Nightmare Game
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 68
Ethan and Oliver lingered, grilling the village head for more on the town, while Bennett and his crew set off to scope out The Shrine that Mia had mentioned.
From the old man, Ethan heard echoes of Mia’s line almost word for word: Arachnis was their guiding spirit, the god who’d handed them this quiet life on a silver platter.
But that story rang hollow. If Arachnis was the benevolent force they painted, why keep lashing out at the very guests roped into the Ceremony?
And the villagers’ vibe toward Arachnis? It went beyond respect—straight into bone-deep dread.
“When I first rolled into town,” Ethan said, “I caught folks easing their doors open just a crack, peeking out like they were scouting for landmines.”
“And your houses are weird too—tiny setups crammed with extra doors. If I’m right, they’re scared stiff of clipping a spider or shredding a web, yeah?”
The village head shot him a puzzled look, like Ethan had asked if water was wet.
“Of course. Every spider in the village is a piece of Madam Arachne herself. Us mortals? We don’t get to piss her off.”
A flicker crossed Ethan’s eyes. Not worried about the spiders getting hurt, but about riling her up?
Something didn’t mesh, like grit jamming the gears of a watch, grinding everything to a halt.
By their own telling, kind old Arachnis had welcomed them, showered the land with steady rains and bumper crops year after year.
But the villagers’ fear laced every word, a mix of awe and terror that screamed anything but benevolent rule. It felt more like chains forged from fright, keeping folks in line.
Was Arachnis some kind of dark god after all?
To test the hunch, Ethan pressed on. “What happens if you accidentally tear a web?”
The air thickened, turning brittle.
The village head’s easy smile faded, hardening into something cold and unyielding.
“Anyone who riles Madam Arachne faces her wrath head-on. She delivers the divine punishment herself. That’s the unbreakable law of this village.”
“Even guests aren’t exempt. Remember that.”
Oliver picked up on the sudden chill rolling off the old man, his hackles rising. He clapped Ethan’s shoulder—a subtle heads-up to back off.
“Sure, when in Weaver’s Hollow, do as the Hollowers do,” Ethan said lightly. “I’m all in on respecting local ways.”
The village head’s face softened back to grandfatherly warmth.
“Good to hear.”
Oliver gawked, muttering under his breath later: This guy’s got a face like a light switch—flip from sunny to stormy in a heartbeat.
“By the way,” Ethan added, as if it just hit him, “I’m still getting my bearings here. Any off-limits spots I should know about? Wouldn’t want to blunder into a taboo and tick off Madam Arachne.”
“None at all. Madam Arachne’s plenty forgiving.”
The village head beamed, pure devotee. “Besides, she sees everything you do. No room for slip-ups.”
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