The Arachne

Chapter Four

Greta's tiny white cottage is dark and locked. Distant squeals fill my ears from the pigpens in the clearing across the road. I halfheartedly tug on the doorhandle, straining on tiptoes to peer through the tiny window at the top of the door. The old lady's front room is dark.

I sigh and let go of the door knob. Then I frown. What the?

The handle is in my fist, completely broken off from the door. Whoops. Hopefully that was already coming loose before I got here. I try to push it back in, but it clings to my hand. I try to pry my fingers from the metal, to no avail. Fright runs through me and I fling my hand around desperately. Was it coated in superglue or something?!

Suddenly, the handle breaks free and is flung with the force of a discus through the air straight through Greta's front window. 

I stand there for a second, completely stunned. I slowly look down at my hand. A few pieces of chipped paint drift from my palm and to the doorstep. The entire bottom glass panel of the window is busted out, and bits of glass are scattered in the grass. 

"What the flip is wrong with me," I mutter to nobody. I sink my head into my hands.

And immediately regret it.

"AgHhH!" There's a few panic inducing moments where I jump around the porch with my hands superglued to my face. Suddenly they pull free and I stumble back. I land deep in a rosebush, surrounded by leaves and wicked sharp thorns. "Am I being punked right now?" 

I look down at my hands and wrinkle my nose. Maybe I should wash them off. I stand and hobble around to the side of the cottage, prickers stuck in my clothes and hair. There I find a hose connected to a spigot. I twist the nozzle with one of my tattered green sneakers. The hose coughs, sputters, and then a trickle of water flows out onto the grass. 

I carefully stick my hands under, scrubbing them furiously for a few minutes until I start to feel slightly okay. That must have gotten rid of the stickyness, right? I stick my face under for good measure and carefully wipe it dry with my hoodie sleeve. 

I move back to the front of the house with a sinking dread in my gut. How am I going to explain this to Greta? Does she coat her doorknob with glue before leaving the house? Or did I somehow get glue on my bike handles? That doesn't make sense... 

I frown at my toppled bike in the yard. The handles weren't sticky. I furrow my eyebrows. Why...? I gasp and crouch down next to the bike, peering at the misshapen handles with shock. It's like I bent them with just my grip.

I move forward and slowly take hold of my bike frame. Without any resistance, I lift it clear over my head. "Woah." I pause. "This is weird."

I hear a little gasp and turn around. A group of younger kids with their own bikes, scooters, and skateboards are stopped on the side of the road. One of them takes up a camera from around her neck and snaps a picture of me. 

I blink and drop the bike. 

Only, it keeps sticking to my hand. I grin awkwardly and lower it to the ground. "What's up?"

"What are you doing?" one kid yells. 

"Uh... Nothing," I say. "Just... working out." I lift the bike over my head again like its a weight.

They break out into snorts and laughter, hooting and yelling as they scramble on in their hoard. I watch them go for a few seconds. When their chaos disappears behind the trees, I pull as hard as I can on my bike. It pulls free and flops into the grass. 

Oh, great. Now there's a blackmail photo of me, with Greta's broken window in the background. I sink my head into my hands again. They stick immediately. "AH!"