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The darkness is absolute. Except for the spiders. The spiders are glowing. A faint, sickly, psychotropic phosphorescence emanates from their hairy bodies. Psychedelic arachnid lanterns. Lovely. They have mandibles. They are hungry. They look at you with their cold, stupid, utterly indifferent little eyes. You attempt to flee. Unfortunately, your foot lands on a slug the size of a small dog. The creature lets out a tiny squeal of ecstasy as its swollen body ruptures, emptying its juices, its black blood, its entire miserable inventory of internal fluids across the basement floor. You fall. The spiders approach. They enter your mouth. They lick. They tear. They burrow. They make their way through the soft, pink architecture of your increasingly irrelevant anatomy. One of them has found a particularly comfortable little cavity behind your left eye.
