It started with spiders. A tarantula, big and black, appeared on your couch. You called your neighbor for help—once, twice, then again. One day, a letter arrived with a spider crawling on your bed. You opened the letter: “Call that ugly, not worthy guy here again to take away my gifts. We’ll see who will wake up at dawn. – yours truly, M.”

Days passed. You tried calling your neighbor again—no answer. You went to his house, knocked, but no one answered, not even his dogs. Something was wrong, but you couldn’t assume. Maybe he was out hunting.

When you returned home, a man sat on your couch, dressed in black. His brown eyes, once calm like autumn leaves, now sent a chill down your spine. The same spider from your room crawled on his arm, and he just stared at you. He glanced at the box next to him on the couch. A bigger box.

"Open it."