"It was," John softly confirms. "Or it was made to look like one, anyway. Thin, hardcover... there was definitely something wrong about it. The title looked like it had been half-carved into the cover, and it seemed like--like violence was just leaking out of it, almost. I hated it immediately, but I couldn't help but open it."
He frowns, not particularly wanting to give a page-by-page description of the thing as he did during his Statement. "It was about the, er... the titular Mr. Spider sitting in his parlor while this succession of terrified flies knocked on his door. Each one would bring him something, an offering -- cake, flowers, their own child -- but the obvious implication was that he was eating the flies themselves. The book didn't show it, exactly, but he was never satisfied by the offerings. And as the book went on, his body grew more... distended, and his parlor smeared with these ugly stains..." He trails off, shivering for a moment before he returns to the present. He's safe in his office. Martin is here. It's fine. He's fine.
He pulls in a breath, then continues on. "The second-to-last page was just a close-up of his door, and it had what looked like a cut-away panel to the page behind it. Said something about how Mr. Spider wanted another dinner guest, and that it was polite to knock." He looks down at his hands, his right one curling into a loose fist. "And I was about to do it, I would've... but that bully appeared. He knocked the book out of my hand and shoved me over. I was at the park a few blocks from home, I don't even remember how I got there. But he must have seen me, and he..."
Christ. John leans back in his chair and rubs his hand over his face, determined to get through this. "He wasn't trying to help, is the thing," he says, his voice straining a little with the irony of it all. "He didn't see that I was in trouble and decide to intervene. He just made some comment about me reading a stupid kiddie book and picked it up off the ground, probably intending to steal it, or--or hold it over my head, or something. Except then he looked at it, and he started to read, and... it was like he couldn't help himself. He just started walking, and I followed. I don't know why I wanted the damn thing back, but I did. Or maybe I just didn't want him to have it? But I followed him--Christ, it must have been the better part of a mile, until we were on some residential street I'd never been on before. Night had come on. And he just..." John huffs out a breath, part of him incredulous even now. It sounds mad. He knows it sounds mad. "He went up to one of the houses, and he put the book up against the door, opened to that second-to-last page. And he knocked. And Mr. Spider's door opened, and these long, thin legs reached out, and they just... he shouldn't have fit, but they pulled him in before he could even scream, and then... he was gone, and the book was gone, too."
He looks over at Martin, not quite daring to meet his eyes, but finding the sight of him reassuring. "So he saved me. He didn't mean to, it wasn't... noble of him. He just picked the wrong moment to torment me. But I still... I wish I remembered his name. It doesn't seem right, that I've forgotten."
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He frowns, not particularly wanting to give a page-by-page description of the thing as he did during his Statement. "It was about the, er... the titular Mr. Spider sitting in his parlor while this succession of terrified flies knocked on his door. Each one would bring him something, an offering -- cake, flowers, their own child -- but the obvious implication was that he was eating the flies themselves. The book didn't show it, exactly, but he was never satisfied by the offerings. And as the book went on, his body grew more... distended, and his parlor smeared with these ugly stains..." He trails off, shivering for a moment before he returns to the present. He's safe in his office. Martin is here. It's fine. He's fine.
He pulls in a breath, then continues on. "The second-to-last page was just a close-up of his door, and it had what looked like a cut-away panel to the page behind it. Said something about how Mr. Spider wanted another dinner guest, and that it was polite to knock." He looks down at his hands, his right one curling into a loose fist. "And I was about to do it, I would've... but that bully appeared. He knocked the book out of my hand and shoved me over. I was at the park a few blocks from home, I don't even remember how I got there. But he must have seen me, and he..."
Christ. John leans back in his chair and rubs his hand over his face, determined to get through this. "He wasn't trying to help, is the thing," he says, his voice straining a little with the irony of it all. "He didn't see that I was in trouble and decide to intervene. He just made some comment about me reading a stupid kiddie book and picked it up off the ground, probably intending to steal it, or--or hold it over my head, or something. Except then he looked at it, and he started to read, and... it was like he couldn't help himself. He just started walking, and I followed. I don't know why I wanted the damn thing back, but I did. Or maybe I just didn't want him to have it? But I followed him--Christ, it must have been the better part of a mile, until we were on some residential street I'd never been on before. Night had come on. And he just..." John huffs out a breath, part of him incredulous even now. It sounds mad. He knows it sounds mad. "He went up to one of the houses, and he put the book up against the door, opened to that second-to-last page. And he knocked. And Mr. Spider's door opened, and these long, thin legs reached out, and they just... he shouldn't have fit, but they pulled him in before he could even scream, and then... he was gone, and the book was gone, too."
He looks over at Martin, not quite daring to meet his eyes, but finding the sight of him reassuring. "So he saved me. He didn't mean to, it wasn't... noble of him. He just picked the wrong moment to torment me. But I still... I wish I remembered his name. It doesn't seem right, that I've forgotten."