By Ashley Maruzzo
Copyright � 2025 Ashley Maruzzo.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The golden thread was under her skin when she woke up.
At first, Alina thought it was a stray hair clinging to her wrist. But when she pulled at it, a sharp sting ran up her arm as if the thread were connected to something deeper. She winced, blinking at the small glint of gold embedded beneath her skin. It shimmered in the dim light of her bedroom, thin as a whisper, yet undeniably there.
She pinched it between her nails and gave it a quick, decisive tug.
Pain shot through her wrist, deep and unnatural, like a needle stabbing from the inside. She gasped and let go, heart pounding. That didn't feel right. Swallowing hard, she yanked it again, harder this time. The thread slid out an inch - then stopped. Something inside her resisted, pulling back.
Alina's breath hitched. That was impossible.
She ripped at it, clenching her teeth through the pain. Inch by inch, the golden thread unraveled from her wrist, dragging an unbearable burning sensation up her veins. Finally, with a sickening snap, it came loose. She stared at the thin, gleaming strand in her trembling fingers. The hole in her skin where it had been was smooth, unbroken. No blood. No wound.
The thread twitched.
She flung it away instinctively, her stomach twisting with nausea. The tiny coil of gold landed on her nightstand, perfectly still now. Alina pressed a shaky hand against her wrist. It still ached, but it was gone. Maybe she'd had some weird dream. Maybe it was nothing.
By morning, she had almost convinced herself it hadn't happened at all.
The next night, the thread was back.
Alina sat up so fast, and her head spun. Her breath came in quick, ragged gasps as she raised her hand. This time, it wasn't just on her wrist.
It was woven through her fingers.
Thin golden strands looped between her knuckles, twisting delicately around each digit like embroidery. They shimmered in the dark, catching the moonlight like delicate, inhuman lace. She flexed her hand, dread curling in her stomach. The thread flexed with her. It was inside her.
A scream built in her throat, but she swallowed it down, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Her skin prickled as if a thousand unseen needles had pressed into her flesh. She could feel them shifting.
She bolted out of bed, hands trembling. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination. Her whole body felt wrong, as though something unseen had begun stitching through her while she slept. She snatched the scissors from her dresser, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.
Her fingers shook as she tried to wedge a blade beneath one of the golden strands. It pulsed.
Alina froze.
She swore she felt something writhing, deep in her bones, resisting her. Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. It was alive.
Her vision blurred with panic, but she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to act. She slid the scissors under the nearest strand and snipped.
Pain tore through her like fire.
She collapsed to her knees, the world spinning, a strangled cry ripping from her throat. This wasn't normal pain. It wasn't skin-deep. The agony radiated from within, burrowing into her nerve and flooding through her bloodstream like liquid fire.
Then she heard the whisper.
"Don't pull."
The voice was faint, barely more than a breath. But it wasn't coming from the room.
It was inside her.
Alina's heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst. Her entire body broke into a cold sweat. The whisper hadn't come from her ears. It had come from somewhere deep beneath her skin.
She tore at the thread, frantic, desperate to rid herself of it despite the searing pain. It didn't budge. The agony intensified, spreading like ink through her veins, turning her limbs weak and useless. She felt the thread tightening, digging in, pulling back.
The whispers multiplied.
Soft voices, murmuring in an ancient, unreadable tongue. They weren't just speaking - they were weaving.
A sob tore from Alina's throat as she hacked at the strands with the scissors, her grip slick with sweat. One by one, the threads snapped, retracting into her skin with unnatural quickness, like something hiding from the light. The voices screamed, high and shrill, piercing through her skull.
Then, the shadows moved.
A dark shape stretched from the corners of her room, long fingers trailing against the ceiling, shifting, watching. Her reflection in the mirror wasn't moving like she was. It stared, empty-eyed, mouth stretched too wide.
And then -
Silence.
The pain was gone. The threads were gone. She was alone.
Until the next night.
This time, the thread had spread.
Alina woke with golden filaments woven through her arms, her shoulders, and her stomach. They shimmered under her skin, twisting in intricate patterns, moving subtly - as if they were alive.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. She stumbled to the mirror, clutching her arms. The threads weren't just on her. They were in her, threading through her muscles, wrapping around her ribs like vines. She pressed a hand against her chest, and her pulse skipped beneath her fingers.
Something was moving inside her.
The whispers returned.
"Don't pull."
Her body convulsed as the voices vibrated through her bones, resonating from deep within. Her stomach twisted. She could feel the thread growing.
She ripped at her skin, tearing at the threads, screaming. The whispers became laughter. The scissors slipped from her grasp as her body stiffened, locked in place. The golden threads knitted over her lips, sealing her mouth shut.
Darkness swelled around her as she felt herself being woven in.
The next morning, her roommate woke to a sharp sting on her wrist.
A golden thread glinting in the dark.
And in the mirror, Alina smiled.
THE END.