image [https://img.playbook.com/z3jg7wtwmG-3uJvl4Jaybkka74yxJwvU4uIRcyU9mCg/Z3M6Ly9wbGF5Ym9v/ay1hc3NldHMtcHVi/bGljL2NjMWJjNDM0/LWZlZGMtNDRkYi04/NTg5LWQ0NTcxNTAx/ZmI2NA]

[Each chapter of Octagon corresponds to a song that inspired the shape of the character arc and/or story arc. You can listen to each chapter's "song" to gain further insight into the world-building of Gossamer Loom and the people who live there. I definitely had fun listening to these songs while I was writing the novel. Chapter 1's "Formation Song" is "Creep" by Radiohead.]

As the Johnsons wound their way through the mountains toward Gossamer Loom, the landscape outside the car shifted from the bustling cityscapes they had left behind to the serene, tree-covered hills of Vermont. The air was crisp, and the first hints of autumn painted the leaves with strokes of orange and red. In the back seat, 12-year-old Leslie Johnson had her earbuds in—"Creep" by Radiohead playing faintly in her ears.

I DON'T CARE IF IT HURTS

I WANT TO HAVE CONTROL

I WANT A PERFECT BODY

I WANT A PERFECT SOUL

The past year had been difficult for Leslie. She had struggled at her old school. The other kids... hadn't taken a liking to her, to put it lightly. Moving to Gossamer Loom was about Leslie's mom, Helen, getting a fresh start in the town where she had grown up. But Leslie felt that it was about her own fresh start, too.

Leslie was filled with a rush of excitement. If she had seen landscapes like these before, she hadn't been paying attention. It felt like they were being welcomed into a secret, hidden world. Would she really get to live in a place that looked like this?

Leslie noticed her parents starting to talk quietly in the front. She paused the song, pretending to still be listening to it.

In the passenger seat, Helen had her gaze fixed on the road ahead, but her thoughts were clearly miles away. "I really need this to work, Robert," she said, her voice tinged with a frail optimism. "I feel like I'm barely holding it together some days..."

Robert glanced at her, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated a sharp curve. "It's going to be okay. Gossamer Loom is exactly what you need—it'll be good for all of us."

Leslie didn't know all the details of what had happened, but she knew enough to understand that her mother's breakdown had been serious. Helen was fragile, even if she tried her best to hide it. And Leslie knew there was something else hanging over her mother's head. Leslie knew it was making Helen's breakdown especially painful.

Caroline. Aunt Caroline. Helen's sister.

Helen never explained what had happened to Caroline, but this is what Leslie had gathered: Aunt Caroline had also moved back to Gossamer Loom in adulthood, after suffering her own "incident." But soon after moving back, Aunt Caroline had been deemed insane and locked away in a mental hospital by a "really great" doctor who was doing "everything he could" for her. And now that Helen had suffered her own breakdown, it wasn't hard to understand why she was freaked.

Though Leslie knew her mother had no idea she was eavesdropping, she was still taken aback by what Helen said next; it was as if she was picking up on Leslie's thoughts from the back seat, almost commenting on them somehow. "I'm afraid they'll compare me to her, Robert. The people in town."

"Her" meaning Caroline. Auntie Lunatic.

Robert reached over, squeezing Helen's hand gently. "You're nothing like your sister. No one will think that."

Helen smiled weakly. "Caroline was always a wild card—that's for sure. But she never worried what people thought; she just did what she wanted. Sometimes I wonder if I should have been more like that, less concerned with appearances. Maybe I'd be a tad saner."

Robert smirked. "You're saying if you had been more like Caroline, maybe you wouldn't have had a breakdown? That doesn't really make sense."

This cheered Helen up a bit. "I suppose not," she laughed. "I guess if I was trying to be more like her, I would have had a few more breakdowns, and been a bit louder about it all." She and Robert laughed again. But as their laughter trailed off, Helen's eyes welled with tears.

Leslie felt the pressure to make this new life work, to be happy, because if she didn't, it wouldn't just be her own disappointment—it would be her mother's, too. She unpaused the song.

I WANT YOU TO NOTICE

WHEN I'M NOT AROUND

I WISH I WAS SPECIAL

YOU'RE SO FUCKING SPECIAL

She swore silently under her breath to do everything she could to make this new life work.

The first week in town felt like a whirlwind to Leslie. But by the end of it, the house was mostly in order and Helen seemed to relax a little. At night, as they settled into their new routines, Leslie would listen to the sounds of the woods outside—leaves rustling in the breeze, the distant call of an owl.

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?

Leslie felt like an intruder as she entered the doors of Loomridge Middle School. Huddled clusters of her peers suddenly halted their first-day conversations to size her up as she passed. She found her homeroom as quickly as possible and slipped into a seat near the back as the bell rang. She tried to beat her intrusive thoughts into submission. THINGS! WOULD! BE! DIFFERENT! HERE!

By the time lunch rolled around, Leslie had managed to get through the morning without any major incidents. She had just unwrapped her sandwich when a girl with sleek blonde hair approached her, a friendly smile on her face.

"Hey, you're Leslie, right?" the girl said, sliding into the seat across from her. "I'm Emily. I heard you're new here."

Leslie nodded, a little surprised by the warm welcome. "Yeah, I just moved here last week."

"Cool! It must be so weird, coming to such a small town after living in the city. I can show you around if you want."

Leslie felt a rush of relief. A friend already? Thank God. "That would be great," she said, smiling back. "I'd really appreciate that."

Emily grinned and leaned in a little closer. "So, where do you live? In The Grove?"

Leslie shook her head. "No, we're living out near the woods. My mom wanted something a little more secluded."

"Oh, that's different," Emily said, her tone still friendly, but with a slight edge that Leslie couldn't quite place. "Most people around here live in The Grove. But hey, the woods must be pretty cool, right? Mysterious."

Leslie nodded, feeling a bit uneasy now. "Yeah, it's nice. Quiet."

Emily exchanged a quick glance with the girls standing behind her, who were watching with amused smiles. Their poorly-concealed laughter made Leslie's stomach drop, and as the warmth in Emily's smile vanished, Leslie realized this wasn't a genuine offer of friendship—it was a setup. And she hadn't caught on quick enough to save face.

Emily crossed her arms. "But don't you think it's kind of weird, living out there in the middle of nowhere? I mean, I think the only other person who lives in those woods is Old Sam—and he's a fucking pedophile. Are you sure your parents aren't, like, total perverts? I mean, I heard your aunt is that crazy lady they had to lock up, so maybe it runs in the family. I bet your mom is crazy too, if she wanted to live out by Old Sam. He's a registered sex offender, you know. That's why they keep him out in the woods. He isn't allowed to leave!"

One of the other girls chimed in. "Are your parents sex offenders, too, new girl?"

Emily liked this one. "Huh. Maybe they're all fucking each other out there! Is it a 'Fuck Forest' or something?!"

A third girl entered the ring. "Yeah, I bet you guys have orgies out there! Does Old Sam make you suck his dick?!"

Leslie groaned under her breath. Her parents must not have known about Old Sam. They wouldn't have put her in danger on purpose. That was so like them, too! So clueless!

A nearby boy, overhearing the conversation, decided to join in on the fun. "They probably have to go get her auntie from the psych ward before they do it, so she can teach them the really freaky stuff!"

The girls cackled like hyenas. This boy had officially impressed them. Leslie felt the sting of tears welling up in her eyes.

Shit. She was crying.

I DON'T BELONG HERE

Emily's torment persisted all week.

When Saturday morning arrived, Leslie was awake before dawn. She couldn't bear the thought of another day cooped up in the house, where her mother's questions about school would be impossible to avoid. She slipped out the front door before Helen or Robert had stirred. The morning air was cool and crisp, the sky just beginning to lighten as she walked down the road toward town.

SHE RUNS

RUNS

RUNS

RUNS!

The streets of Gossamer Loom were nearly empty at this early hour. Leslie turned down a quiet street, and spotted a small brick building, its sign reading "Public Library." She stepped inside. It was the kind of library you could get lost in, and the air smelled of aged paper and dust—a scent that made Leslie feel comforted.

"Can I help you find something, dear?" a voice asked, pulling Leslie from her thoughts.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Leslie turned to see an older woman standing nearby, her sharp eyes softened by a kind smile. She wore a cardigan that looked like it had seen many winters.

"Oh, um, I'm just looking around," Leslie replied, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious. "I just moved here, so I'm not really sure what I'm looking for."

The woman nodded. "You must be Leslie. Your mother mentioned you when she stopped by earlier in the week. I'm Mrs. Hargrave, the librarian here. Welcome to Gossamer Loom."

"Thanks," Leslie said, managing a small smile. "It's nice to meet you."

Mrs. Hargrave's gaze was piercing but not unkind. "How are you finding the town so far?" she asked gently.

Leslie shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "It's okay. I'm still getting used to it, I guess."

Mrs. Hargrave didn't push the issue, but the soft twinkle in her eye made Leslie feel like she could say more if she wanted to. Leslie found herself blurting out, "It's just... school's been kind of hard. The kids there aren't very nice."

For a moment Leslie regretted saying anything, until Mrs. Hargrave nodded in affirmation. "That's not uncommon when you're the new face in town," she said. "Sometimes, people can be unkind when they're unsure of someone new."

"I just wanted things to be better here."

Mrs. Hargrave placed a gentle hand on Leslie's shoulder. "You know, Leslie, sometimes when the people in a new place make it unpleasant, the place itself, and its stories, might still have something to offer you. This town has seen a lot over the years—stories, secrets, and all kinds of history."

Leslie looked up, intrigued. "What kind of stories?"

Mrs. Hargrave's eyes glistened with a hint of mischief. "Let me tell you one," she said. "Long ago, this town was renowned for the weaving looms and the exquisite tapestries produced by its people. Every household had a loom, and the tapestries they created were sought after far and wide. But none could match the skill of one particular woman—a weaver whose name has been lost to time, but whose legend endures."

Leslie leaned in, captivated by the story's beginning, the troubles of school momentarily forgotten.

"This woman," Mrs. Hargrave continued, "was the best weaver the town had ever seen. Her hands moved with such grace and precision that her tapestries were said to capture the very essence of life. But despite her talent, she was an outsider. She never married, never fit in with the other women of the town. They whispered about her behind closed doors, called her strange, and kept their distance. But the weaver didn't mind. She poured her heart and soul into her craft. One year, a terrible plague swept through the town. It was a viral sickness, and the children were the first to fall ill. One by one, they succumbed to the disease, and the town was plunged into grief and fear. The townspeople, desperate to find a cause, noticed an unusual increase in the spider population around the same time. The spiders had become a common sight in every home, and soon, the townsfolk convinced themselves that these spiders were the carriers of the plague."

Leslie's breath was caught—the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

"They were ordered to kill any spiders they found in their homes, believing that by eradicating the creatures, they could stop the spread of the disease. But the weaver—she wouldn't harm a single spider. It wasn't in her nature to kill another living thing, no matter how small. She understood the spiders, in a way. She knew what it was like to be hated, to be misunderstood. As the townsfolk killed off the spiders, the few that survived began to seek refuge in the only place they knew was safe: the weaver's house. Over time, her home became filled with spiders, their webs covering every corner, turning the house into a vast, shimmering web. The townspeople, already suspicious of her, were horrified when they discovered that she was harboring the spiders they believed were killing their children."

Mrs. Hargrave paused. Leslie found herself holding her breath, eager to hear what happened next.

"They brought her to trial, but she was able to prove her innocence. She showed them that the spiders were harmless, that they were not to blame for the plague that had ravaged the town. The town leaders had no choice but to release her, but the fathers of the dead children—they refused to believe the facts. Grief had twisted their minds, and in their eyes, the weaver was still responsible for the deaths of their children."

Leslie felt a chill run through her as Mrs. Hargrave continued, her voice dropping nearly to a whisper.

"One night, in the dead of winter, those men, driven mad by their loss, decided to take justice into their own hands. They stormed the weaver's house, trapped her inside, and set it ablaze. The flames consumed the house, along with the weaver and all the spiders she had sheltered. She died... but her spirit did not rest."

Mrs. Hargrave leaned closer, her eyes locking with Leslie's.

"The following winter, as the first snow began to fall, the men who had murdered the Weaver began to die—one by one. Their deaths were sudden, violent, and unexplained. Some say it was as if an unseen force had exacted revenge on them.

The townsfolk began to whisper that it was the weaver's ghost, come back from the grave to punish those who had wronged her. The woman who had once refused to harm any living thing had learned, in death, how to kill."

Leslie shivered, the eerie tale settling over her like a cold blanket. She could almost feel the creeping fear of the men as they met their fates.

"And the spiders?" Leslie asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Hargrave gave her a small, sad smile. "The spiders vanished from the town after that. But they say that you can feel the hand of fate tugging at your life with a bit of an extra pull once you've passed through Gossamer Loom. They say it's her—the mother of the spiders. Some say she sits at her loom in a world beyond, others say she weaves a large spider's web. Who knows? But the one thing that is certain, is that she weaves together the lives of our townsfolk, binding us to the paths we have to walk. You see, sometimes a town is woven together by its history and folklore. And by learning more about this place, you might find your own way to weave yourself into its fabric."

Leslie nodded slowly, feeling a strange comfort settle over her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hargrave."

Any solace Leslie had found in Mrs. Hargrave's story was quickly forgotten in the weeks that followed. By mid-October, Emily's taunting snowballed into something far worse. It wasn't just her and her friends anymore; it felt like the entire school had turned against Leslie. The whispers and laughter followed her everywhere. She had become the black sheep.

The boys took to hurling vile, sexual threats at her one moment, then making it clear they found her repugnant the next. The girls tormented her with vicious pranks and low blows, such as the continued speculation that Leslie was being groomed to take up the mantle as the forest's resident pedophile someday. Never mind how the stories about Old Sam living out there, raping and murdering children, were making it scarier and scarier for Leslie to live in the middle of "his" woods. How could they all say and do these things to a perfect stranger? The weight of their hatred pressed down on her, suffocating her until it grew into an all-consuming nothingness. By the time she crawled into bed each night, Leslie was numb.

Her assignments began to pile up unfinished, and her grades plummeted. Her teachers' glances, once indifferent, now bore into her with veiled contempt, as if she were a burden they were forced to tolerate. At home, Leslie did her best to hide the truth from her parents, but she knew it was only a matter of time before they realized she had become a total disaster—a liability. The thought crept into her mind more and more; sometimes she truly did wish she were dead.

Then one cold night, well past midnight, Leslie felt a reckless urge to escape. She couldn't bear the walls of her room any longer, couldn't stand the thought of another sleepless night plagued by thoughts of school. She hopped out of bed, threw on a jacket, and wandered into the woods surrounding her home. The air was biting, and she knew her mother would have told her to wear more layers on a night this cold. She didn't care.

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As she wandered deeper into the forest, the trees grew thicker. Soon Leslie realized she was lost. Maybe it was better this way. She stopped. It was true. She really didn't care that she was lost and alone in the woods. Not at all.

At least, not for a moment.

Then, a helplessness began to creep its way in. Then frustration. Leslie didn't know how to get home. Her heart rate slowly began to climb. She was breathing more heavily. Her eyes stung with a pain that came from deep within her. She was actually lost? She didn't recognize herself—she would never have been this stupid!

She had to focus. Maybe if she retraced her steps, she could find her way back to that clearing she had passed earlier—at least that would give her some sense of direction. She turned and began walking in what she hoped was the right direction.

Soon, she came upon a small victory, and found her way back to the clearing. There was something strange about it, though—something that made her hesitate.

This clearing was too vast. Leslie couldn't see any signs of life, no houses, no roads—nothing to suggest she was still in Gossamer Loom. Had she wandered too far, past the boundaries of the town? It was at that moment she remembered that she had left her phone at home. Stupid. She couldn't hold back the tears anymore. Faintly and pathetically, she muttered the words to herself:

WHATEVER MAKES YOU HAPPY

WHATEVER YOU WANT

Leslie swallowed, her nose tingling in the cold.

I WISH I WAS SPECIAL...

And that's when she heard it.

The soft, faint sound of the song echoing back to her... but it wasn't quite right. It was too high-pitched, too frail. It sounded like a weak old man, trying to match her pitch, a soft, off-key moan that made her blood run cold.

I WISH I WAS SPECIAL

YOU'RE SO FUCKING SPECIAL

BUT I'M A CREEP

I'M A WEIRDO...

The voice seemed to drift closer, wrapping around her like a chill in the air.

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?

I DON'T BELONG HERE...

The singing stopped. The silence was worse. Leslie smelled something. It was a kind of sweet, but overall rancid odor. It smelled like roadkill.

"Hello?" Leslie called out, her voice shaking. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the trees.

And that's when she saw it.

Among the branches and bramble, unmistakably, was a face. A man was standing in the trees, watching her wander the clearing.

Fear shot through Leslie's body, but she did her best to hide it.

"H-hello?" she repeated.

He stayed where he was, just inside the tree line, watching contentedly.

"You're lost, aren't you?" His voice was soft and coaxing. "I can help you find your way home."

He reached out his hand.

Leslie shook her head, her throat tight with fear. "No. I... I can find my own way." She took another step back.

He didn't move or approach her. "I know where your family is living, and this clearing is the opposite direction. You'll have to come with me, back through the trees. You won't make it on your own. These woods... they're tricky. They don't let people leave so easily."

Leslie glanced over her shoulder to the field beyond the clearing. As she continued to back away, the man stayed where he was with his one arm raised, inside the trees, as if there was some invisible barrier holding him back.

Leslie's heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her skull as she glanced at the field again. She didn't know where it led—didn't know if it was even part of Gossamer Loom.

His eyes followed her as she took another step toward the field.

"You shouldn't go," he said, softly but insistently. "It's not safe out there. Let me take you home."

Leslie swallowed hard. "Why aren't you coming closer?" Her voice trembled, her hands shaking at her sides. His smile flickered slightly as his eyes seemed to harden.

"I can't," he said simply.

"Why not?" Leslie asked.

His expression shifted entirely. He stopped smiling. "You have to come to me," he said, his voice low and cold. "I can't cross the line."

Then, she suddenly knew the truth. She remembered the picture Emily had painted of a dangerous man stuck in the woods, who wasn't allowed to leave. She asked the question, already knowing the answer.

"Are you... the man they warned me about?"

Slowly, Old Sam nodded.

"Yes."

No sooner had he said this, than a woman's ghostly scream pierced the darkness.

The scream echoed through the trees, echoed through the dark, and startled both Leslie and Old Sam.

Where had it come from?

The scream echoed through the world, and seven people woke from nightmares about little girls and strange old men:

Josiah Loomridge, Ivy Lawrence, Cooper Reynolds, William Ashbury III, Jane Dobson, Elijah Loomridge, and Caroline Stronghold.

They were drawn to each other at once, and Leslie was drawn to them too. All eight of them could feel it, though they didn't know what it meant.

Then, mere moments later, those who had been awakened went back to sleep. Leslie felt more alone than ever.

Out of desperation, she turned to face Old Sam. She wanted to find her way home. And there he was.

And as Leslie's loneliness and fear got the better of her... as she walked slowly and silently toward Old Sam and allowed him to take her hand... she had no way of knowing that the ancient spirit that had cried out in the night, older and more powerful than any predator could ever imagine, the Mother of the Spiders, herself... had woven an Octagon.

[Because this is Chapter 1, I should note that not every chapter features its "Formation Song" in the narrative itself, but "Creep" just felt so integral to the story, and to setting up who Leslie is, that I simply had to include it.]

That's chapter 1 everybody! How do you think the people who woke from the nightmares are connected to Leslie? What might they share in common? Do you think Leslie will tell anyone about her encounter with Old Sam, or keep it to herself? What will happen to Leslie now? Also, why is Emily so hell-bent on destroying Leslie's life?

Let me know what you think in the comments!

Thank you for reading.

-K.R.H.