I've always been a fan of history.

What can I say? I like hearing about the stories of the times. The spirit of them. Every time my teachers sent an assignment home from school about talking to family members who'd seen some time period, I would practically bounce off the walls. I love it all, every aspect of it, from documenting everything to hearing the stories themselves.

I always gravitated toward a particular family member; my grandfather, Daniel. When I was a really little kid, he was about 80 to 85, stooped low from years of hunching, clutching onto his cane like his life depended on it. He was always... quiet. My mom and my aunts always doted on him, constantly telling any outsider of the family that he was the best father, best role model, best everything. But I didn't really see it. He was just silent whenever I came into the room. Sometimes I would play next to him, attempting to break him out of his shell, but he always averted his gaze from mine, old-person shakes dominating his demeanor. Still, when I asked questions about his life from the 1930's to the 80's, he would always answer.

His stories were always entertaining, to say the least. He told me a bit about his father, my great-grandfather, Peter, who died before I was born. How he grew up in London, eventually moved to America, fell in love with a woman and had kids. How he watched the wars, how he was lucky enough to dodge the draft for Vietnam because of... something. He never did tell me what.

He died when I turned thirteen. It was a suicide, he downed his sleeping pills, drank a half-bottle of vodka, kicked the bucket right next to my grandmother, Alice. She was a no-nonsense type of woman, washed my mouth out with soap once for saying "damn" in the kitchen in front of her, but I'd never seen her so solemn at the funeral. She didn't exactly cry, but I caught her out of the corner of my eye wiping tears away with a proper, crisp black handkerchief. He killed himself the night of Valentine's Day. They had a picnic that day, same as every year.

About a week later, Alice decided to clean out his old study, I guess in a half-hearted attempt to forget the betrayal Daniel forced on her. Dozens and dozens of full boxes of documents, records, letters, and newspaper clippings were generously dumped into our attic, locked away by my mother who'd seen a black widow spider up there once and forbade me from even looking up there in case the spider had other ideas for us. So everything sat, creaking and collapsing under the weight of years passing by, and soon, I turned 22, freshly graduating out of college.

My mother had invited me over to help her pack up. Alice was long gone, I was grown up, and she decided that she would start spending her pre-golden years over in a condo by the ocean. Hey, I respect the hustle, I would wanna get away from the town of Butt-Fuck Nowhere, too (fake name if it isn't obvious). So I came over to the house around noon today, and began to work.

Things were going well. We managed to pack all of her clothes in the span of about twenty minutes, started stacking books and trinkets she had lying around the house and placing them gently in boxes next to the front door. Soon we were done. We only needed to pack her personal belongings, and the movers would handle the furniture, the appliances, and everything else.

But somehow... my mind wandered to the attic. To what was in the attic. So as my mother sat down to rest on the couch, propping her feet up and dozing off easily, I snagged the attic key from the vase she had hidden it in eight years ago and sneakily pulled the attic's ladder down.

Despite the fact that nobody had been up there in at least eight years, there wasn't much in the way of a foreboding, unforgiving, loud sound emanating from the ladder's rope that would give away what I was up to. In fact, it was like it also went out of its way to make sure I could get away with my investigation. Like it too wanted me to uncover the secrets left behind by my grandfather.

I wish now that it didn't.

The attic was damp, and that was never a good sign. I inwardly groaned, because I knew some of the papers and boxes were already gone. Humidity likes to crawl into the confines of papers, warping and bloating them, making them illegible and hard to even pick up, let alone to read. But even from where I stood, I could see that quite a few of the initial boxes actually intact, set on top of Alice's old antique dining table she never wanted us to throw out.

And on the small stack of boxes sat a journal.

It was definitely dilapidated, but it wasn't really too destroyed, even for its age. And from there, I could see that it was... old. Way too old for me to look at comfortably. But it also seemed... preserved. Like someone was trying to take care of it. Something didn't seem right.

I figured it was okay to take a peek. I mean, I love history, and this seemed to be important to my family's records. So I delicately opened the hardback cover, and immediately realized that the handwriting was different than anyone in my family's. It was loopy, quite fancy, and the word choice, diction, and spelling suggested that the writer was British. Okay, made sense. Daniel's father, my great-grandfather, Peter, was British. Explained a bit.

The writing started normally. Mostly letters to Daniel, who was a fully grown adult at the time, asking him about his life like he couldn't have been asked himself. I could tell that things were tense between Peter and Daniel, and perhaps that was why Daniel never seemed to keep pictures of his family around the house like Alice did with hers. There was some sort of huge falling-out back in the 60's, and both Peter and Daniel never seemed to recover.

Everything was written in about the span of two months, but the journal was completely full. Like Peter had so much to say. So I planted my butt on a dusty, canvas-covered seat, and began to read.

"To Daniel. I have so much I desire to say to you. But I am on the last of my days, and though I wish you would come visit, perhaps it is best that you do not. I have a story I would like to tell you. Something that happened to me in 1858.

I was a young man at the time, perhaps twenty-one. A friend, George, and myself, had decided to visit Whitechapel for the winter season, to see our families. I was not married to Florence at the time, but had been courting, and I missed her terribly. So the trip had been needed. While we travelled, the weather had grown so horrible. To the point where ice on the trees turned into spikes, and wind blew them into the ground at full-force. It became dangerous, and we were forced to reside in a bed and breakfast for a few nights.

It was... unusual, to say the least. I had frequented Whitechapel for years, and I had never seen it before. It was cozy, quite large, homey and warm. George and I were immensely thankful for the accommodation, and I could tell that this would be our favourite bed and breakfast yet. It was clean, well-kept, and as we shook the snow and sludge from our coats, tromping out the ice from our boots on the pristine flooring, a woman descended the staircase to greet us.

She was also unusual, just like her abode. She wore all black, a classic mourning dressed donned with a black shawl, her raven hair massed high on her head, and on the crown of her hairline sat a circlet of fine red rubies. She smiled politely at us, and we were helplessly smitten without even hearing a word.

"Welcome to my inn, gentlemen. My name is Lady Amelia, and I am the governess here. I have beds to offer you if you can pay, of course."

Lord forgive me, for I was not thinking of your mother then. It was like Amelia had gripped my mind with claws and kept it close to her heart without even saying a word. Before either of us realized, we had payed for a week's stay.

"Thank you very much, sirs. Before I show you to your rooms, I would like to state that there are three rules I have for my affairs. The first is that i do not establish personal relationships with my tenants. I hope that is understandable."

"Oh, very," George whispered, licking his lips once as he stared at her. Amelia's eyes were captivating but... there was something wrong. It was like she was looking at us with desire. With... hunger. Like she was assessing us and our sizes, but not with benevolent intent. "I can't imagine wanting to bed tenants like us."

Her mouth had twisted into the ghost of a smile, pulling the shawl around her arms a little tighter, and I could have sworn then that I saw something. George was much too entranced, too tempted by lust, but I could not stop repeating what it was that I saw in my mind.

Something in her hair... moved. It had the appearance of an arachnid's leg, segmented and furry, as it pulled itself into the elaborate mass she sported on her head. I suppose it thought itself as far too exposed, and it occurred so quickly that I had no idea at the moment what to even begin thinking.

"Such a fine sense of humor you have. My second rule is that I mustn't be disturbed past nine. When that clock rings true, my door will be locked, and you will have no way of reaching me until morning."

That rule struck me as unusual, as well. What sort of governess refrains from assisting her tenants, especially those who pay to stay? it seemed as though she was using all humanly restraint possible from even establishing trust with us. A pinprick of awareness snaked through my head, and soon I was able to listen to her honeyed words a little clearer.

"Lastly, I expect you both to live up to your commitments. You paid for a week, and for a week you shall stay. Nothing more, nothing less."

There was something wrong, indeed. Her words were delivered kindly, but they were threatening in nature.

She had just let us know that we were not allowed to leave until the week was out.

Amelia clapped her hands twice, and a servant came darting out from the kitchen. Her eyes were covered in a dirty rag, her hands wringing in worry.

"Drosophila, take these fine gentlemen to their rooms. Breakfast will be served at nine."

Drosophila nodded hurriedly and practically dragged us up the stairs. The rooms were of a stately sort, and there seemed to be nothing out of place, nothing of worry at all.

But Drosophila pulled me aside as George flopped into bed, swaddling himself with the sheets as he drifted into a deep slumber.

"Please leave. Leave now."

The door down the hall clicked shut as she whispered.

"W-what? Why?" I demanded, but she just shook her head fervently.

"Please listen to me. You must leave. Your friend is much too far gone now, but you have a chance. Think of your family."

That gave me pause. My family? Who did this servant think I was? But I was inexplicably drawn to the mental image of my darling Florence, my wife, and you, my dear Daniel. How you were waiting for me at our summer home, wondering with your bright eyes when I would come home to see you once again.

"Please go--" Drosophila whimpered, pushing her damaged hands against my polished chest, and as I glanced downward, I noticed that she was missing fingertips. Three out of five of the fingers on each hand were shortened artificially, or gone entirely. As I looked closer, it was as if a veil was lifted from over my sight, and I could finally understand the morbid realization tugging at me from the moment I'd set foot into the abode.

Parts of her were missing, like they had been taken out of her with nothing left behind. She had puncture marks all down and through her neck, and the dirty rag was stained with rusty brown blood, like her eyes had been taken, too. She had little to no hair, several large clumps missing, the scalp a furious red and pulsing with pus and blood, like something had feasted on her skull. She wore rags as if they were a dress, walking with a pronounced limp, gaunt and emaciated like she had no opportunity to eat in weeks.

"She has no interest in you! You can still walk free, lest she change her mind," Drosophila cried desperately, just as George sat upright in bed. "Please, just--"

I pushed her slightly to the side as George volleyed himself out of the made bed, his eyes a glassy white as he shrieked bloody murder. It was as if he were set alight with flame. He danced and writhed as if his skin were being burned as he awoke, throwing himself into the door of our room before breaking it down with impossible strength.

"Arachne! Let me free, sow your many withered fields with my ruby red blood!" George screamed as he vaulted towards Amelia's door. "You set my heart alight, you beautiful thing! I have nothing more to lose, nothing left to give except my very soul!"

It was as if he were under a trance, cast with an incurable spell, and as he forced open the door to Amelia's room, I was helpless. Helpless to run, I could not bear to run without George. I was forced to watch, to watch and listen, as my dear friend toppled onto the woman's floor.

Amelia was topless, her corset flung to the floor for the night as she prepared for bed. She was incredibly curvy, shapely, and I felt the tips of my ears and cheeks bloom with color as I witnessed her. But I brought Florence to the forefront of my mind, believing that there was no room in my heart for this wicked seductress, and that seemed to break my curse entirely.

She had been brushing her hair, long hair that touched the backs of her knees, but it was as if the hair itself was alive. It throbbed and shivered with movement, and I could only stare as the rubies of her circlet blinked. As Amelia looked down upon George, her eyes saddened with pity, before she uttered a tiny, "oh, again."

Then I could only watch, as Drosophila screamed, when the spider atop Amelia's head swallowed her face with its strong pincers. Soon the neck, the torso, the waist, the legs, were all ingested, as if they were never there at all. The only thing that remained was a shadowy silhouette of a strangely furry black widow spider, lunging itself towards George. It was impossibly huge, standing at well over nine feet tall, and each thud of the hairy feet against the floor felt like a miniature earthquake.

"What the hell is that!" I shouted as it grabbed George up, releasing an unearthly, demonic screech. It tossed him into the air, his lifeless body snatched by the jaws of the unholy thing before his body exploded with force, blood and gore showering both Drosophila and I. George broke in half, never blinking, breathing, only releasing a small and weak groan, before the spider began to eat him alive.

"Please, follow me, sir!" Drosophila wept as she grabbed for my hands. She wrenched me towards the staircase with amazing strength, following on my heels as we descended, and she practically threw me out of the small abode. She stayed still in the doorway, hands on the threshold, as if she were attempting to drag herself out with me.

"Never return to this place! You are marked by the curse of Arachne, and if you dare to search for her, everything... everyone you've ever held dear will perish. She will know," Drosophila warned tearfully, pulling up her rag from over her poor eyes to rub them without much conscious thought. I realized then that they were not missing, not gone, like some other parts of her. No... they were poisoned, resembling runny eggs as her left eye ran with acidic tears. They were red, blue, purple... so incredibly infected it was a wonder that they had not just fallen out of her skull entirely. "Please. Just forget. Forget what happened. Forget you came here. And forget Lady Amelia."

I must do the same. I must forget Lady Amelia. Daniel, you should know that woman is the devil. She is evil, and she will stop at nothing to find you. I hope you can forgive me someday, but I was curious. The curiosity, with mystery of it all... it ate me alive. And I doomed you. Doomed your family, your descendants. I only hope God can properly judge me for what I've done.

Arachne is the devil, and she will stop at nothing to find you and your family. Just like she found me."

Holy shit.

I'm typing out everything. I read it about ten minutes ago, and I'm still in shock. I expected something different. Like... I don't know. A falling out, an argument, something.

Peter did eventually go looking for more information, according to some library slips in the 1920's. He wrote some of his findings in the journal, but at that point, his handwriting had deteriorated so much with age and madness that it's impossible to read. All I can make out is the name "Arachne," "goddess," "bloodline," and "Daniel." it's so strange. What did Daniel have to do with all this? He never went on the trip, and only Peter came out. Did he tell his family what horrors he'd seen, and did searching for Arachne cause a chain reaction?

But the real kicker was when I picked up the journal to put it on the table. A photograph and a letter came tumbling out from somewhere within the notes, hitting the floor with a soft hiss. As I picked up the photograph, cocking my head a little, I realized what I was looking at.

A soft-faced woman, with dark, intense eyes, shrouded herself in a shawl, covering a mourning dress, a small, evil smile quirked up on her face as she faced the lens. Behind her was what I can only assume was the original bed and breakfast, and the back of the photo only stated, "Bed and Breakfast, 1858," in Peter's loopy, slanting handwriting.

And the letter just reads...

"Dear Daniel.

I was incredibly saddened to hear of the death of your father, Peter. He was a good man, a committed family man. There aren't many of those in the world anymore.

He visited me once with a friend, they both had shown up for dinner. I hope you'll do the same.

I'm located in Whitechapel, London. You should visit me, and bring your family. You'll never be amiss at the bed and breakfast, I assure you. I would love to savor your company.

Yours truly, Lady Amelia.

February 14th, 2015"