Spiders are one of nature’s greatest paradoxes. They are elegant monstrosities. They embody many qualities we admire: strength, tenacity and versatility. They’re capable of weaving from their own bodily secretions silken dreamcatchers of rare natural beauty. Yet their appearance is hideous to our eyes (of which any decent animal needs only two thankyouverymuch), and inspires in us almost universal panic. This is compounded by the general feeling of unease produced by their steady and indefatigable march into our homes, which makes them an aggressive invasive force. Despite appearances, they’re mostly harmless. When the spiders start to develop supernatural traits, though, all bets are off.
That is the doom which I now face. Three nights ago, a spider appeared near the ceiling above my head. This one was certainly neither as large nor as vile-looking as some. However, this little creeper’s plan was obvious from the beginning: it was to lie in wait until my guard was down, and then glide on a single gossamer strand down upon my head. There it would deliver from its engorged womb a payload of glistening eggs into my hair, which would be brought to term as I slept. The aftermath of such an event is best left well clear of the imagination, let alone reality. So it was my solemn obligation to pre-emptively destroy this menace.
My weapon of choice in such instances, as I have previously mentioned, is the vacuum cleaner hose. Its threefold advantages are thus: It is noisy, provoking the prey to freeze with panic; It traps hopelessly rather than killing, allowing me to avoid any guilt associated with dispatching the creature directly; It disposes of both spider and any web it has spun for itself without direct physical contact. This last is of overriding importance. No touching. It turns me into a Ghostbuster, operating from a distance, sucking the pest away into a trap from whence it may be harmlessly disposed of later. (Among my worst nightmares is the one where a snooty government official arrives with a court order to open the vacuum, setting loose a scuttling horde of revenge-bent arachnids into my apartment, but let’s not think about that.)
So that is the fate I dealt to the wicked thing above, and then I went about my business, secure in having reduced the Leg Population of my little world by eight.
The next evening as I slapped away at my keyboard, I happened to glance upward and there it was. The spider was back, twiddling its little legs frantically, bounding from strand to strand, crafting its web right where it had left off. I went to the closet in the other room, verified that I had stored the vacuum cleaner safely there, and returned to the living room to stare up at my ceiling.
Now, I’m not a superstitious man. While I love the idea of the supernatural, the lack of any definitive personal experience forces my logical mind to dismiss the reality of it. And, after all…it was at least possible that a different, though identical, spider had come along, found this half-finished web with no other spiders in sight, and concluded that it would be a shame to let it go to waste…wasn’t it?
The vacuum roared to life once again, and down went the spider. This time, I removed the vacuum bag and threw it away. Then I took the garbage outside and pitched it into the dumpster.
Another day went by, and as I brought my latest microwave meal (I have learnt my lesson) to the computer, I froze in my tracks. You guessed it. There, perched directly above my chair, spinning furiously, was the spider.
The only two sane explanations for this – that it was three different identical spiders, or that the same spider had survived and escaped its entrapment and walked back to its web through natural means – were not plausible. I was left to face the terrible truth that this spider had gained, no doubt through exposure to some errant wisp of cosmic radiation, the ability to respawn itself. Just like a dungeon monster in an online role-playing game, it could be snuffed out only to reappear after awhile in the same spot, none the worse for wear.
Like a character in a Lovecraft story face to face with some drooling horror from the depths, my wits left me. I flew into a passion, wanting only to see the foul creature rubbed from existence. I tore a paper towel from the roll in the kitchen and rushed back in, sweeping the eight-legged magician into it. Having forgotten my usual disgust, I squeezed the thing inside the paper towel between my thumb and forefinger, feeling its mealy innards spreading outward. With a hoot of triumph, I took the paper towel to the sink and put the lit end of a safety lighter to it, watching it burn until only a few cinders remained, which I washed down the drain. I then sank to the linoleum, giggling with devilish glee at my victory.
That was last night. Tonight I sit in my chair, rocking back and forth, my gaze never drifting from the dreaded spot, awaiting the foul arachnid’s impossible return. It cannot happen, but I know it will. I don’t really know what I am going to do when it appears. All I can hope for is to keep it contained somehow…and not allow it anywhere near the latch to the vacuum cleaner which entombs its vengeance-hungry cousins.
