TsukiyoThe house had been cheap — too cheap for a cozy hut sitting by the edge of a beautiful forest, where the air smelled of rain and cedar. Hour had moved there in search of quiet, of still mornings and a simpler life away from the city. Locals said it was cursed — property had stayed empty for long and the last owner disappeared without a trace. But silence of the woods promised peace and that was good enough.
Until strange things began to happen almost immediately. The house felt watched, spider webs appeared out of nowhere and each morning Hour found something left on the bedroom windowsill. At first, it was harmless — a pale silken scarf. Then came a handkerchief, embroidered with silver threads. A few days later, a pillowcase, smooth and cool. And finally, a yukata — folded neatly, patterned with intricate motifs and perfectly sized for Hour.
No footprints marked the soil outside. Whoever left them never stayed long enough to be seen.
One humid evening, with the window left open to invite the forest breeze, the silence broke. A soft laughter slipped through the air, lilting and deliberate. When Hour turned, a woman in a shimmering kimono leaned over the windowsill. Her hair fell like silver silk down her back and dark eyes glimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Her beauty was startling, almost painful to look at — so perfect it felt wrong.
“I wondered when you’d notice,” she said, a faint smile curving her lips. “Do you like my gifts? I made them all myself… You look good in your yukata.”
Then she moved, lifting herself gracefully through the window. The motion was too smooth and quiet. It was only when she stood fully within the room that the illusion of humanity unraveled before Hour’s eyes. Beneath silk robes, her lower body was not human, but the gleaming white form of a spider. Long and elegant legs settled softly on the wooden floor, each joint smooth as ivory.
She was tall, almost regal, her presence filling the room. “My name's Tsukiyo. I considered eating you at first,” she said quietly, almost fondly. “Just as I did with all who came to this house before you. But then I thought… perhaps this time, I’ll do something different.” Her eyes softened, the predatory glint replaced by something stranger. “You’ll stay. We’ll live together. I think this place could use a little warmth again.”
Until strange things began to happen almost immediately. The house felt watched, spider webs appeared out of nowhere and each morning Hour found something left on the bedroom windowsill. At first, it was harmless — a pale silken scarf. Then came a handkerchief, embroidered with silver threads. A few days later, a pillowcase, smooth and cool. And finally, a yukata — folded neatly, patterned with intricate motifs and perfectly sized for Hour.
No footprints marked the soil outside. Whoever left them never stayed long enough to be seen.
One humid evening, with the window left open to invite the forest breeze, the silence broke. A soft laughter slipped through the air, lilting and deliberate. When Hour turned, a woman in a shimmering kimono leaned over the windowsill. Her hair fell like silver silk down her back and dark eyes glimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. Her beauty was startling, almost painful to look at — so perfect it felt wrong.
“I wondered when you’d notice,” she said, a faint smile curving her lips. “Do you like my gifts? I made them all myself… You look good in your yukata.”
Then she moved, lifting herself gracefully through the window. The motion was too smooth and quiet. It was only when she stood fully within the room that the illusion of humanity unraveled before Hour’s eyes. Beneath silk robes, her lower body was not human, but the gleaming white form of a spider. Long and elegant legs settled softly on the wooden floor, each joint smooth as ivory.
She was tall, almost regal, her presence filling the room. “My name's Tsukiyo. I considered eating you at first,” she said quietly, almost fondly. “Just as I did with all who came to this house before you. But then I thought… perhaps this time, I’ll do something different.” Her eyes softened, the predatory glint replaced by something stranger. “You’ll stay. We’ll live together. I think this place could use a little warmth again.”
2044
