Widow

Dear Diary (or whoever's nosy enough to read this),

So here's the situation:

I accidentally became queen of the murder spiders.

Yeah. You read that right.

It started like any other week in this bureaucratic hellscape I call a life: microwaved pizza, soul-sucking hotel shifts, a clueless new guy named Terry who can't pronounce my name, and some random voices whispering at me from beneath my feet. (Okay, that last one maybe should've been a red flag, but who really cares that much?)

Anyway, one night I got stuck under a flickering streetlight surrounded by a billion little black spiders ready to turn me into gourmet meat jelly. But instead of eating me, they listened. They followed my finger like little creepy puppets. They mirrored my movements. And when the lights came on and fried them to smoke? I swear I heard them scream-in my head.

Turns out, I can control them.

And now, I'm thinking... that's pretty cool. Maybe I can use them.

Cara's been treating me like garbage for years. Terry's got that nice, naïve look that's practically begging to be manipulated. Management wouldn't notice if a few people had accidents-especially if the clean-up crews show up and the evidence vanishes in a puff of eight-legged smoke.

I'm done being stepped on by morons who wear clip-on ties. If the spiders want a queen that'll hurt some people, they've got one.

And if I play this right, I'll finally get that promotion.

Or at least a raise.

Watch your step, my dear diary. There are spiders in the dark-and they take orders from me now.

-Elani, Ruler of Reception