Chapter Text
"Statement of Cassian Feize, regarding the origami spiders they made." Jon starts, withholding a sigh. Of course it's spiders. The one thing he's despised most of his life. As his eyes scan the page, his last real thought is I really, really wish I wasn't reading this.
"A year ago, I wouldn't have said I liked spiders. Wouldn't say I hated them either, though. More of a...'they leave me alone, I leave them alone, we're okay', I guess? But, ah, that's not the–it's not why I'm here. Um...you want me to tell you about the other thing. The one that...nobody takes me seriously for. But you–you will, right? That's why you let me in, it's why I'm writing this down. You believe me. You must. I don't know what to do if you don't. They'll still find me, I'm sure of it. Wouldn't matter if I burned my room to the ground and skipped the country or not. Bastards won't die. They're made of paper, after all. No real way to 'kill' them. Uh–I said I didn't really mind them. That was before this started. Now, I loathe the little things. The way they skitter and stare and have too many legs and hairs along their body–I hate it. But, as far as origami goes, they were a fun challenge. Distracting, even.
I took an art class in the skill maybe...four months ago, now? I've not seen a calendar in a while, mind you. This might sound a little stupid, but I was inspired by the story of that little girl and her cranes...Sadako, right? Anyway, I wanted to see if I could try origami to honor that. It seemed like a good pastime as well, since all of my friends were away with far more important matters. At least they had well-paying jobs or good family friends that would take them in for work. So, off to classes I'd go. I would take some college courses during the day, go to a few job interviews or someplace that would take me in for a few weeks, then on weekends, I had the origami class. We started simple, small steps to set in the motions, and we did actually make the cranes. I have a few at home, actually–none of those ever moved. I found it fun, soothing, relaxing. Definitely helped me de-stress after long weeks of juggling living, college, and work. And then, we were presented with a challenge in our first month and a half. We were supposed to make a spider.
It came surprisingly easy to me, fluid motions and precise lines that didn't make me need to think too hard. It was like...you know those actions that just become sort of like muscle memory? Like tossing bags to a person in a line or sorting cans. You kind of lose yourself to the process–your brain stops thinking. It drifts away, heading somewhere dreamy and enthralling, and your body is left doing the dirty work. I think that's what happened to me, or at least something similar. I finished fairly quickly, though not first–someone else always was. I went for detail and precision, not speed. It was still quick enough that I decided to make another one. So I did. And a couple more. And then a few more. My hands were a blur, mechanical and exact. I kept going, lost in my head and so focused I didn't hear the teacher calling my name until I'd made almost 20 of them. She told me that I'd have to take them home, she simply didn't have the space for them all. I didn't see a problem with it, so I agreed. Maybe it'd have been better if I dumped them in a bin before taking a cab home. But, I didn't, and I–well, how was I to know this would happen? It's in the past now, nothing to be done about it, so I just have to live with the consequences...if I live much longer, even. But that's not the point of my story–I spent the rest of my night making more. It felt so relaxing, a way to feel at peace and stop being so anxious about things. I think a good word to use would be that the experience felt...intoxicating. I did make myself stop, eventually. I had about 50 by then, though it may have been 75. I've well lost count by now...and I worry they might be growing in numbers. That's not the important part...at least not yet. Deciding to finally call it a night, I went to bed, and fell asleep.
My dreams were dark, as if I had none, so my mind was black. Wasn't exactly a bad thing, but it meant I woke easily. And I did, to skittering feet and paper shuffles. In the darkness, I felt something run across my hand. Immediately, I turned on the light, and saw that there was a paper spider on my nightstand. I figured that maybe I'd forgotten to put it with the rest, and that I could deal with it in the morning. I was certain it wasn't the thing I heard. Paper spiders don't just move, and I live alone. Maybe I'd finally started to dream and it snapped me out of it.
When I woke up again, ready to start my day, it was gone. I paid little mind to it. I went to my jobs, tried to distance myself some more from my creepy neighbor, then sat down and started watching TV. Something was happening on the news; a man had set fire to his apartment and was distraught about something that happened to his girlfriend–I think he mentioned worms? Something like that, anyway. He seemed crazy, naked and wild-eyed, so I ignored it and concluded my day.
I didn't notice anything happening for a few weeks after that–I know now it must have started then, but I didn't take notice of it at the time. Not until two months ago, when I felt it.
It started with an irritable feeling in my stomach and a sore throat that hurt to speak. Like I'd eaten something and it wasn't good, and it'd cut me a few times on the way down. Like I'd...well, like I had swallowed a dry wad of paper. I assumed it was going to just be an off day. It wasn't enough to keep me from getting things done, so I went to do my rounds. It never left, though, and whenever I did eat, it almost seemed to...to move slightly. I poked at it a few times, but never really felt anything I could identify. My friends suggested I had just eaten a bad slice of something or other, and assured me not to worry about it. It went away the day after, so I decided that's all it was, and moved on. That night, however, I awoke to more skittering and small shifts. When I turned on the light, several of the spiders were on the bed, near me and my head. They weren't supposed to be there, and even seemed to be in the wrong positions from where I'd folded them. Too tired to accurately question it, I scooped them up and set them on my dining room table to deal with in the morning and went back to sleep. But I heard it again, the skritches and taps of soft, multiple legs. I felt it crawl up my neck and over my cheek, and it felt–god, it felt real. I turned my lamp back on, and saw more of them, still in and around my bed. So I put them on the table, too. The thing is, though, the ones I had put there previously were gone. Confused, I assumed they had fallen off–it's often drafty at night–and found the fallen ones again so I could put them in a box. Then, I attempted to sleep. I tried to ignore them when they came again, too. I even succeeded, for the most part. But then one of them pushed at my mouth and I reared back, listening to them scuttling around in response. Something in my gut shifted, and I realized what I had been feeling earlier.
It had crawled down my throat while I was asleep.
I was scared. I mean, what do you do in that situation? I did what I thought was right: rounded up any spiders left in my room, put them in a sealed container, and prayed that would be enough.
It wasn't.
As I write this, I can feel it. Feel them. I can feel every one of them, squirming and writhing just below my skin. They like the dread I have. The fear fuels them, and I still wake up to the sounds of small, many-legged feet. But they're getting smarter. They're always gone when I manage to turn on the lights. Maybe that worm guy who burned down his house wasn't so crazy after all. Perhaps if I burned myself, this would end. They would be scorched into black, shrivel up into ashes. I would be free, then...I hope. I never got the chance to try any of that, though.
As my state worsened and I became...'irritable, agitated, and aggressive', my friends helped bring me to the psychiatric ward, and I've been there ever since, aside from here. The nurses won't believe me, nobody does. Why should they? I'm stuck in the place where the crazy people go. Now, I'm one of them. Just another person with too many screws loose. "Yes, Cassian," they say, "but the spiders can't reach you here. There isn't any paper. Nobody has seen them. You're alright." Hah. I have not been alright for a long time.
I can tell, somehow, that more of them are getting in. I don't know how. I just know. And I know now that they want me dead. My heart hurts, my side will flare with sudden, sharp pains, but nothing bleeds outside. My lungs gasp for air they simply cannot collect, and they block my esophagus. I feel them tumble when I swallow. The doctors won't let me tell them about it anymore, though they suggest private mental healthcare professionals, those who 'listen'. I don't need a therapist or psychiatrist. I need help. I need them out, I need them gone. You are my last hope. Please. Make it stop."
Jon sighs, shuddering slightly.
"Statement...ends." He sets the paper down, released from its hold and once again his spider-fearing self. "It appears that Miss Feize was admitted to a psychiatric ward as her condition worsened, lining up with the...vague timing she suggested in her statement. She was diagnosed with 'severe hallucinations and delusional experiences', but nobody seemed to find any physical health complications that she claimed to be having. They died in their bed five months after their statement was taken. Cause of death was determined to be 'abrupt heart failure, a lack of oxygen, dehydration, and malnutrition'. She refused to eat or drink, even going so far as to throw up what little she did consume. The autopsy confirmed she had been in otherwise healthy condition, and perfectly normal...save for the multitude of slight cuts along her organs and a nearly dissolved shred of paper found in her mouth." Jon elaborates, sighs, then continues. "I would believe them, if it were not for the fact that paper creations have no intent to kill. Most likely someone was doing a poor job during the autopsy, which would explain the cuts, and they may have been delusional enough to eat something without knowing that it wasn't supposed to be edible. I had Martin dig for what he could, and he discovered that she had not been close to anyone, nor seeking a partner at the time. This gives her no real second witness to confirm her account, nor could he locate those she must have taken this class with. The art class itself still runs today, and the owner has refused our request for further questions. Recording ends."