The Last Biscuit

I have always been the careful one, the observer. At fourteen, my friends were obsessed with ghost-hunting apps and midnight dares, but I preferred the quiet certainty of my own room, the familiar creak of the stairs, the predictable hum of the refrigerator. That was before the incident in the pantry.

It was a Tuesday, two weeks into the school holidays. I had just finished a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps, my weekly treat, and the inevitable thirst had set in. The clock on my bedside table read 9:17 PM. The house was settled into its usual evening rhythm: the low murmur of the television downstairs, the occasional groan of the old plumbing. I swung my legs off the bed, determined to get a glass of water before the final episode of my show.

As I reached for the door handle, the lights in my room flickered. Not the subtle dimming of a faulty bulb, but a sharp, deliberate pulse, like a heartbeat. The TV in the living room went silent. I froze, my hand hovering over the cold metal. The silence that followed was not the comfortable silence of a sleeping house; it was a thick, watchful quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

I told myself it was just a power surge, maybe a tree branch on the line. But my heart was pounding against my ribs as I stepped into the hallway. The corridor stretched before me, darker than it should have been, the nightlight at the far end seemingly swallowed by an unnatural gloom. My bedroom door clicked shut behind me with a soft but final sound.

I took two steps, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, when I noticed the door to the pantry was slightly ajar. That was odd; I always kept it closed. A sliver of blackness peered out from the gap, and from within came a faint rustling, like dry leaves skittering across concrete. I should have turned back, should have dived under my covers and pretended I heard nothing. But my thirst was overwhelming, a primal urge that overrode my fear.

I crept forward, my eyes straining to pierce the darkness. The pantry was just ahead, its door now fully open, revealing a void so deep it seemed to drink the light from the hallway. The rustling grew louder, more frantic. I reached out my hand, my fingers brushing against the doorframe, and that’s when I saw it: on the top shelf, behind a jar of pickles, a small, white biscuit was moving. It was an ordinary digestive, the kind my grandmother used to buy, but it was vibrating, trembling as if it were alive.

Before I could react, the biscuit shot out of the pantry, flew past my face, and landed on the floor at the end of the hallway. I spun around, my breath catching in my throat. The biscuit lay there, motionless, but I could feel its presence, like a cold spot in the air. The lights in the hallway began to flicker again, faster now, and I heard a voice, low and raspy, whisper from the direction of the pantry: ‘You broke the rule.’

I didn’t know what rule it meant. But as I stood there, frozen, the biscuit began to crumble, and from its fragments, tiny black legs emerged, then a body, then a head. It was a spider, but not like any I had seen before. Its abdomen was patterned like a biscuit, and its eyes were a million tiny mirrors. It spoke again, its voice now inside my head, a dry, scraping sound: ‘You ate the last one. Now you must take its place.’

I ran. I don’t remember reaching my bedroom, but suddenly I was inside, slamming the door, locking it with shaking hands. The lights in my room returned to their normal brightness, but I could still see the biscuit spider on the floor of the hallway, watching me through the crack under the door. I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on my bed, knees drawn to my chest, listening to the rustling in the walls, the sound of biscuits multiplying, of crumbs skittering, until dawn broke.

It’s been three days now. I haven’t left my room except to use the bathroom, and even then, I run. The biscuits are everywhere now. I can see them through the gap in the door, arranged in neat rows along the hallway, like an offering. And every time I try to reach for my glass of water, I hear the voice again, softer this time, almost patient: ‘There is no water here. Only crumbs.’