The Legacy of Lord Regret: Strange Threads: Book 1 by Sam Bowring Page A

distance, a child from the cottage began to play, his merry laughter echoing through the grass. A breeze rustled
     the stalks, and spots of light flitted about.
    The trapdoor flew open with a force that sent it spinning, and a howl of rage issued from the tunnel. A hand reached out to
     clench the ground, and Forger hauled himself out of the darkness. He grunted, scratched and bleeding, and pulled on something
     with his other hand that did not want to leave the hole.
    ‘Oho!’ growled Forger. ‘Not so keen now, eh?’
    From the dark he dragged the spider forth by its front leg. In terror it tried to break free, but Forger heaved until it was
     bodily out of the tunnel. Ignoring its clicking jaws and flailing legs, he sent gestures at the surrounding grass, ripping
     sinews from the stalks and floating them to the spider. It felt good to be threading again, even on such a small scale. He
     set the sinews tying knots about the spider’s limbs, which he then directed to root it to the ground. Soon the spider was
     pinned flat, its soft belly rubbing against the earth as it tried to rise.
    ‘Want to return to the darkness, don’t you?’
    Forger gave a wave upwards and the grass bent away, dappled light replaced by blazing sun. He moved in front of the creature,
     squatting to stare into its multiple terrified eyes.
    ‘Now,’ he said, ‘pain is what I need. Luckily, you have it to give.’
    He ran a hand over one of the splayed legs, ruffling coarse bristles. Hair covered the spider, up its legs to its head, and
     all over its plump abdomen.
    ‘Lots of hair,’ said Forger.
    He began to pluck.
    For most of the morning he laboured on the spider, joyously drinking in its torment. He was deliberate and measured in his
     work, making sure he gripped bundles of hair for long enough before pulling them, that the spider knew what was about to happen
     each and every time. Eventually it was almost bald, its quivering flesh peppered by blotches of sticky blood. And Forger,
     having fed for the first time in three hundred years, grew until his head was just above the grass.
    ‘That’s better.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘Getting too big for an intricate project like you,’ he told the spider, and turned
     away, leaving it staked out in the sun.
    Pushing grass aside, he made his way towards the cottage. Two little boys were playing under a tree, their mother looking
     on from the porch, smiling at their silly game. It was like some hybrid of tag and wrestling, and also involved sticks somehow.
    ‘How nice,’ said Forger. He ducked his head beneath the grass, careful to stay hidden as he approached. The tree the boys
     played beneath was an easy climb, and up he went, keeping to the side facing away from the house. Oncehe reached the higher branches, he climbed around until he gained a good view of the boys. They raced about, but always eventually
     returned to the shade – all he had to do was pick the right moment. In the meantime he set about untying the threads that
     kept a heavy branch in place, until all it would take was a final tweak.
    He did not have to wait long. The boys fell beneath him, a heap of gasps, grunts and chuckles. He gestured at the branch,
     snicking the last thread. With a crack it plummeted, and his timing was good. The boys were on top of each other, and the
     branch fell on top of both, crushing them to little-boy jam.
    The cry from the mother came as expected, full of horror and disbelief – not quite what he needed, yet. She raced over and,
     with strength that belied her frame, wrested the branch off her sons. As she fell beside their broken bodies, Forger sensed
     hairline splinters running through her heart.
    No
, she mouthed silently, no sound escaping her throat. She pawed at her children, as if by rearranging their limbs back into
     normal positions, she could restore them to life. Her pain began to reach Forger, sharp and clear – a soul pain, the purest
     sort, and oh, it was good! She