SPIDER-CHICA!

 "I wish I had the perfect body and was popular," Raphaela whispered, her voice barely audible in the oppressive silence of the classroom.

"Your wish is yours to suffer," a deep, gravelly voice resonated through the air, sending chills down her spine.

Raphaela's eyes widened in fear. "Did you say something?" she asked Jasmine, her voice trembling.

Jasmine's face contorted in confusion, her eyes glazed over as if in a trance. "No, I didn't even hear what you just said," she replied mechanically. "Why am I even here?"

"To get an education, remember?" Raphaela's voice quivered. "Are you sure you said nothing?"

Jasmine's movements became jerky, unnatural. She waved a withered carrot in Raphaela's face, its rot spreading visibly. "Why are you so hung up about this? What did I even say?"

Raphaela recounted the exchange, her words echoing unnaturally in the suddenly cavernous room. Jasmine's response was chilling: "Nope, that was definitely not me. That voice is too deep, and I sound way more... seductive than that."

"Would you stop!" Raphaela cried, slapping Jasmine's shoulder. Her hand passed through as if her friend were made of mist.

Jasmine's eyes flickered, momentarily pitch black. "That didn't hurt, but I think you're just imagining things. Or maybe it was a Djinn, like from those Arabian legends."

"No way," Raphaela stammered, backing away. "I don't believe in those things. I'm surprised you even paid attention in history class. How... mature of you. You're growing into quite the young lady, Jasmine Richman."

Jasmine's face twisted into an unnatural grin. "Thank you, Raphaela Gomez. You know I always try to set the example for my younger fans at home, of how to be an outstanding individual in society, leading the nation to a brighter future." She rose, her form elongating impossibly as she stood atop her desk, arm thrust skyward.

"Tables are meant for glasses, not for asses," a disembodied voice hissed from the shadows.

"I guess there's no bigger demon than you, Simon," Jasmine sneered, her teeth suddenly sharp and gleaming.

"Why, you little--" Simon's voice cut off in a gurgle.

Mr. Cummings materialized at the front of the class, his eyes glowing an eerie red. "That's enough of your little infernal drama. Get back to your desks, children, and take out your literature books. It's time I liberate your simple minds beyond the borders of this cursed town where nothing ever happens."

The classroom walls began to bleed ink as Mr. Cummings turned to the board, his chalk scraping out eldritch symbols that seared themselves into the students' minds.

 "Hey Raphaela, I hear you're pretty good friends with that weirdo lady who moved into the abandoned house across from you. What, is she your new best friend? You better watch out, Jasmine, an old hag might steal your friend."

"How about you keep quiet, Simon? Miss Austin is not a weirdo,she's kind and pleasant."

"Miss? She's still not married? That explains a lot. With a face like that, who'd want to marry her? Her face could make the devil go to church."

The two boys next to Simon burst into laughter.

"Simon!" Mr. Cumming's voice shot through the classroom like a thunderbolt, startling some students and waking up the sleepers in the back row. "Since you're so talkative today, why don't you read the next three chapters of the novel?"

"But Sir—"

"No buts. I hope this will cure your verbal diarrhea."

"I'll get you for this, Raphaela," Simon muttered under his breath.

"The only thing you'll be getting, Mr. Jones, is an expansion of your vocabulary skills. Start reading."

The school day ended without any surprises from Simon or his fellow troublemakers, giving Raphaela some peace of mind. Everyone knew Simon didn't make empty threats.

As she was walking towards the gate, she was startled by none other than her best friend, Jasmine.

"Boo!"

"I'm sorry!" Raphaela shouted, covering her eyes.

"Geez, relax. It's just me," Jasmine said, gently pulling her friend's hands away from her eyes.

"You know I don't like to be scared like that."

"Still on edge about Simon? Don't worry about it; he's all bark and no bite."

"Yeah, well, what about Frank?" Raphaela asked, her voice tinged with concern.

"Everyone knows Frank was a suicidal freak and adrenaline junkie. He probably jumped off the bridge to feel the thrill of life, and Simon just took credit for it, saying he tossed him off for talking back," Jasmine said confidently.

"You sure?" Raphaela asked nervously.

"Yes, I'm sure. And besides, if he does try anything, I'll deal with him personally, okay?"

Raphaela nodded.

"Come on, cheer up. Anyway, the reason I'm here is that I need to go to extra judo practice due to the upcoming championship. So you're going to have to put on your big girl panties and walk home all by yourself."

"Okay," Raphaela replied softly.

Jasmine's eyes started to tear up.

"Why are you crying?" Raphaela asked, confused.

"Because after being friends for more than ten years, we're going to part ways! Why is life so cruel? What have I done to deserve this?" Jasmine wailed dramatically.

"Okay, I'm just going to leave now and pretend I don't know you. Bye," Raphaela said, rolling her eyes.

As Raphaela trudged homeward, the cheery ice cream parlor where she and Jasmine were supposed to meet loomed into view. A wave of melancholy washed over her, unbidden memories flickering through her mind like an old film reel. Tears pricked at her eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Get a grip, Raphaela," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're not some sappy, emotional wreck."

Her self-admonishment drew curious glances from passersby, but their judgment rolled off her like water off a duck's back. Raphaela had long ago learned to shut out the world, her anxiety and reclusiveness forming an impenetrable fortress around her heart. Friends were a luxury she couldn't afford—or so she thought.

Lost in her thoughts, Raphaela failed to notice the ominous shadows stretching across the sidewalk. It wasn't until a familiar voice cut through the air like a knife that she snapped back to reality.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" The words dripped with malice, sending a chill down Raphaela's spine.

She looked up to find Simon Jones blocking her path, flanked by two hulking figures whose vacant expressions belied their menacing postures. Simon's lips curled into a cruel smirk as recognition dawned in Raphaela's eyes.

"Remember me?" he asked, his tone deceptively light.

"Yeah, remember?" growled one of the lackeys, his voice gravelly and threatening.

"Remember?" echoed the other, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.

Raphaela's mind raced, her fight-or-flight instinct kicking into overdrive. But instead of cowering, she found herself responding with unexpected sarcasm.

"Yes, Simon, we've been in the same classes since we were little," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Don't you remember? Are you feeling alright? It's not normal for someone your age to have such a weak memory. Maybe you should see a doctor."

The words hung in the air, heavy with tension. Simon's smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by a flash of something darker. As Raphaela held her breath, waiting for his reaction, she couldn't help but wonder: had she just made a grave mistake, or stumbled upon an unexpected strength?

Simon's victorious smile twisted into something cruel. "I see you're trying to be clever, but we both know there's only a clinic in this town. Joke's on you, little Miss Know-it-all."

"Good one, Simon," his lackey chuckled, eyes gleaming with malice.

Raphaela's heart raced, her earlier bravado evaporating. "Guess I'm just a two-faced idiot," she muttered, backing away slowly. "Maybe I should paint my face black."

Simon's grin widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Funny you should mention that."

A chill ran down Raphaela's spine. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I was saving this for school," Simon drawled, savoring each word, "but since you're so eager for punishment, why keep you in suspense?" He snapped his fingers. "Jack, grab her."

Before Raphaela could react, strong arms seized her from behind, pinning her own arms to her sides. She thrashed wildly, panic rising in her throat. "Let me go! What are you going to do? Let go!"

Simon stepped closer, his face inches from hers. "You see, that's the beauty of a small town like ours. So much open space, so many forests." His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "Bad things can happen, and no one would ever know."

He turned to his other companion. "Phil, the paint."

Phil unzipped his backpack with agonizing slowness, producing a spray can of black paint. The metallic rattle of the ball bearing inside seemed to echo in the suddenly too-quiet street.

"Courtesy of the school's drama club," Phil sneered, removing the cap with a soft 'pop' that made Raphaela flinch.

As he began to shake the can, the rhythmic sound like a rattlesnake's warning, Raphaela felt the fight drain out of her. "Wait," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Can't we talk about this?"

Simon paused, cocking his head as if considering her words. For a heartbeat, hope fluttered in Raphaela's chest. Then his eyes hardened, and she knew with chilling certainty that her ordeal was only beginning.

"There's nothing to talk about. If I were you, I'd hold my breath. These fumes are deadly," he said coldly, taking a few steps closer. Without warning, he shoved the can right in front of her face.

"Hold on a second. I'm not some heartless animal." He smirked, his voice laced with mockery. "I still want you to get home safely. Phil, take off her glasses. Clean them—nicely."

Phil moved mechanically, slipping her glasses off with trembling fingers, his eyes darting away. He wiped them as if it were some twisted chore, while Simon casually returned to his spot.

"Alright, Raphaela, safety first," Simon said, his voice dripping with sinister glee. "On the count of three, remember—hold your breath. One, two… three!"

Without hesitation, Simon sprayed directly into her face. The fumes hit her like a punch, and darkness swallowed her vision. Her throat burned, but she couldn't scream—she was too terrified. As the noxious mist covered her face, it dripped down to her legs, soaking into her clothes. Her entire body trembled.

Simon stepped back, admiring his work. "There. I'm done. Let her go, Jack. Let her dry off." He snapped his fingers. "Phil, give her back those beautifully polished glasses so she can see the masterpiece I've so graciously bestowed upon her."

Phil handed her the glasses, shame clouding his expression, but he said nothing.

Simon yawned, stretching lazily. "I'm bored now. Let's go, guys. There's a new game at the arcade—heard it's killer."

The boys grabbed their bags, snickering, and strolled away like it was just another day. As soon as their voices faded, Raphaela collapsed to her knees, her heart pounding in her ears. Her hands shot up to cover her face as tears streamed down, smearing the filth they'd sprayed on her.

"I wish I were strong. I wish I were like the warriors in my games. I wish I were a monster. Then I'd make them pay. They'd all pay…" Her voice cracked, choking on her despair.

Suddenly, a voice, low and venomous, cut through the silence. "Your wish is yours to suffer."

Raphaela gasped, spinning around. Standing there in the shadows was Miss Austin, her eyes dark and unreadable.

"Miss Austin?" Raphaela whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Raphaela… what have they done to you?" Miss Austin's voice was soft, but there was a cold, terrifying edge beneath the concern.

Raphaela tried to speak but only a few mumbles came out before she started sobbing even louder than before.

"It's alright, dear," Miss Austin's voice quavered, a brittle smile on her wrinkled face. "People can be so cruel. Come now, let's get you cleaned up at my house. I've just bought some hot chocolate. How does that sound?"

Raphaela nodded mutely, falling into step behind the old woman. With each passing moment, an inexplicable sense of dread settled deeper into her bones.

They soon stood before a dilapidated structure that barely passed for a house. Broken windows gaped like jagged mouths, and peeling paint revealed rotting wood beneath. The place exuded an aura of decay and abandonment that made Raphaela's skin crawl.

"Miss Austin," Raphaela whispered, her voice trembling, "I don't mean to be rude, but... this house. The rumors. They say a woman murdered her entire family here, chopped them up, and... and ate them. They say her ghost still haunts this place, looking for her next victim." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

Miss Austin's laughter cut through the air like a knife, sharp and humorless. "Yes, you seem to have forgotten I live here. Perhaps the ghost doesn't fancy old, withered meat like myself." Her eyes glinted strangely in the fading light. "Come in, dear."

"Do I have to?" Raphaela's voice was barely audible.

"You're not scared of ghosts, are you?" Miss Austin's tone held a challenge.

"N-no, of course not," Raphaela lied, her nervous laughter betraying her fear.

"Good," Miss Austin purred, "because there are no ghosts inside. Just stories people invent to feel important." She placed a gnarled hand on Raphaela's back, gently but firmly guiding her forward. "You'll see, what matters is what's on the inside. Let's go."

Raphaela steeled herself, reluctantly trusting this old woman who looked more like a witch from some forgotten fairy tale than a kindly neighbor. As she ascended the creaking stairs, each step eliciting an ominous groan from the wood, a chill ran down her spine.

"Something wrong?" Miss Austin's voice drifted from behind her.

"No, nothing," Raphaela mumbled, her heart racing. "It's just... this feels like one of those horror movie houses. Where a reckless teenager goes in and..."

She trailed off, the words "gets killed by the sweet neighbor" dying on her lips as the door creaked shut behind them with a resounding thud.

"Oh, don't worry dear. I'm just a harmless little old lady," Miss Austin said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "You could blow me away with a sneeze if you wanted to."

As they entered the house, Raphaela gasped. The interior was a stark contrast to the decrepit exterior. Warm, golden light spilled from antique chandeliers, illuminating walls adorned with rich tapestries. Plush Persian rugs cushioned their steps, and the air held the comforting scent of cinnamon and old books.

"It's... breathtaking," Raphaela whispered, her eyes wide. "I thought it would be..."

"It's alright, dear. Appearances can be deceiving," Miss Austin chuckled. "Make yourself at home while I prepare your bath. Tea or coffee?"

"No thank you, Miss Austin. I'm fine."

"Please, call me Medea," the old woman insisted, her voice as smooth as honey.

As Medea disappeared upstairs, Raphaela explored the living room. Every piece of furniture looked like a priceless antique, lovingly maintained. But what truly caught her eye was a set of four ornate Greek plates mounted on the wall.

The first plate depicted a man and woman meeting, their eyes locked in an intense gaze. The second showed a family, but something about their expressions seemed off - a hint of fear in the children's eyes, a possessive grip of the woman on her husband's arm.

The third plate made Raphaela's blood run cold. It portrayed a woman, her face contorted with rage, standing over the lifeless bodies of two children. In the background, a man wept, his anguish palpable even in the gold and black artwork.

The final plate showed a city in flames, with a witch-like figure looming over it, her arms raised in triumph. The detail was exquisite, each face in the crowd below etched with terror.

Next to this chilling quartet was an empty stand, conspicuous in its vacancy.

"A tragic tale, isn't it?" Medea's voice drifted from the stairs, making Raphaela jump.

"Yes, but... I don't recognize the story," Raphaela admitted, her voice quavering slightly.

Medea's eyes gleamed in the soft light. "Ah, it's an ancient tale of a foolish woman who fell for a man and bore his children. When they returned to his homeland, she discovered he was to wed another. In her fury, she..." Medea paused, her gaze locked on the empty stand. "Well, let's just say she ensured he would never forget her. They say she became a powerful witch, laying waste to much of the Greek empire."

Raphaela shivered, an unsettling chill creeping down her spine. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story—more to Medea—than met the eye. The empty stand where Medea had been moments ago seemed to beckon, as if it was waiting for its dark tale to unfold.

As Medea recounted her story, Raphaela noticed the subtle tremor of anger in her voice. It lingered beneath the surface, but Raphaela decided not to press her on it.

"That story... it sounds oddly familiar," Raphaela mused, frowning slightly. "Like something I've seen in an anime. What's the name of the tale?"

Medea's eyes gleamed as she answered, "Medea."

"Like you?"

"Yes, like me. Some said I even looked like her when I was younger."

Raphaela blinked, feeling a strange unease. "Huh. You don't say... that's... interesting."

Medea's lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well, off you go. Take your bath. There's a gown waiting for you on the toilet seat."

"Thank you, Miss—I mean, Medea."

Raphaela headed upstairs, her thoughts swirling with unease, but the promise of a hot bath was too inviting to resist. As she stepped into the bathroom, the air was thick with steam, the scent of lavender and herbs filling her senses. The bath was already drawn, the water a perfect temperature, frothy with foam.

Without hesitation, she stripped down and slid into the tub, sighing as the hot water enveloped her. "Aah, this is heaven," she whispered, sinking deeper. "The best bath I've ever taken..."

Her body relaxed, her muscles unwinding in the warmth. But soon, a wave of drowsiness began to wash over her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she yawned, her body sinking deeper into the water.

"Maybe... just a little nap..." she murmured, her head slowly slipping beneath the surface.

But then—click—the door creaked open.

Raphaela's eyes fluttered open under the water, the sound faint yet clear. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, approaching the tub. Her heart began to pound, her body frozen in the water. A shadow loomed over her, dark and ominous.

Through the blur of water, she saw a figure—a woman dressed in a black robe, her face obscured by the hood. The woman whispered something inaudible, her voice like a dark chant as she poured strange, shimmering liquids into the bath.

Panic surged through Raphaela. She tried to move, to scream, but her body wouldn't respond. She was paralyzed, trapped beneath the water. Her lungs screamed for air, but she couldn't break free. The woman continued her strange ritual, her whispers growing louder, more menacing.

Raphaela's heart raced, fear constricting her chest. Move, she willed herself. Move!

With a sudden, desperate gasp, she broke through the surface, water splashing wildly around her. She coughed, sucking in deep, ragged breaths, her body trembling violently. Her eyes darted around the room, frantic, searching for the figure in black.

But there was no one there.

The bathroom was empty.

Raphaela's breath came in short, terrified bursts as she clutched the sides of the tub, water dripping down her face. Her mind raced. Had it been a dream? A hallucination?

Just then, there was a sharp knock at the door. Raphaela jolted, her heart leaping into her throat.

"Raphaela?" Miss Austin's voice called from the other side, soft yet firm. "Are you alright?"

Raphaela stared at the door, her pulse pounding in her ears. "I... I'm fine," she stammered, still trembling, her eyes wide with fear.

But something inside her whispered that she wasn't fine at all.

Raphaela, feeling refreshed, stepped out of the bath and carefully dried herself off. As she slipped on the white silk gown Medea had provided, she noticed something peculiar. Her hair, which should have been wet and tangled, cascaded down her back in perfect, dry curls. She blinked in confusion, unable to explain this sudden transformation.

Gathering her dirty clothes, she made her way downstairs, where she found Medea serenely sipping tea in the living room.

"Ah, there you are," Medea said, her eyes twinkling. "Clean as a whistle. Just look—not a trace of paint anywhere." She gestured towards the ornate mirror hanging above the fireplace.

Raphaela approached the mirror hesitantly. Her reflection took her breath away. Not only was the black paint completely gone, but her skin seemed to glow with a newfound radiance. Even her persistent acne had all but vanished.

"Wow," she whispered, touching her cheek in disbelief. "I don't know what was in that bathwater, but my skin... it's beautiful."

Medea's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Indeed it is, my dear. Full of youth and vitality. Come, have a seat and join this old lady for some tea and biscuits."

Raphaela nodded, still mesmerized by her transformation. As she settled into a plush armchair, a thought occurred to her.

"Miss Medea, I can't thank you enough for helping me. If my dad had found out what happened with Simon Jones and his cronies..." She shuddered. "You won't tell him, will you?"

Medea's eyes glinted with an unreadable expression. "It's your business, child. I have no right to interfere." She mimed zipping her lips, the gesture oddly formal.

"Great," Raphaela sighed with relief, reaching for a delicate teacup. As she sipped the fragrant brew, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Medea's kindness than met the eye. But for now, she was content to bask in the warmth of the room and her unexpected makeover, pushing her lingering doubts to the back of her mind.

"But... why don't you do something about it?"

"Do something about what?" Raphaela asked, her brow furrowing.

"The Simon situation," Medea said casually, taking a slow sip of her tea, her gaze sharp as it lingered on Raphaela.

"What could I possibly do? I mean, look at me," Raphaela sighed heavily, gesturing at herself. "I'm small, skinny, four-eyed, and I have no athletic skills. What could I ever do?"

Medea raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "True. Life can be cruel that way."

Raphaela's frustration bubbled up, her hands tightening into fists. "I wish I were like Jasmine—strong, powerful. She doesn't have to deal with this crap."

"You wish you had that power?" Medea asked, her tone shifting as she set down her tea and leaned back in her chair, her eyes glinting with a strange light.

"Yes," Raphaela muttered, her voice filled with bitterness. "I wish I had power."

Medea's smirk widened slightly. "So, power is what you crave. But you do realize power comes at a great price. You can't just have it. There's always a cost."

Raphaela looked at her, her face hardening. "I don't care. I want power. Not just any kind—monstrous power. The kind that tears people apart, limb from limb, just because I can. I want to be a monster."

Medea's eyes gleamed with something dark as she leaned forward, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "And what would you do with such monstrous power, Raphaela?"

"I'd take revenge," Raphaela hissed, her fists clenching so tightly her knuckles turned white. "On all of them. I'd make them pay. They'd never forget the pain I'd put them through."

For a long moment, there was silence. Medea studied Raphaela carefully, her expression unreadable, then she chuckled softly. "Interesting... These games you play—how they ignite the imagination. But then, what is life without a little darkness?"

Her words hung in the air, thick with an unspoken threat. The room seemed to grow colder.

Medea glanced at the clock, her smile never faltering. "Look at the time. It's getting late. You'd better get home."

Raphaela blinked, her rage momentarily dissipating, replaced by an unsettling sense of unease. "Y-Yeah, I guess I should."

"Go grab your clothes, and I'll walk you to the door," Medea said, her voice unnervingly calm. "After all, the night is dark... and full of shadows."

As Raphaela rose to leave, the weight of her words, and the dark possibilities they hinted at, settled heavy on her chest.

"Yes, you're so right." Raphaela quickly gathered her clothes and hurried toward the door. "Thank you, Medea, for everything today."

Medea smiled softly, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "No, thank you."

Raphaela frowned, puzzled. "For what? All I did was disturb you."

"That's not true," Medea replied, her voice low and almost wistful. "You gave an old woman like me a chance to relive her youth."

Raphaela blinked in confusion. "How?"

Medea chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Never mind, you'll understand one day. Go on now, your parents must be worried."

"Thanks again. Bye!" Raphaela called out as she dashed out the door and across the road toward her house. Once at the front door, she glanced back—Miss Austin was already gone, the house swallowed by shadows.

The door creaked open behind her, and her father stood there, his brow furrowed. "There you are. I was just about to come looking for you."

"No need, Dad. I was just across the street."

Her father's expression darkened slightly. "Really? In that creepy old house?"

Raphaela shrugged. "Yeah. Anyway, what's for dinner?"

"Not sure. Your mom cooked tonight."

"Awesome!" she said with a grin, but her father's eyes narrowed as he looked her over.

"And where did you get that dress?" he asked, his tone growing serious. "You look like some ancient Greek girl about to be sacrificed."

Raphaela rolled her eyes. "Leave it to a detective to see death and sacrifice in everything."

Her father's gaze didn't waver. "You'd be surprised how many of those cases I've worked in this little town."

"Well, Dad, the dress was a gift from Miss Austin," she said, shrugging.

His eyebrows shot up. "Ah, that explains it. Definitely a witch."

"Whatever, Dad. Let's just eat."

After a quiet dinner, Raphaela headed to bed, exhaustion tugging at her. But as she drifted off to sleep, her dreams were anything but peaceful. A familiar face greeted her in the depths of her slumber, waiting in the shadows.