The Web of Her Hair

 

The Web of Her Hair

It started with a single image.

Damien had been scrolling mindlessly through late-night forums when he saw it—a photograph of a woman with impossibly long, jet-black hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid ink. The caption was simple: “Have you seen her?”

He hadn’t. But something about the image made his fingers freeze over the keyboard. There was something… off.

Clicking the link led him down a rabbit hole. A username—Silken_Weaver—was attached to every post. The deeper he dug, the more he found. People spoke of dreams, of waking up to the feeling of hair wrapping around their limbs. Some swore they’d seen her in video calls, her face half-hidden by the curtain of her own locks. And then—messages.

Not just posts. Private messages.

Silken_Weaver: Do you like my hair, Damien?

He hadn’t given his name.

The screen flickered. The lights in his apartment dimmed for just a second.

A chill ran down his spine. “Just a prank,” he muttered, clicking out of the browser. But as he turned away from his screen, he saw something in the reflection.

A single, impossibly long strand of hair… curling over his shoulder.

And then—his monitor flickered back on.

Silken_Weaver: Now you’ve seen me.

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