And, given that the transformer, which supplied power to the rails, was not plugged in, that boxcar door should not be moving. So—

It moved again.

Annie was certain this time. The door, no larger than a business card, had slid open another fraction of an inch.

Something long and black, not much thicker than a thread, had worked its way around the edge of the tiny plastic door, pushing it.

“No no no no,” Annie whispered.

Then a second thread—no, not a thread, because a thread didn’t have joints like, say, a leg—emerged to assist, giving the door another nudge, opening it the better part of an inch. And then something larger, something black and round, emerged.

It was a spider. Or, at least, something spider-like.

Its body was about the size of a dime, but as its legs fanned out it appeared much larger. It began to extricate itself from the boxcar, its legs like feelers, reaching down for the floor. Finding the smooth surface, it slid out completely and paused, as if looking around, taking in its surroundings.

Annie shivered briefly. She was not a fan of bugs of any kind, but spiders ranked right at the top of the list.

She looked about for a weapon. The pad of art paper was far too big to roll up as a makeshift club. What she needed was a magazine, or a can of Raid she could use to spray the little motherfucker. Her eyes settled on the coffee can filled with markers and pens and brushes, the bottom of it perfect for crushing an unwanted visitor.

But as she went to pick it up, she saw more legs reaching around the edge of the boxcar door.

Another spider came out.

And then another. And another.

Like passengers arriving at their destination, they disembarked and started to head off in all directions. They kept on coming. Dozens at first, and then what seemed like hundreds. Thousands. A section of floor became black with them, an undulating carpet of spiders, moving slowly toward Annie.

How could that tiny car hold so many? How had they gotten in there in the first place?

Annie’s breathing became short and hurried. She dropped the can, markers, pens, and brushes scattering across the floor. She had to get out of this room, out of this house, put Charlie in the car without bothering to pack one single fucking thing, and head straight back to New York.

She heard screaming and realized it was her.

She thought, for a millisecond, of Dolores. What had Daniel said?