Allison

The editing suite at Woody Studios smelled of stale coffee and bad cologne from Woody's last visit. Allison Humminglock hunched over the monitors in the cramped, windowless room. Her eyes, sharpened by years of tracking motion, scanned today's raw footage. Sweat prickled at her temples. Another gonzo scene, she thought, fingers dancing over the keyboard, cutting between angles. Two performers writhed on a cheap faux-leather couch—grunts and awkward repositioning. But Allison saw potential: the curve of a hip catching the key light just right, the shadowed tension in a jawline that could whisper vulnerability if she held the shot.

Her reflection glowed faintly on the monitor—black hair loose, brown eyes narrowed in concentration. The star-shaped birthmark at the base of her neck peeked above her oversized flannel shirt. She tapped her Canon EOS R5 beside the keyboard, a nervous habit. Focus. Make it art. Or at least not look like a gas station bathroom encounter.

The door creaked open. Brenda Berghof, the director, leaned in, her neon-pink headset dangling. "Woody's breathing down my neck, Allie. Wants the rough cut yesterday."

Allison didn't turn. She zoomed in on a frame where the male performer's hand blurred, grazing his partner's thigh. "Tell him good cinematography isn't instant grits, Brenda. I'm balancing the chiaroscuro."

Brenda snorted. "Chiaro-what? Just make sure the money shot's in focus. Heidi's mic picked up rustling—sounded like chip bags. Fix it in post?"

"On it." Allison's jaw tightened. Chip bags. Classy. She muted the audio. On screen, the bodies moved in sudden, sterile silence. Her curse—this kinetic vision—caught every micro-tremble, every shift of muscle. Too good at noticing. The female performer's smile didn't reach her eyes. The red mark on her wrist that looked more like a grip than passion.

Footsteps sounded just outside her door. She didn't look up. "Whoever's there? Try not to make too much noise, please."

The humid air in Woody Studios' basement archive clung to Allison’s skin like a damp shirt. Lord, why the basement? she thought, the familiar prickle of claustrophobia tightening her chest. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, skeletal shadows between shelves crammed with film canisters. Dust motes danced in the weak light, each particle sharp and distinct to her kinetic vision. She needed reel #A7-42F for editing—a crucial establishing shot from last month’s vampire shoot.

Her fingers found the cold metal of the 'A7' section. Stretching onto her toes, she pulled the heavy canister free, its surface coated in grime. As she turned, her elbow nudged a precariously stacked box of lighting gels. It teetered, then fell with a muffled thud, dislodging a thick curtain of cobwebs from the ceiling corner above her.

Skitter-skitter-skitter.

Her movement-honed eyes snapped to the source before her mind registered the dread. Not just a spider. A cellar spider—spindly, translucent legs, a body like a fat raisin—dangled inches from her face on a single, glistening thread. Its cluster of eyes seemed fixed on hers.

Fuck. Spiders. FUCK.

Ice flooded her veins. Her breath hitched, sharp and painful. The low hum of claustrophobia roared into a scream. The walls stacked high with forgotten reels seemed to lean in, crushing the narrow aisle. The buzzing lights felt like spotlights pinning her down. The thick air choked her. She stumbled back, shoulder slamming into the metal shelf. The film canister slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the concrete with a hollow clang that echoed loudly in the confined space.

Disturbed by the vibration, the spider dropped lower, legs twitching with unsettling speed. Too close. Allison’s hand flew to her chest, instinctively seeking the weight of her camera strap—her anchor, her shield. But her gear was upstairs. Defenseless. Cold, absolute panic seized her. Her vision tunneled, magnifying the spider until she could see every hair on its legs, the pulse of its abdomen. Every jerky movement was a stab of terror.

Get out. NOW.

She tried to bolt for the stairs, but her legs felt like lead. The spider swayed gently. It’s gonna jump. Land on me. A choked whimper escaped her. Her eyes darted wildly. Shelves and the fallen box blocked escape routes. The only light switch was near the stairs—miles away. Her kinetic vision, usually an asset, became a curse, hyper-focusing on the spider’s predatory twitches.

Then... the lights flickered. Once. Twice. With a final, protesting buzz, they died.

Absolute blackness swallowed the archive.

No. No, no, no!

"Please! Someone! Help!" The scream ripped from her throat—the only thing she could do.

The fluorescent lights in the community center gym buzzed like angry hornets, bathing the circle of folding tables in a sickly yellow glow. Allison shifted on her plastic chair, its legs shrieking against the linoleum. Lord, this feels like a middle school dance, she thought, just with more desperation. She tugged at the oversized collar of her flannel shirt—her usual style—wishing she’d worn something less... shapeless. Heidi had insisted. "It’s just drinks and chat, Allie! What’s the worst that could happen?"

Heidi, perched beside her with a neon-pink cocktail, nudged Allison’s ribs. "Stop fidgetin’. You look fine. Better than fine!" She nodded toward a man sweating near the punch bowl in a too-tight polo. "That guy’s been eyein’ you since we sat down."

Allison’s fingers instinctively clawed at the empty space where her camera strap should be. Should’ve brought it. Could’ve hidden behind the viewfinder. Instead, she traced the rim of her untouched soda can. "He’s starin’ like I’m a bug under glass, Heidi. Reckon he’s wonderin’ what kinda woman shows up to one of these things alone."

"Not alone! You got me!" Heidi grinned, swirling her drink. "And for the record? He’s probably wonderin’ how someone so pretty ended up lookin’ so miserable at a social event."

Ding-ding-ding. A tinny bell rang. The event coordinator—headset on, clipboard in hand—clapped sharply. "Rotate, everyone! Blue tags, move one seat to your left!"

Chairs scraped. Bodies shuffled. Allison’s pulse kicked like a kickdrum in her ears as a new person collapsed into the seat opposite her.