He Is Watching Me

The room was actually quite normal, furnished with a single bed, a desk, a chair, and all the basic necessities.

Yet, the man was leaning against the bed on the carpet, his eyes wide open and unmoving, as if he were already dead.

After waiting for a moment and seeing no static, Lynch finally let out a sigh of relief. He drew his revolver and, staying alert, moved a few steps closer.

The man looked somewhat familiar.

With a brief moment of reflection, Lynch’s eyes widened.

He remembered now. He had seen him just this morning.

This was the poor wretch from Crown Square who had tried to use a mystery relic, only to be knocked unconscious by Lynch’s club.

He was still wearing the same formal suit from earlier, though given his dark, stocky appearance, he didn't look like a man who wore suits at all; rather, he looked more like a manual laborer.

At this moment, the man’s eyes were wide open, his face as pale as death, drained of all color.

Lynch had his pistol raised, pointing directly at the man. However, a rattling sound came from the man’s throat as he lifted an arm to point at Lynch.

“It’s you... don’t come over. Stay away from me.”

Lynch, who had been about to step closer, stopped in his tracks. He studied the man and asked, “You don’t look right. What happened?”

“I was tricked. We were all tricked.” The man’s voice was hoarse and his breathing labored. He broke into a violent fit of coughing, spitting up several mouthfuls of black blood. His gaze was vacant and unfocused, his pupils already beginning to dilate. “They never intended to help me. They were just using me, and now that they’re done, they’re silencing me.”

“Who are you? Who are you people? Why are you here?” Lynch realized the man’s complexion was turning paler by the second and knew things were dire. He pressed urgently, “Tell me everything you know.”

“I’m a steam train driver. The company organized us to go protest this morning, so we all went.” The man spoke in fragments. “Someone told us that to make a difference, we had to create a bigger, more sensational event. They told us to open that box during the protest. But before I could open it, you snatched it away, so I had no choice but to flee back here.”

“Who are they?” Lynch asked as quickly as he could.

The man struggled to raise his arm, pointing toward the door. “They... it was them. They gave me that box and even arranged this place for me. We thought we had met people who truly wanted to help us, but I never imagined, I never imagined, that those monsters...”

“You knew there were monsters among them? What exactly are they? And what is the deal with that box?”

“Don’t try to know. Don’t try to know anything. Don’t try to figure it all out, and don’t follow in my footsteps, or it will fix its gaze upon you. Once it sets its eyes on you, you will become part of them. You’ll never escape, not even in death. Never, never.”

“What did you do?”

“I was curious... I went down.” The man pointed toward the corner of the wall. “I saw it. It is watching me. Heh, it’s always watching me. Everyone who tries to uncover the truth will see it, and everyone will end up like me. Heh, heh, heh.”

Lynch’s hair stood on end, his throat parched.

He found it hard to grasp the man’s rambling, disjointed words. But recalling Madam Bessie’s earlier reaction, he felt compelled to believe him. He asked urgently, “What do you mean by ‘end up like me’? What happened to you?”

“Heh, heh, heh...”

The man chuckled blankly, then suddenly tore open his shirt to reveal his skin.

Lynch took a deep breath, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.

He saw that the man’s chest and back were covered in purple growths.

The growths, larger than thumbs, were densely packed and raised high. Their surfaces were smooth, tight, and translucent. Beneath them, massive black shapes were writhing violently, causing each growth to twist and pulsate frantically, like so many beating hearts.

It was utterly grotesque and sickening.

Lynch’s mind went blank. He felt as though he were witnessing something incomprehensible to the world. Countless bizarre illusions flashed before his eyes, and the sound of endless, hoarse whispers filled his ears. Perhaps it was his experience with the countless grotesque images of the information age, or perhaps it was the constant presence of a red moonlight in his consciousness, but Lynch quickly regained his composure, feeling only a sense of weakness throughout his body.

“Gurgle, gurgle... it’s watching me. It’s here.” The focus in the man’s eyes began to fade as he muttered in confusion, “He’s here. Save me...”

Lynch noticed that as the man mumbled, the growths on his body were swelling at a visible rate, making his frame look increasingly bloated.

An ominous premonition rose in his heart. Lynch backed all the way to the door, keeping the maximum distance possible, his hand resting on the handle, ready to flee at any moment.

However, before he could open the door, he heard a wet pop.

All the growths on the man’s body ruptured simultaneously, spraying purple-black pus everywhere.

Along with the pus, massive, writhing black shadows burst out from within the growths.

Only then did Lynch see clearly: they were thousands of small, finger-joint-sized blue-purple spiders.

As soon as the spiders were sprayed out, they immediately swarmed over the train driver’s body. The driver was clearly dead, motionless.

Lynch vomited on the spot. It was too disgusting; he could not control the urge to retch.

But after only a few seconds of retching, the massive swarm of spiders crawled off the corpse. The body had already been reduced to a pile of white bones. As these spiders encountered the air, they visibly expanded, their bodies growing longer than a thumb.

Only then did Lynch see their true appearance: blue-purple bodies covered in thick carapaces, eight legs like javelins, their surfaces covered in stiff bristles. Their heads were ugly and ferocious with horizontal mouthparts, and eight eyes were arrayed across their tops, emitting an ominous, blood-red light.

They were essentially carbon copies of the monsters he had seen in the visions earlier.

Could it be that those were just what these little spiders grew into? What on earth were they?

Before he could dwell on it, the swarm of spiders had already left the bones. Lynch’s heart sank, and his fingers brushed against his ring. But before he put it on, he realized the spiders were not lunging at him; instead, they were turning on their own kind, tearing into each other with a frenzy. There were countless deaths, yet no corpses remained on the floor—all the dead spiders were consumed entirely.

Lynch’s mind was numb. He could only watch this frantic slaughter blankly. As their numbers dwindled, the spiders began to move while they fought, soon crawling into the ventilation duct and disappearing completely.

Thud.

The horrific and bizarre scene left Lynch collapsing helplessly. He sat there, staring blankly, only regaining his ability to think after a long while.

This man was one of the perpetrators, killed by the spiders. And these spiders, in all likelihood, represented the providers of that mystery relic—one of the masterminds behind the tragedy at the square.

The victim’s fate confirmed Madam Bessie’s fears. This thing was truly dangerous, and it was clear that this was the ultimate target of Officer Natalie’s investigation—and she had likely already gone straight to it.

Lynch felt a shiver down his spine at the thought of the spiders; he found them utterly repulsive. But after weighing his options, he knew he couldn't leave Officer Natalie to face this alone. The more dangerous it was, the more he had to follow.

There was no other choice. Lynch gritted his teeth, muttered to himself that he would risk it, and carefully walked over to the spot the deceased had pointed to when he mentioned going down.

Going down certainly meant the basement, but why had he pointed specifically here?