers beneath his palms. How… right it had felt. How wonderful the words had been, slick and smooth and horrible in his head. He wants the book, doesn’t he? He wants to knock. But… that can’t be right, he locked the book up, didn’t he? He ran from the door. Should he have ran? Shouldn’t he have knocked?
He wants so badly it hurts.
~*~
The next day, Jon is feverish with fear and trembling like a leaf, and he looks just horrid enough that Nan doesn’t make even the slightest intimation that he’s faking to get the day off. Rather, she simply presses the back of her paper thin hand to his forehead and purses her lips before trailing off to call the school.
After, she comes back to his bed with a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. There’s something soft at the edges of her eyes, something close to concern, but her face has been carved in stone for so long that it can hardly make much of a fight.
“I’m meant to go help out down at the library today,” she says, crisp and clear, in the way that Jon imagines his dad’s voice had sounded. “But if you’re not feeling well, I can call and--”
“No,” says Jon, just quickly enough for the softness to vanish. He wonders if it ever had been there at all. “I’ll be fine on my own. You go.”
(There’s a book in the shed. Jon can feel it, waiting. He thinks it’s still hungry.)
“Alright,” says Nan, and then Jon is alone again.
He’s always alone, he can’t help but think. He wishes she had stayed.
~*~
Jon finds himself trailing for the shed, key in hand, on four separate occasions throughout the day. He always snaps out of it before he ever gets close to the book itself, but on the last time, the key is already in the lock, and it’s about to turn.
And when he pulls the key out, when he places it in his pocket once more, and sprints back to the house, there’s a momentary pange of anguish, of pain, a part of him screaming to go back and retrieve the book. He wants it, he wants it, he needs it, such things were meant to be read and consumed and consumed by. It should never be locked up. He shouldn’t have locked it up. It needs to be read.
(He can’t let it stay in the house for a second longer.)
~*~
Jon’s hands hurt when he moves them, but he supposes that’s what happens when you wedge four thumbtacks in the places between your fingers. The pain is the point.
It’s always pain that snaps him out of the book’s thrall--Tommy Bradstaff knocking him to the ground, the rock beneath his feet, a bee stinging him before the lock can turn--and it’s pain he needs to get rid of it.
He built a box, while Nan was gone, and he’s decided to put the book inside.
It’s hardly a box, really--it’s made of cardboard he found wedged in one of the drawers. He’s dotted it with thumbtacks, all facing out, and on the cover, he’s written DO NOT OPEN in sharp black letters.
He’s going to put it somewhere no one can ever see it again. But he figures the warning doesn’t hurt.
Blood rolls down the bottom of his wrist when he inserts the key into the lock, and his hands twinge with pain when he turns it. He’s grateful, though, because it means the cobwebs creeping along the edge of his vision burn away, and his head is mercifully, blessedly clear when he at last sees the book.
There’s nothing on top of it. All of the things he stacked on top huddle at the other end of the shed, as if they, too, are afraid of what it might do.
Jon swallows. He twists his fingers, and the pain burns clear and bright.
He tapes the book shut first, careful to make sure the cover doesn’t so much as crack open. Then, he places it within the cardboard, thumbtacks pricking along his palms and winning new droplets of blood from his skin. He tapes the box, too.
Then, he puts it all in his bag, and he begins to walk.
There are woods on the other end of town. Jon’s been there many times, though he doesn’t think he’ll ever go there again, once he’s done. It takes him the better part of an hour to walk there, and by the time he sees the first trees, the sky has opened above him, and the rain has started to pour.
It had been sunny, when he started his march.
He walks for another hour before he’s deep enough that he thinks it’ll be safe, then stashes the book in the hollow of a tree. The hollow is hard to notice, and it hides the book completely. Jon doesn’t think it will be found, here. Not by anyone.
On the walk home, he cries for the first time since Mum died.
~*~
Nan’s furious with him when he finally makes it back, and Jon takes it all with a tired kind of relief. By the end of it, he’s grounded for the next three months, school and home and nothing else, and don’t even think of having friends over young man--
Jon is tired, and he doesn’t mention the blood on his pin-cushion hands, or the redness in his eyes, or the way he hasn’t stopped shaking for hours, or the fact that he doesn’t have any friends to want over. Nan doesn’t either, but he hadn’t expected her to.
He’s sent to bed without supper, but that’s alright. He doesn’t think he could stomach the food anyway.
~*~
Jon dreams of spiders that night, of webs around his limbs, of crawling, creeping blackness. He doesn’t scream when he’s awake but that’s only because he can’t find the breath, paralyzed beneath his covers. He can still see the stained-red white of the door, still hear Tommy Bradstaff’s gasp-before-a-scream, still see the limbs reaching out, out.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, curled against the mattress and waiting for dawn. The book is gone. That’s all that matters. The book is gone.
There are creaks in the night, groans of a settling house, and Jon tells himself the book is gone.
There are pauses in the silence, moments where he can feel the scream trying to claw its way up his swollen throat, and Jon tells himself the book is gone.
Tommy Bradstaff is dead, and it is the fault of no one but Jon, and Jon tells himself the book is gone.
He’s so very afraid. The book is gone. He’s afraid. The book is gone.
All that matters is that the book is gone.
~*~
The next day, there’s a knock on the door, twice and measured.
It’s Tommy Bradstaff. He’s come to help Mrs. Sims.
~*~
Tommy Bradstaff moves like a puppet jerked by strings, and Jon is the only one that notices.
He sits at the table, barely moving from the sheer terror of it all, feeling the blood pulse from his heart to the tips of his fingers, down his legs, in his ears. He doesn’t know if he’s breathing. He doesn’t think he is.
Nan gives him tea before she gives him any chores at all, tuts over his disappearance--she calls it that, his disappearance, and she has no idea how right she is--and brushes the cobwebs from his hair.
“It’s from the Jones house,” says the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it smiles. “They had me clean their shed for them.”
Its voice lingers on the word “shed.” Jon is the only one that notices that, either.
Nan’s nose wrinkles at the mention of the Joneses. She never has liked Mr. Jones. Jon wonders if the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff knows that.
It smiles at Jon from across the table, thin, just enough to reveal its broad, white teeth. Jon stares at it, and he does not smile back.
(A spider crawls from the corner of his mouth, up his cheek, settles at the corner of his eye.)
“Well, Tommy, you’ll find no such filth here. I have a few things still left from the other day. If you’ll--”
Nan trails off, her words suspended in the air between them like they’re caught in a web.
“I have to go to the store,” she declares, suddenly, standing. She doesn’t pick up her bag. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
(Nan went to the store yesterday.)
“Do you need anything, Tommy dear?”
“No, Mrs. Sims,” says the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it’s still smiling, and it’s still watching Jon. “You just be off now.”
“Jon? Do you need anything?”
Jon can’t find his voice. He shakes his head, just barely.
Nan doesn’t stop for her shoes before she walks out the door. She doesn’t get her coat.
She doesn’t knock, either, and Jon can’t help but be grateful for that.
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff does not speak for a long while after Nan has left. It just. Sits there. Watching Jon.
His hands scuttle across the surface of the table, fingers tripping over themselves like the legs of a spider.
“You should be more careful with your things, Jon,” it says, eventually. “You seem to have a nasty habit of leaving them lying around.”
Jon cannot speak.
“I found something in the woods,” it continues. “It belongs to you.”
Jon cannot speak. He shakes his head in mute terror.
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff looks at him sharply. “Belonging is important, Jon. Ownership is important. It counts. You cannot get rid of things so easily.”
“Get out,” Jon manages, his voice barely a croak. “I’ll--I’ll call the police.”
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “Of course, you don’t own the book. Mrs. Sims bought it. It belongs to her. She paid for it, paid for the cost, paid for the consequences. Perhaps I should return it to her instead--”
The threat is enough to break the fear gluing Jon to his spot, shatter it like glass, freeing him cleaner than any thumbtack could, and in a moment he’s rocketing to his feet, his chair screeching back.
“Shut up!”
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff grins, this time wide, and Jon can see the black emptiness waiting inside. Cobwebs cling to his teeth, to the back of his throat, down, down, down.
“The Web isn’t so bad, Jon,” it says, and it stands, too. It walks towards him jerkily, like his limbs don’t fit, like they’re pulled by threads. “It already knows you. You already know it. It won’t hurt you, Jon.”
Jon trips backwards, heart pounding in his chest. His legs tremble. He doesn’t think it can make it to the door.
“It won’t eat you. Not like it ate Tommy. It wants you, Jon. It likes the way your thoughts feel, so slippery, so hungry, so keen. It wants to keep you close, tangle you up, fill you up, keep you in its threads, forever, forever, forever.” And not-Tommy looks so earnest, in that moment, so sincere, like it hurts, wanting Jon. “You’re already so empty, Jon. So lonely. But the Web can make its home in you. It loves you so very much. It will never let you go.”
Jon’s throat is a cave in, an avalanche, a scream that never ends. He can’t breathe.
He moves back, two steps for the thing’s one. It is between him and the door, though, and he runs out of space fast.
The kitchen countertop cuts into the base of his spine. He can’t run any further.
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff creeps to Jon’s side, leans over to whisper into his ear.
(A spider falls from its open maw. It scuttles along the collar of Jon’s shirt, then slips and falls to the counter below.)
“Come home, Jon,” it tells him, soft and earnest, and the words scuttle into his brain like spiders, all in a line. Its fingers wrap around his wrist, pins it to the countertop. “It will only hurt for a moment.”
Jon shakes his head mutely. He can’t breathe.
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff continues to whisper, continues to speak, and the words wrap around the edges of his vision like gossamer threads. It tells him of a million spiders, a million things to love him, to fill him up, to make him a home. It tells him how very ill of a fit Tommy was, how empty and hollow and sick Tommy feels, how it would have hollowed him out and left him to rot if it hadn’t needed to talk to Jon so very badly.
Jon is so very clever, with such clear thoughts, nimble and quick like the scuttle of a spider’s legs. He was so very smart in his plans, in his resistance, and his clever little tricks with the tacks and the boards only made it love him more. But it’s enough of that now. Enough of the naughty resistance, the running, the fleeing from his rightful owner. It will love Jon forever, if he only comes home. It will tangle him up and hold him close and it will never let him go again, never never never.
Come home, Jonathan Sims. Come home to the Web.
Amidst the fear, amidst the words, amidst the cobwebs he can feel around his neck, Jon remembers something. There had been a slight tilt to his path when he ran, a plan half-formed, a reason he had angled himself towards that corner of the kitchen--
(Nan kept her knives here. And Jon was never, ever to touch.)
His free hand scrambles behind him. His hand wraps around a hard, wooden handle, and the knife leaves the block with a clumsy tug.
He buries in in the chest of the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, his lunge nervous and weak, but it sinks in without any trouble at all, as if Tommy were empty and there’s nothing to stop it from slicing deep.
He pulls it out. Buries it in again.
The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff watches him with a puzzled smile. It doesn’t so much as flinch.
So Jon pulls it out, and he uses it to slash at its wrist.
The skin severs easily, weakly, like wet paper torn. Inside, Jon can see empty blackness and empty cobwebs.
But the hand releases. And Jon runs.
As he sprints on the door, feet bare and heart rattling his ribs, the thing that used to be Tommy Bradstaff calls after him, and it tells him it will be waiting for him in Jon’s new home.
~*~
Jon goes back to the house less than an hour after he flees it, not because he wants to, but because the thought of Nan coming home to find it waiting for her makes him sick inside. He’s crying as he walks through the open door, shaking in fear, but deep inside, he knows it’s foolish to worry.
He already knows where it is, after all. It’s waiting for Jon on the other side of a white-red door.
The house is empty, neither Tommy nor Nan anywhere to be seen, but Jon can feel the book waiting for him in his room.
He walks up the stairs, tugged, compelled, like a puppet on strings. His bedroom door is open. He knows the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff opened it.
Inside, it’s covered in cobwebs, from the ceiling to the floor. On his bed there sits a box, studded with thumbtacks and bound in tape.
DO NOT OPEN ME JON
The thumbtacks dig into his palms as he picks the package up. He swallows, and watches the blood drip on the corner.
Then, calm as anything, he places it in his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and walks out the door.
~*~
The year is 1995, and there has been no leak of secured files, and the Magnus Institute is not yet known as the trusted haven for lunatics and liars. There is no ridicule. No disdain. No emotions towards it at all, really, and hardly anyone knows its name.
The year is 1995, and Jon is eight, and he has always loved reading, because he once had a mum who loved it as much as him. She used to hold his hand as they browsed book shelves, used to push them between his open palms, used to sit with him tucked to her chest, reading him books that never ate a soul. She never got mad at him for his picky taste in books. She had always just laughed, and called him clever, and told him she loved him a thousand shining stars, a thousand cups of cocoa, a thousand kisses, a thousand hugs. Jon misses her laugh. He misses her telling him she loved him. He hasn’t heard anyone say it in so long.
Sometimes, it hurts, how much he misses her. It had always been the two of them, musketeers without any need of a third.
He thinks the Web had been right when it called him empty. He thinks he’s been empty for a long time. But he’s so very afraid of what it means to be filled up.
The year is 1995, and it has been two years since Mum laid a newspaper out in front of him, let him nose through the adverts to find words he didn’t know. He was six but he still remembers it, remembers the feel of the paper beneath his fingers, the slightly dirty tinge of the ink, the sunshine on her hair, the clean, brisk smell of the wind drifting through the open window. He remembers one of the adverts, so odd, so out of place amongst the plumbers and the cleaners and the restaurants. He remembers what it said.
Have you experienced something
unexplainable? Do you believe you’ve
been touched by the supernatural?
Give your statement.
The Magnus Institute, Research Center of the
Paranormal and Supernatural. London.
~*~
Nobody pays Jon much mind on the train into London, despite the ashen hue to his face or the pushpins crammed between his fingers, despite how he jumps whenever someone comes close or how he started shaking as the train pulled out and hasn’t stopped since. He’d like to think it’s the book ensconced in his bag, the danger of it radiating out and warning others off they way it didn’t warn Jon, but he knows in truth that they probably just don’t care.
Jon took the money from the emergency stash, and he didn’t tell Nan before he did it. He couldn’t, of course, not with her having shambled down the road with no shoes or coat to speak of. He hopes she’s okay. He hopes one of the neighbors found her.
(He hopes Tommy Bradstaff didn’t.)
Nan’s going to be fine, Jon thinks, pressing the pushpin firmer between his fingers just for the prick of pain it brings. The… Web…. didn’t want her; it wants Jon. And Jon’s gone, which means it won’t be waiting around his house. He’ll go to the Institute, and he’ll tell them about it all, the book and the spiders and dead, dead Tommy Bradstaff, and they’ll help him. They’ll save him.
“I’m afraid that statements are part of our Archivist’s duty,” says the lady at the reception, smiling sweetly, but she eyes his bloodied hands with a hesitant look, “and she’s away at the moment. You can write your statement down, though, and when she returns, we’ll be able to look into it.”
“I…” Jon feels cold. Jon feels sick. Jon feels…. Afraid. “What?”
“She’s not here, dear,” says the receptionist, almost apologetic, and she keeps looking at Jon’s hands like she wants to mention them, but she doesn’t, adults never do, they just look and look at the blood and the bruises and they pretend not to see them. “If you leave your name, statement, and number, we can get back to you in the next few days--”
“A few- -I don’t have a few days!”
The woman frowns at him. “There’s no need to be rowdy.”
Jon sucks in a breath, and he’s so afraid, he’s so afraid, he can’t breathe he’s so afraid. “I--In a few days I’m going to be--” Dead. Not dead. Worse than dead. A home to spiders. He doesn’t know. He’s frightened. “I need to talk to someone now, and I mean right now. Aren’t you all supposed to help people?”
The woman looks at him pityingly. “Your friends give you a spook, dear?”
“I… beg your pardon?”
“We get a lot of boys and girls your age because of it. They’re just teasing, dear. It wasn’t real.”
“It wasn’t--” Jon’s going to die, they’re not going to listen and he’s going to die, Tommy Bradstaff will drag him through Mr. Spider’s front door even if Jon doesn’t give into the book and walk through himself, and this woman is going to be smiling the whole damn time. “This isn’t about a prank--or teasing or, or--I found a book, and it’s going to kill me. It’s already killed someone else! I can’t wait for a few days!”
And the woman just. Sighs. Like he’s making things more difficult than it needs to be.
She cranes a look around him, towards the lean, tall man walking down the hall, book in hand. “Elias, could you come give me a hand?”
“I--no, please, you have to help me, please I--”
The man moves next to them smoothly, smile already working its way onto his face. Jon thinks it’s meant to be soothing, probably, but the way he is now, it only serves to frustrate him further. “Of course we’ll help you,” he says, reassuring. “But how about we start with helping you find your mum, okay?” He glances up at the woman. “What’s the problem, Abigail?”
Abigail heaves a sigh. “A book he read frightened him.”
Elias nods, considerate, like it’s exactly as he expected. He smells funny, Jon thinks. Like smoke, but an odd sort. He doesn’t like the smell. “Books can be frightening at times. Why don’t you tell us the title, and we’ll hunt down a copy?”
Jon hates them terribly in that moment. He wants to scream.
“It’s not--” He groans. “The story isn’t the problem here.”
Elias opens his mouth, begins to speak, but then:
“A book, you said?”
Jon jumps, because he’s jumped at everything since Mr. Spider opened his door.
There’s a man in the doorway of the main foyer, brow raised in curiosity. He’s old, a bit weathered, a bit wrinkled, with a thick beard and sharp, clear eyes. He takes broad, clean steps towards Jon, quick and measured, then glances down at his hands.
He frowns, kneeling before him. Before Jon can stop him, he takes his left hand in his own, carefully pulling out the pin between his middle and ring finger.
“Did you do this to yourself?”
“I--” Jon stammers. “I had to. The book--it--I kept wanting to open it. Trying to. Even when I knew better.”
“This book that kills people?”
“I--yeah. Eats them. Or, well, the thing inside it does. It just. Lets it out, I think.”
“Mr. Wright, I don’t think--”
Mr. Wright smiles warmly. “I’ll handle this, Abigail.” He turns back to Jon. “This book, did you bring it with you?”
Shaking, Jon pulls the box out of his bag, and he doesn’t mind the pins as he does.
DO NOT OPEN ME JON
Mr. Wright accepts it with interest, careful to avoid the tacks. “Did you do this?”
“I--wanted to get rid of it. Tried to.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I did. Something brought it back.” His heart hammers in his chest. “Will you help me?”
Mr. Wright smiles at Jon, and it almost makes him believe that everything will be alright.
Then, he tears the box open in a swift, clean movement.
“You can’t!” cries Jon, lunging forward. “It’ll--you’ll read it, it’ll make you knock--”
“Hm. A child’s book. A Guest for Mr. Spider,” reads Mr. Wright, regarding the cover with a clinical interest. Jon wants to rip it from his hands. He wants to open it up for himself, swallow the words whole, consume the book until it consumes him. Mr. Wright breaks the tape binding it with a sharp fingernail, flipping open the front. “From the library of Jurgen Leitner.”
A jolt goes through the room, through Abigail and Elias, through Jon. When he looks at the receptionist’s face again, it’s stricken.
“Sir, I never thought--”
Mr. Wright hummed. “I suppose you didn’t. We’ll speak later, Abigail. Get me someone from Artifacts Storage. Someone with a good, strong box.” He turns to Jon. “I suppose you know what it does?”
“I--” Jon nods. “There’s a door. And. Legs. Mr. Spider, he--does that mean you believe me?”
“Of course I do, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright. “You’ve been very smart to come here today. If you follow me, I’ll take your statement.”
Jon’s heart leaps in his throat. “You’ll help me?”
Mr. Wright says, “Right downstairs, Jonathan. Everything worthwhile happens in the Archives. It’s the soul of the Institute, really.” He turns to Elias. “Elias, would you show him the way? I have to see the book is delivered safely to Artifacts. I’d hate to lose someone to a Leitner.”
Elias nods, moving between Jon and Mr. Wright--no, Jon and the book. Or both. He places himself between them like a shield. “Of course, Mr. Wright.”
“I did tell you to call me James, Elias.” He nods to them both. “I’ll be down in just a moment. A first aid kit for our friends’ hands, perhaps? And Abigail, if you might come down to my office at the end of the day.”
Abigail swallows, her face looking pinched. “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. It won’t be a moment, Jonathan.”
“I… alright.” Jon nods. “Thank you.”
“Are you parents with you here today?”
“I, no, my Nan, she--” The words die in his throat. “No one will notice I’m gone, really.”
Mr. Wright takes this in with an even nod. “Off you go, then.”
And Jon does, all the way down, until the chill gloom of the Archives has swallowed him up. Elias sets him up at a table, and offers him some water, and takes Jon’s hands in his own to pull the remaining pins out. He sets about cleaning them with medical wipes, then wrapping them in thick white gauze.
“Why did you put pins in your hand?” he says, as he adds tape to the junction of Jon’s wrist.
Shrugging, Jon pulls his hands back, cradling them close to his chest. “I… wanted to open the book. Even after… what it did.” He studies the bandages with a careful interest. His voice drops until it’s barely there. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so bad.”
Elias regards him carefully. “Must have been frightening,” he says eventually.
Jon doesn’t answer. He looks back at the shelves
“Everything alright?” prompts Elias.
Jon jolts. “I--sorry.” He cranes around in his chair. “Is anyone else here, do you know?”
Elias raises an eyebrow. “With Gertrude gone? I very much doubt anyone would dare. She’s like a rabid hyena with this place. No one’s allowed in when she’s not here--Mr. Wright being an exception, of course.”
Jon doesn’t see. He doesn’t know who Gertrude is. He itches, deep inside, looking at those shelves. “I… just thought someone was watching me, is all.”
He sits at a table while Elias sets up a tape recorder, and taps his fingers, and stares at the shelves. He gets an odd feeling, staring at those shelves. Like he’s looking in the mouth of a cave. Like he wants to climb inside.
“You’ve had a large scare,” says Elias. “Do you have your folks’ number? Anyone I can call?”
Jon thinks of Nan, of Tommy sitting at the table. His head hurts. “I’m worried that--”
“That will be all, Elias,” says Mr. Wright.
Elias jolts. “Of course,” he says, blinking. “I was just about to get our friend’s contact information here--”
“I’ll handle that. You may leave now.”
Nodding, Elias says, “Yes, sir.” He smiles at Jon in a way Jon thinks is meant to be comforting. “Come find me before you go, okay? You can wait with me until your parents get here. You shouldn’t be heading off alone.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Elias,” says Mr. Wright, taking his place in the chair across from Jon. He sets a tape recorder on the table, then waits for Elias to leave before he presses the button. Jon wishes he had stayed, but he doesn’t say it. “Right then. Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding his encounter with the book ‘A Guest for Mr. Spider.’ Statement taken directly from subject, the seventh of January, 1995. Statement begins.”
He nods to Jon.
“I--” Those eyes watch him from the stacks, watch him shift, watch him squirm, those awful eyes he cannot see. A part of him wants to stare back. “I don’t like reading things that I feel I’ve already read before. It’s like, after the first, it feels like I’ve already crawled inside their minds and learned all they have to say. I like reading, but I like reading new things. My mum always said it was good, said I was curious, but Nan, she thinks I just like to be difficult. She found the book in a charity shop, and the second I saw it, I knew I hated it…”
~*~
Mr. Wright lets the tape recorder run after Jon’s words have already run dry. He stares at him from the other end of the table, silent, watching.
Jon shifts uneasily. “So. Do you believe me?”
A beat. And then:
“Oh, it’s hardly a matter of belief, Jonathan. Do you believe in fate?”
Jon blinks. “Like… I was meant to find the book?”
“The Web certainly seems to think so. What say you?”
“I…” This doesn’t feel right, somehow, doesn’t feel like this is how the conversation is meant to go, but Jon feels himself slipping further down it’s spiral anyway. The words had flowed out of him methodically, rhythmically, like he was always meant to say them. He doesn’t want to stop. “I say I don’t want to be a mobile home for cobwebs.”
Mr. Wright smirks. “I suppose not, no.”
“Are… you going to help me?” Jon shifts in his seat, and he realizes he never heard anyone say anything about help, not upstairs, not in the ad. Just research. Just a statement. “Tommy Bradstaff, he’s probably still in my neighborhood. He’ll be mad when I don’t knock.”
“Yes, he is a dilemma.” Mr. Wright hums again. “Not a very large one though. These temporary hosts never last very long. Don’t hold together very well.”
Dimly, Jon thinks he should get up and leave in the same way he once thought he should stop reading that book. He thinks he’s afraid in the same way he was afraid when he saw that final page, though he does not know why.
“I--” He cranes in his chair. “Are you sure there’s no one here?”
“There’s you and there’s me,” Mr. Wright tells him, evenly, and those eyes are still staring. “Who else could there be?”
“Someone’s watching me,” insists Jon.
Mr. Wright cocks his head. “Do you think what happened to you could have happened to anyone, Jon?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Mr. Wright does not answer. Jon huffs. “Anyone who read it, I suppose. What does it matter?”
“Anyone can act as spider food, that’s true,” acknowledges Mr. Wright, like he’s discussing the weather. “Your Tommy Bradstaff proves that well enough. But do you think the Web would have pursued anyone, Jonathan?”
“I… don’t recall ever telling you my name.”
“There are special people in this world, Jonathan, I truly do believe it. People above the rest. I think you’ve been noticed as one.”
Something horrible worms itself into his stomach. His palms itch. The shelves watch. “I… should go. My Nan is going to be wondering where I am.”
“No she’s not. You said it yourself: No one will miss you for hours.”
Jon pushes his chair back with a screech. His heart beats furiously, and he’s still not absolutely certain as to why. “I think I want to go now. Please.”
“Oh, that’s hardly safe. The Web’s likely been waiting for you since the moment you walked through these doors. You might not even make it to the train station before it moved.”
“I…” Jon falters. “Someone’s watching, aren’t they?”
Carefully, calmly, Mr. Wright reaches his hand in his pocket and digs something out. Jon can’t see it, the thing in his fist, but he knows there’s something inside, something terrible. He hates it in the same way he hated the book.
“I’d like to make a deal with you, Jonathan.” He opens his hand then, palm up, to reveal an entirely ordinary coin, silver and shining. “Call the toss.”
Just barely, Jon shakes his head. He stares at that coin, that hand, and he feels like he’s staring down at a long, hard drop, and he doesn’t know why. “I... don’t want to.”
“Call the toss,” repeats Mr. Wright, like Jon hadn’t even spoken. “And if you win it, I’ll save you from the Web.”
“I--” Jon falters. “That… thing won’t get me?”
Mr. Wright smiles thinly. “You have my word.”
“Heads, then.”
And the coin flips. Over and up. End over end.
Mr. Wright does not look at it when he catches it. He just closes his hand over it and stands. “Follow me, Jon. I’ll show you the way out.”
Jon’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. He thinks he just feels sick. He gets up to follow, then stumbles briefly. His vision blurs, and Jon blinks.
“Everything alright?” says Mr. Wright.
Jon blinks again, then frowns. He must have gotten turned around when he stumbled. He could have sworn that he was facing the other half of the archives. He turns around, back the right way.
Shaking his head, he follows Mr. Wright past the stacks, through the shelves, back, back, back, right to the door which leads to the staircase which leads to the main lobby. They followed the exact path Elias had led Jon through when he first came, step for step. Jon is certain of it. The door that Mr. Wright opens is the door to the stairwell. The door that Jon walks through leads to the stairs. He sees them as he walks through.
Which is why Jon… can’t really explain why, a moment later, the image of the stairs melts away, only to be replaced by a clean, tidy old room with a desk and a stack of files and a cot in the corner.
“Hm, this isn’t an ideal place for you,” says Mr. Wright, idly thoughtful. “But it will have to do until I can make proper arrangements. Gertrude won’t be back for a few days, luckily, so you won’t be bothered here.”
Jon turns just in time to see the door swing shut.
“Mr. Wright!”
(The door locks.)
~*~
Mr. Wright does not come back. Not for a long time.
Jon doesn’t know exactly how long, because there isn’t a clock in the Head Archivist’s office. There’s a name plate--Gertrude Robinson--and a set of drawers filled with meaningless baubles--a fistful of paperclips, a flashlight, some blank pages and old tapes--and an iron-cast set of keys that do not open the door of the room he’s trapped in. There aren’t any windows, either, and there’s no way to tell if it’s been two hours or two days since Mr. Wright locked him in here.
Jon has been in the office long enough to scream himself hoarse calling for help. Long enough to beat his fists bloody against the door. Long enough to wonder if Tommy Bradstaff has killed Nan yet, or if he’s still waiting for Jon to kill himself first. Long enough to curl up on the carpet in despair and cry himself to sleep.
When he wakes, Mr. Wright is there. Sitting in the armchair across. Watching him.
“Sleeping on the floor when there’s a perfectly good cot in the room? Honestly, Jonathan. Have a little decorum.”
Slowly, Jon sits up. The carpet clings to his cheek painfully as he rises, pulling at the imprints in his skin. He scoots back against the wall.
Mr. Wright raises an eyebrow expectantly.
Jon licks his lips. “I want to go home.”
Mr. Wright looks disappointed, pursing his lips like Jon had asked the wrong thing. “That’s hardly likely, now is it?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You won the toss. Congratulations.”
Jon’s mouth goes dry. “You said you’d help me.”
“I said I’d protect you from the Web’s puppet. He’s hardly likely to feed you to Mr. Spider here, now is he?”
“You can’t keep me in here forever.”
“No,” allows Mr. Wright, inclining his head slightly. “Though I had hardly been planning to.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
Mr. Wright ignores him. “I brought you food. Not much in lieu of a proper meal, I’m afraid, but you’ll survive.”
There is an apple and a protein bar on the table, with a water bottle besides. Jon doesn’t so much as look at them.
“People are going to come down here,” he says, with a bravado he doesn’t feel. “They’ll find me.”
“Let me worry about that, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright, and he stands. “I’ll be back in a few hours with your dinner. Try not to get into any trouble.”
Stumbling, Jon tries to stand, but his legs collapse from under him like a half-broken folding table. “Wait, please--”
(The door locks.)
~*~
He comes back with a cold cheese sandwich, an apple, and some water, and he still does not let Jon out.
Jon is waiting for him, that time, tucked against the frame of the door and waiting for it to open. When it finally does, he almost doesn’t realize, and his surprise costs him a good few seconds.
That’s too much, as it turns out.
Mr. Wright catches him easily when Jon tries to dart through the crack, tossing him back with a strength surprising for his age. Jon’s back hits the floor, and the wind goes out of him, and Mr. Wright watches it all with a calm, appraising look.
“That wasn’t very smart,” he tells him, evenly, “now was it?”
Jon scrambles back.
Sighing, Mr. Wright steps inside, shutting the door behind him. The lock snaps closed cleanly. Jon flinches at the noise.
“I think it’s time we set some ground rules,” says Mr. Wright, settling the food on the desk beside its uneaten counterparts before he strides to the other end, seating himself solidly in Gertrude Robinson’s chair. He gestures to the chair opposite.
Jon doesn’t move.
Mr. Wright’s voice turns sharp. “You’re not an animal, Jonathan. Get off of the floor.”
Jon turns red despite himself. He stands, then, after a moment, settles himself on the edge of the chair.
“Eat your food, Jonathan.”
“I’m not hungry,” lies Jon.
Mr. Wright smiles humorlessly. “We’ve arrived at rule number one, then. When I tell you to do something, you do it.”
Jon swallows. He still does not reach for the food.
Mr. Wright moves to stand.
Shaking, Jon snatches the apple out from before him. He takes a small, tentative bite, his teeth barely breaking the bright red skin, before he drops his hand and the apple alike back to his lap.
“All of it,” says Mr. Wright, and he watches as Jon takes in every last bit, apple, sandwich, and water alike.
Jon feels vaguely ill as he settles back in his chair. The food sits in his stomach like a rock. He didn’t like having to eat it, and he doesn’t like the way Mr. Wright is still watching him.
“Good boy, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright, warmly, and something twists unpleasantly in Jon’s gut. “Rule number two. Do not try to go anywhere I do not say first. We wouldn’t want you getting hurt, now would we?”
Jon swallows. “Are you going to hurt me?”
“I’m sure I won’t have to.”
Tears push at the back of Jon’s eyes. Something hot and thick lodges itself in his throat. He swallows it back.
“Now, there’s something I want you to do for me,” says Mr. Wright, calm and understanding, “and if you do it, I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
Jon nods shakily.
“Good boy,” says Mr. Wright again, but the words sound bitter to Jon’s ears, and he hates them, he hates him. He wants to go home. Mr. Wright slides a thin manila folder across the table, then settles a tape recorder between them. It turns on without anyone pressing the button. “I want you to read it for me.”
“I--” Jon blinks “--what?”
“I do not enjoy repeating myself, Jonathan.”
Jon swallows. He opens the folder. Skims it. It’s a statement, one of the Institute’s. It’s yellowed, with odd brown stains, and it tells the story of an old soldier who cheated death but didn’t live. “I--just read it?”
“Now, Jonathan.”
There’s a sharpness in Mr. Wright’s voice. Jon hurriedly picks up the papers.
“‘Are you interested in folk tales at all? I know I’m--’”
“Stop.”
Jon freezes.
“That’s hardly a proper introduction, now is it? We don’t have any information about who’s talking. We don’t know who is recording, or what your position within the Institute is. We don’t have the slightest idea why they gave the statement. Anyone who wanted to look back on it would have to listen to the whole thing to know if it had even the slightest relevance to the matter of their research, and that’s hardly productive. Start again. Give us the raw details of the case first.”
“I--” Jon sets the pages down again, his heart beating fast. “What?”
“What did I say about--”
“You kidnapped me.”
Jon’s chest heaves. He grips the page between tight, white fingers, panic clawing at his throat as he watches the paper crinkle in his grasp. It pulls, taunt, and Jon can see thin tears begin to form where his fingers dig at the page.
Mr. Wright’s jaw sets hard in his face. “I would suggest you calm yourself, Jonathan.”
Jon’s mouth twists into something awful, and his ragged breaths quicken before calming all at once. He slams the page back against the desk’s surface.
“ Fine --I--Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, captive of the Magnus Institute, who--who’s locked up in a dusty old office by Mr. Wright and--and--he’s crazy and I want to go home--”
Mr. Wright hits him.
Jon hadn’t been expecting it, not really, though perhaps he should have. He was kidnapped, after all. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Mr. Wright was willing to hurt him.
The hit is enough to send him tumbling off his chair, though not enough to do any real damage. His jaw aches something fierce and Jon knows there will be a bruise, but he’s broken bones before and this isn’t one.
It hurts, though, and the spiraling panic that had been circulating through Jon’s brain since Mr. Wright first locked the door starts to shudder through his mind. God--unless Jon escapes, he’s going to hurt him, if not kill him, and even if Jon escapes then Tommy Bradstaff is waiting for him outside the Institute walls. Jon’s… Jon’s going to die soon. And it’s going to hurt.
He doesn’t realize the exact moment he starts crying. One moment he’s on the ground and the next there’s hot tears spilling down his face, and his chest is heaving, and he can’t stop them again. He wants to calm down but he can’t, not with Mr. Wright watching him like that.
Mr. Wright keeps watching him. Right up until the tears run out.
“Calmed down now, have we?” he says, lightly, as if nothing had been truly wrong. “Is your little tantrum over?”
Cheeks burning, Jon nods, then picks himself off the ground and slides back into the chair. He doesn’t meet Mr. Wright’s eyes.
“Good. Start again.”
Jon licks his lips, and his tongue tastes of iron. He looks at the papers and the words begin to pass through his parted lips, one after another, as if they were pulled out on a hook. “Statement of Nathaniel Thorpe, regarding… his own mortality. Original statement given June 4th, 1972. Recording by Jonathan Sims, the, um, just… Jon Sims, I suppose.
“Statement begins.”
~*~
Mr. Wright is smiling at him by the end of it, that thin-lipped, creepy smile that Jon is so quickly starting to hate. He nods appreciatively as the tape recorder clicks off. “Excellent work, Jonathan. That went even better than I expected.”
“I--right--” Jon set the paper down gingerly. He feels… dizzy, he thinks, too light and untethered, like he might float away. He feels tired. He feels like he’s going to throw up. “Did… was there something in that water?”
A wrinkled hand settles against his forehead lightly before it migrates down, cupping his cheek. Mr. Wright peers carefully into his face. “Hmm. Took more than a little out of you, it seems.”
“I feel--” Jon tries to speak, but the words just roll around in his mouth like marbles, too heavy and clumsy for his tongue to ever lift. The light hurts his eyes, suddenly. “Did you give me something?”
“Easy, Jonathan,” murmurs Mr. Wright, moving to his side. “Don’t go upsetting yourself now.”
Distantly, Jon’s aware of Mr. Wright’s arms hooking under his, of him guiding him up and out of the chair and supporting his fawn-clumsy steps. He leads him to the cot in the corner and helps him lie down.
“Rest now,” Mr. Wright tells him, and Jon feels his papery-white fingers twist their way through his dark, tangled hair. “Can’t have you making yourself ill, can we?”
Jon feels like he should say something clever then, but he also feels like if he ever opens his mouth again, he’ll vomit, so he elects to keep it shut. He tries to keep his eyes open but the room swims horribly the more he looks, so he squeezes them closed and prays for the room to still beneath him. There’s a chill at his back cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Jon thinks there might be a vent there, something to let the air in. He wonders if he can shout through it for help, and then wonders if he’ll ever be able to shout again. He can’t open his mouth.
Jon falls asleep as Mr. Wright begins a hum, and his last thoughts are of the chill of the air and the spin of the room, and of the thin, pale fingers crawling their way through his hair.
~*~
When Jon wakes, Mr. Wright is gone, and he’s alone.
He blinks hazily, his eyelids coming apart reluctantly against the grit. The dim lights overhead burn when he peels them open, like knives in his brain, and Jon quickly shuts them again.
His head pounds.
It takes him a good twenty minutes to feel human enough to try to open them again, and a good ten minutes after that to be able to sit up. His mouth is dry and rancid, his tongue too thick in his mouth to have any hope for speech, and his throat isn’t much better.
There’s a needle in his arm, feeding into an IV line that hangs from a coat hanger attached to a shelf. Jon blinks at it, confused, before he moves to fumble with the tape pinning it down.
“Don’t touch that, Jonathan.”
Jon flinches.
He hadn’t noticed the door opening, hadn’t heard the heavy, lead-soled footsteps that always heralded the arrival of Mr. Wright.
Mr. Wright frowns at him. In long, quick strides, he crosses the room, pressing his leathered palm to Jon’s forehead and forcing his head upwards. He forces their eyes to meet. “Still feverish I see.”
Jon swallows.
Mr. Wright releases him a moment later. “Drink this,” he commands, shoving a lukewarm water bottle in his hands. Then, a moment later, he snaps, “All of it.”
Jon’s stomach aches by the time he’s allowed to lower the bottle again, and his tongue feels odd and swollen. “How long was I asleep for?”
Mr. Wright looks at him sharply, and Jon flinches. After a moment of watching, he says, “A few days.”
Jon startles.
“You’ll be glad to hear that you won’t have to be here for much longer,” continues Mr. Wright, headless of Jon’s distress. “My arrangements for you are almost complete. We’ll be moving to a more permanent location tonight.”
Tears well up in the corner of Jon’s eyes once more. He tries to push them back, but they press harder, stronger, and Jon soon finds them spilling over the corners of his lids and down his cheeks. Mr. Wright sighs, looking over at him with thin, pressed lips, but that just makes Jon cry harder. Soon, he’s a mess of hiccups and sobs and wet, sticky snot, and he presses his forehead to his bunched knees in an attempt to hide from those awful eyes.
Mr. Wright says nothing as Jon wracks with shuddering sobs. He just watches.
“All done?” he asks, lightly, when his tears finally slow, but that just sends him into another spiral. Mr. Wright sighs.
When Jon is close to calm, Mr. Wright jabs a handkerchief in his direction. “Clean yourself,” he orders, and Jon obeys, face red and tight.
Mr. Wright regards him with cold, clear eyes. “Do try to avoid similar demonstrations in the future,” he says, his voice light with danger. “I hardly have the patience for them.”
Jon squeezes his eyes shut. In a small, thin voice, he says, “I want to go home.”
“You’ve established that.” Mr. Wright steps towards him, and Jon flinches backwards, crowding against the wall. Rather than striking him again, however, Mr. Wright merely takes his wrist in his hand and places the tips of his fingers against the pulse point. He frowns. “And I believe I have established that that won’t be happening.”
Jon sucks in a horrible, shuddering breath, and the fingers against his wrist tighten, nails digging into skin. “I want my mum.”
Mr. Wright scoffs. “You’re not even going to ask for something possible?”
Jon flinches.
His list of wants are impossible at the moment, he knows, bound away by the breach of time and distance. He still wants them.
He wants his mum. (His mum is dead.)
He wants his dad. (His dad is dead.)
He wants Nan. (Nan doesn’t want him.)
He wants to go home. (Mr. Wright won’t let him.)
He wants to go home . (Tommy Bradstaff is home, waiting.)
He wants to go home. (He can’t.)
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll display a modicum of decorum when I bring you out from this room?” says Mr. Wright, a sour look on his face. “Allow me to take this moment to make myself clear: There will be no one else in the building when we leave. There will be no one around the building. There will be no one to hear you. If you try to run, I will find you, and the consequences will be… considerable . Am I understood?”
Jon presses his face back into his knees. He jerks a nod.
“In words, Jonathan.”
“Yes,” whispers Jon.
“In the meantime, I want you to rest in here.” Mr. Wright’s eyes rove over him in another awful, searing glance. “Do not excite yourself. I will be leaving you additional bottles of water, and I expect them all to be consumed by the time I return. You will remain in bed and out of trouble.”
There’s a rustle of fabric, the creak of a chair, and then Mr. Wright’s footsteps are moving closer, until Jon can feel him hovering inches away. “Lie down, Jonathan.”
For a moment, Jonathan scrunches closer, presses his forehead harder against his knees as if it could possibly protect him. Then, trembling, he unwinds himself, and settles against the cot as if it were made of ironcast nails.
Huffing a breath, Mr. Wright takes his arm in his hand once more. His fingers are cold when he presses them to his wrist, hard as a bone, and Jon buries his face into the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut.
“You’ve worked yourself into a state,” mutters Mr. Wright, accusingly. “If you continue like this, you’ll make yourself sick.”
At this, his grip on Jon’s wrist slacks, and Jon hurriedly slips it free and tucks it to his chest. He presses his face harder into the pillow.
For a moment, Jon thinks it might be over, and that Mr. Wright might leave him alone once more. But Mr. Wright does not leave. Rather, he settles into the desk chair and waits, watching him.
And his eyes never leave him. Jon feels his gaze until the moment he falls asleep.
~*~
There is a draft at Jon’s back. He feels it when he lies in the cot, which is always, as Mr. Wright never gives him leave to get out. He tries, a few times, but Mr. Wright unfailingly knows, and when he tells Jon that he disobeyed again, it… isn’t pleasant.
So Jon spends a lot of time in the bed. He spends a lot of time feeling the draft.
Because this is a soundproof room. This is a sealed room. There shouldn’t be a draft. And even if there were a draft, it shouldn’t be coming from beneath him.
Which means there must be an opening somewhere. One Jon could find. One Jon could use.
An air vent, at least. Something he could scream into. Ideally, a way out, but Jon’s not holding out too much hope.
Slowly, Jon sits up. He gets out of bed, and he pulls the cot from the wall.
Frowning, he inspects the floor, looking for any sign of anything. The carpet beneath is dull and grey and faintly stained, speckled with rusty brown splotches that Jon tells himself is coffee. But there’s no… secret trapdoor that’s going to save him. No way out.
Jon huffs a breath, frustrated. Holding both palms out, he runs it along the edges of the carpet, feeling carefully along. His fingers graze upon a bump, and when he pushes, it slips beneath.
Jon blinks. Excited now, he digs his fingers deeper, and the carpet gives way beneath them, coming up to reveal a dull brown door.
It’s… a secret trapdoor that’s going to save him. Jon laughs, giddy, high-pitched, and he tugs it open.
The cold air hits him first. It’s musty and wet, and it smells of moss and stale, aged water. As Jon peers down, all he sees is darkness, endless and deep. He can’t see more than a few inches past the doorway.
It’s Mr. Wright that makes the decision for him.
He hears the footsteps hammer overhead, for the first time panicked. Every other time he descended the stairwell, it had been a calm, leisurely thudding, giving Jon plenty of time to be afraid as he approached. This time, however, Mr. Wright is sprinting.
There’s a flashlight in the corner. Jon lunges for it. As he catches sight of the window, he sees the door to the Archives open, and Mr. Wright sprints through.
He has another locked door to get through before he can get to Jon. Jon, however, does not.
He lets his legs hang over the edge, into the darkness below, and he hopes that the drop is not too far. He pushes off right as he hears the key slip into the lock.
And he falls.