ABOUT THE BOOK:
Until the spiders start whispering.
Turns out the spiders aren’t just stalking her for kicks. They need her to be their voice, their vessel, whatever that means. But their timing is crap, because there’s no way Erin is giving up her human life just when things are starting to get amazing. Too bad the spiders just won’t quit. Like it or not, Erin will have to choose, and it won’t be nearly as easy as she thinks.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:Cait Spivey is a speculative fiction writer, author of the YA paranormal romance novella I See the Web. She is also a freelance editor, on staff for Curiosity Quills Press and REUTS Publications, as well as a managing member of Bear and Black Dog Editing, LLC. In her spare time, she plans her next tattoo (there will always be a next tattoo), watches too much Netflix, and spends quality time with her darling husband Matt and completely adorable dog Jay. The rest of her time is devoted to her tireless quest to make America read more.
I’m dreaming about a house. It’s a big house on the coast, built into a hill with big ocean-facing windows and a patio that wraps almost the whole way around. I sit on that patio with a big mug of coffee (because adults drink coffee, not soda, right?), wrapped up in a fluffy afghan like my grandma used to knit. The sea is dark grey, which makes me think that this house is somewhere in the northwest, Puget Sound maybe. It’s cold and fresh and I am just as happy as can be.
Then she comes out and stands next to me. She leans down and kisses my forehead. I look up and see Dawn, or what I imagine a grown-up version of her will look like. Her hair is shorter, her face is thinner, and her boobs are just a little bigger. She’s wearing a thick blue robe and woolen pajamas. I stretch up towards her and she leans down again and kisses me on the mouth this time.
I get the sense that this is our day off. The lucid part of my still-teenage mind thrills with the realization that we are adults and we live together in this glorious house.
I hear a shriek of glee that mimics my own feelings and a little bullet of a creature comes thundering across the patio. It’s a little boy with Dawn’s golden hair. He’s maybe two years old, dressed in purple footie pajamas.
“Someone’s happy to be awake,” I hear myself say in a voice deeper than I have now. I put my coffee down on a table and hoist him into my lap.
This is our son, lucid-me understands. Dawn and I have a child.
I’m dreaming of the future, a life in the future where Dawn and I are married and we’re mothers and everything is perfect. For some reason I can’t explain, this makes me incredibly sad. I look up at my beautiful wife, I look down at our beautiful child, and I am filled with dread.
Why dread? I ask myself. It could happen. Washington legalized marriage equality. That’s probably why we moved—will move—it could happen.
“Mommerin,” says the boy. He looks up at me with a blank face.
Mommerin. His name for me, I remember. He calls Dawn DeeDee. But those aren’t memories, not real ones. It’s the dream, making stuff up. I feel sick to my stomach. My body lurches. I vomit something black, all over my lap and all over the boy.
Dawn screams. I blink through my reflex to squint, trying to see through the burning tears. My poor baby, covered in black, comes into focus. Then I scream too.
He’s covered in spiders. Him, me, we’re both crawling with tiny black spiders.