The antique clock in her hallway struck once at half-past. She slowly rose, rubbing the small of her back and rolling her shoulders. She had been considering getting a comfy rug to lie on, but she knew she'd just end up muddying it with rain-affected boots. Her phone, which had been lying beside her, was still waiting for a response. It was also on ten percent. With a resigned huff, she climbed the wooden hill and plugged her phone in at the wall on her bedside table. Her stomach growled, but she hadn't an appetite. For food, that was. For some reason, Trudy had the urge to talk to someone. Something which she assumed was constantly dormant – or dead, even. But this transition from one phase of life to the next was an empty space, where she wasn't who she had thought she was, nor who she expected to be. So, instead of going to the kitchen and eating two noodle pots from one bowl, she put her boots on, buttoned up a cardigan over her blouse, and decided to take her neighbour up on her welcome.

The wind blew a gale still. Nighttime had soaked the clouds black, though the moon made itself known barely, a reassuring white silhouette. The chilly air carried the damp smell of a rotted world, stagnant, waiting for the kiss of life to bring it into spring. But spring was a while off yet, so it roiled and toiled where it could, passing through purgatory. Tousling the free mass of Trudy's wild hair. The rain and her plait had brought some kind of life to it – it seemed to want to cascade in gentle waves. She tied it back with the hairband still around her wrist, where it had sat so long that it had now left a red mark, and strode forth down her slippy path, out the gate, and rounded the corner to next door.

The houses on the street were all identical: thatched roofs, walls of brown brick criss-crossed by wooden beams that framed identical latticed windows. Each house rose to a point, beneath which a single window jutted out slightly. That window for Trudy's house was her bedroom, the only room in her house emitting any light. She wasn't afraid of the dark, but had a thing where, when she left at night, she had to leave a small light on to stave off any potential intruders. Not that she thought it would do much even if anyone target the skinny building, but it kept her sane. The houses all had front gardens hidden from each other with bush-topped wall, so cars were parked along the stony street, leaning on the pavement. Trudy's neighbour was an elderly lady without a car. The few times Trudy had visited were all to run errands when her neighbour's hip was playing up. Her name was Ymir – short, round, exuding a wisdom that Trudy attributed to the eclectic way she dressed, all shawls and long skirts. Like some sort of old witch, humans loved to terrorise each other days of old. The ones that really existed somewhere in the theorised Themar world, and that maybe existed in this one. Alas, she was pretty sure Ymir was just a crazy old lady. Something of which Trudy secretly aspired to.

"Trudy, you've come to see me." Ymir smiled a little as the door widened. Trudy couldn't decide if it was eerie or relieving that Ymir seemed to have expected her. "Come, come in out of this miserable weather."

The house was warm, in both temperature and atmosphere. Ymir's walls were all different shades of deep fuchsia hues. There were odd paintings, framed in intricate silver, that appeared to be landscapes but became more abstract the longer you stared. Little colourful vases and maximal rugs complemented one another, and continued into the living room where Trudy was led.

"It's nice of you to stop by. I had so hoped you'd finally visit; I really appreciate all you do for me." Ymir smiled and led Trudy to a slightly dusty and faded-pink armchair. "Excuse the mess – it's not often I get a visitor. Not often I'm spoken to at all, really. Please, sit. I'll make you tea."

"Oh, it's really not necessary Miss-"

But Ymir was off, shaking her hand to rebut anything Trudy had to say against her making a pot. Trudy sighed, trying to relax back into the chair. But her stomach was in her heart – no, wasn't it the other way around? Either way, what had seemed like a very ordinary idea a few minutes ago was now feeling very uncomfortable. She was just formulating an excuse in her head, when Ymir returned. "It's just boiling," she said, fussing with her grey fringe. "Shouldn't be long. Now, sweetheart, why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

"What? What do you mean?"

Ymir sighed as she sat, the fabric of her clothes sighing with her. "I have eight children. With that, came... this many grandchildren!" She put her hands together and threw them out. "I know when a young person is troubled. Talking will get that weight off your heart."

Trudy shifted uncomfortably in her chair. There was no avoiding the knowing look of this old lady. "I'm hopefully going away for a while."

"Why?"

Something inside Trudy that had been straining to escape won, and collapsed the walls she'd fortified to hold it in. She looked at Ymir. A warm, steadying presence. A buoy in stormy seas; never succumbing to the waves, and there to keep those thrown overboard afloat. Even if she couldn't offer a solution, here she was. Wanting to know. And that was enough. "I did something... or I didn't actually do anything." Ymir tilted her head, and Trudy broke. She told Ymir about the evening before. About the cloaked creatures and the dead man. The way they chased her, the way their hands felt. How close to death she was – how she had survived, only to be made the perpetrator that the police vowed to find. She spoke of her moped. All she had risked saving it – to her relief, Ymir found the humour there that had sent Trudy into giddy laughter while speeding home. Of the fear that sent her packing. "And I'm going to leave, and maybe restart as a writer somewhere else. I can freelance – I can focus on what I studied at university."

"And what was that?"

"I'm – I'm interested in Themars." She watched Ymir steadily, saying her area of interest with caution. She didn't want to frighten this old lady into a heart attack. Ymir simply nodded and wove her fingers together on her lap.

"Are you afraid of them?" She kept her eyes on her laced hands.

"I'm not. But... I can't say that I'm without flaw there."

"What do you mean?" Ymir looked up. "Are you a sympathiser?"

Trudy was taken aback. "A TNM sympathiser? Of course not! I wouldn't... I never! They're domestic terrorists."

"Don't they represent all Themars?"

"Certainly not!" She felt herself rise out of her seat a tad. "How anyone could believe that is beyond me. Does a group of human terrorists speak for all humans? Being a Themar has no effect on your person – who and what you were raised around, that's what's important. And all of us, human and Themar alike, we all go through childhood. We become who we are based on experience, not nature."

"So can we change? If a Themar was raised around something negative, per se, would they remain negative forever?"

Trudy felt herself getting hot. "Growing up around something... negative, as you put it, doesn't make you a negative person, first of all."

"So it is nature, then,"

"It's definitely not. It's not just our parents who make us. It's our friends. It's the way we're treated. If we're treated badly by bad people, we might come to be like them, or we might not. We might divert from that path, realise the harm they cause. We might – we're getting off topic here." She wiped a hand across her sweat-sodden forehead. "What I meant is you can't generalise a whole group of people based off the acts of a few. You can't group experiences based on characteristics." She fell back in her seat. Trudy felt as if she'd run a marathon. Ymir, however, had kept her composure. She was even smiling.

"I agree with you." Her fingers untwined themselves, and she brushed her hands on her lap. "I'm sorry to have wound you up so. I hope we can still be – friends?"

Trudy swallowed. "I'm not sure about that. You had me very riled up there." She said, looking up and away. Ymir laughed, a whole, lively sound. "I understand. Maybe it will take time. At the very least, maybe I can offer my thoughts." Trudy returned her gaze to Ymir's, and nodded assuredly. "All this talk of humans and Themars. It can be quite difficult, because, at the end of the day, all humans are Themars and all Themars are humans."

"What do you mean? Huh – I'm beginning to sound like you."

Ymir chuckled again. "That is true; I've reversed our roles, it seems. But Trudy – I mean that we are one and the same. Our world is so obsessed with distinctions. Now, there's nothing wrong with recognising difference – we simply must remember that it is not fundamental. What is here – " - she waved her hand about herself - " – matters not, when it is what is here – " - she placed a liver-spotted hand over her heart, splaying her fingers out - " – which decides who we are." She smiled at Trudy. "But I'm sure you believe that, anyway." Her hand fell back to her lap. "Who we are, what we come from, it shouldn't be what we are limited to."

Trudy nodded. It was all she could do. The old woman was so sincere, that it made her want to let the bugging tears fall. "Themars aren't monsters." Was all she could say. "And I don't mean that in a TNM way."

Ymir laughed again, and Trudy couldn't help but smile. "Yes, I know. In fact, I say of humans with Themar blood that they are part-Themar instead of Themar itself."

"Part-Themar. I hadn't seen it that way before."

"It's the fault of the world." Ymir stood, her smile still comfortable on her face. "The tea must be boiled by now. I'll fetch us some." Trudy tried to interfere again, but Ymir purposely sped up to serve her.

A little while passed. Trudy decided to stand and check on Ymir, but became distracted by the contents of her living room. She knew it was wrong to snoop, but when would she get this chance again? It had been so long since she'd been in the vicinity of somebody else's belongings. She just wanted to know what others held dear. So she scoured the sideboards, looked at the pretty painted vases, some boasting dried flowers, others simply coated in that same dust that blew off the sofa when she'd first sat. There was a shallow bowl full of other dried knick-knacks – wooden coils that smelled of cinnamon, little shells with patterns of blue and pink. Trudy had never seen the ocean, and so touched the shells carefully, not sure if they'd shatter immediately. Across the room, a few framed pictures sat atop the mantlepiece. There was a painting of some roses – no, a woven picture. It seemed to intricately done for Trudy to call it any old embroidery. It caught the light when she moved, shimmering delicately. Beside it, sat a picture of what Trudy could only assume was Ymir's many children, all with their litters of grandchildren. They all had dark hair and the same brown skin as Ymir, and also all had thick fringes covering their foreheads. It struck Trudy as unusual, but she wasn't one to comment on the functionality of ordinary families. What did strike her that way was some of Ymir's grandchildren. An older fringe-child cradled a baby, whose legs were strangely covered in dark hairs. Its forehead seemed to be covered in what looked to be wrinkles. Trudy scrutinised a little closer, when she heard a loud THUMP sound from the kitchen that frightened her back to her wits. For a split second, she thought she heard a loud cracking noise – like a snap. "Ymir?" She called out. "Is everything all right?" When there came no reply, she panicked, and made her way to the kitchen door.

It was shut, and when she tried the handle, it didn't budge. Ymir had collapsed on the other side, that had to be the case. Trudy called her name again, to no response. She pushed the door gently. But it didn't even open a crack. It could be stuck. Ymir could be trapped inside; something could have exploded...

With the full force of her body, Trudy slammed against the door. Lilac paint came crumbling as she did so, but she heard it unstick a little. Tear, like it was being sealed with glue. Once more, she threw herself at it, and it ripped wide open.

The conversation they had just finished seemed to have rendered itself useless in her head. Trudy had mentioned herself to be flawed when it came to certain part-Themars, still caught up in some of the horror stories her mother liked to scare her with as a child. How some part-Themars – monsters, as she put – weren't over God's Say, and sought revenge on humans long after. "The TNM are just the half of it, Gertrude. Some of them act alone, looking for horrid little girls to feast on."

It terrified her to feel her mother's influence in that moment. Before her, stuck from wall to wall to ceiling to floor, were thin, delicate, silvery threads. They wove together, making patterns Trudy had only seen on a much smaller scale in the corners of her own home.

These were giant spider's webs. And behind them, standing by the counter, was Ymir. Her fringe was brushed aside, revealing the rest of her eyes – their giant pupils glaring right at her. Her sleeves were rolled up to reveal the same hairy arms her grandchild sported, only these were much hairier, with white dots embedded in the centre of her palms. Beside her was a tray with a teapot and two mugs. Overhead were tiny bugs, hundreds of them, dead. Trudy stumbled backwards, retching when she noticed what else was in the web. Giant packages wrapped in silvery thread. She stifled a retch. Trudy had little time to retreat before Ymir came at her quickly, saying something Trudy couldn't quite hear. She slammed the kitchen door shut – or tried to, because the web that was there bounced it backwards instead, nearly knocking a shocked Ymir off her feet. "Don't go!" Ymir called out, but Trudy had turned her back and went for the front door. To her great thanks, it was unlocked. She launched off the porch, nearly slipping face-first onto the gravel pathway, running straight home. She couldn't get back fast enough. It was as if time slowed, and the rain made no effort to help her move quickly. She slammed her front door, bolted it shut, then locked all of her windows, shutting blinds and curtains alike. Lights were flickered on – the electricity bill could be worried about later, hopefully months later – and she went straight upstairs to cower under her covers. Her breathing was erratic. Two days in a row, her mundane, invisible life had been rocked, replaced with whatever horror story this was turning out to be. Every tickle she felt on her arms or legs she was sure was a spider, which sent her lashing out her limbs. She found herself curled into a tight ball after an hour of fighting off imaginary spiders, falling in an out of an unrestful sleep. Two days in a row, she'd gone to bed hungry.

She was certain there was no appetite to wait for that evening.