Hostile At Nine O'clock

Jack "Gunny" Harper had seen it all. He’d been a career Marine since he was 18. His friends served for one or two years and wanted out. He didn’t leave until he reached retirement age. He’d stormed beaches under enemy fire, survived insurgent attacks in hostile deserts, received scars from Desert Storm, and manned the tight quarters of submarines with a calm demeanor that made younger Marines look to him with awe. The thought of an enemy sub firing a torpedo at them didn’t faze him one bit. He was content with a watery grave. He lived by the old code: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. He swore he would die by it as well. He raised his adopted son Sam in the military life, moving from one base to the next. He had seen it all. There wasn’t much that scared him. Except for one thing: spiders. 

He hated the way they moved, their multiple legs scrambling like tiny little devils from the deepest, darkest pits of Hell racing to steal his soul. Their beady little eyes haunted his nightmares more than any battlefield. He hated how ugly their hairy little bodies looked. Every time he saw a spider, he would scream and cry like a girl, climbing chairs, sofas, tables, counters, shelves—anything to have the high ground. Sam, himself, had “inherited” that same fear. Jack’s wife, Marie, had always been his savior in this one regard. She’d kill the eight-legged horrors without a second thought, swooping in like a superhero with a rolled-up newspaper or slipper. 

But about a year ago, Marie had undergone a “personal enlightenment” after watching a nature documentary. Now, she captured spiders with a jar and released them outside, rambling on about their importance to the ecosystem. Jack didn’t argue; he loved Marie and would rather face an entire battalion than contradict her about her bugs. 

Today, however, Marie had left for an all-day shopping trip with her sisters. Jack was alone for the first time in years. It should have been a quiet, relaxing day. It was anything but. 

Jack was in the living room, sprawled out on his recliner, a cold beer sweating on the table beside him. A football game flickered on the TV. After the game, he was planning on switching to LaughTV to watch his favorite stand-up comics. The house was peaceful, the kind of quiet that felt earned after decades of chaos. 

The peace shattered when he saw it. Hostile at nine o'clock!

The spider was enormous. It dangled from a thin silk strand in the doorway to the kitchen, swaying ever so slightly. Jack froze mid-drink, the bottle trembling in his hand. 

His first instinct was to shout for Marie, but the realization she wasn’t there hit him like an enemy sniper’s shot. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, eyes glued to the intruder. 

Jack weighed his options. He could ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there. But what if it disappeared? What if it reappeared in his bed or his boots? He couldn’t live with that. 

He reached for his phone to call Marie. Then he stopped, imagining the conversation. 

"You’re calling me about a spider? Just catch it and let it go, Jack." 

This was a battle he couldn’t delegate. 

Jack grabbed the spider jar from under the sink, the one Marie had labeled with cheerful, loopy handwriting: “Bug Hotel.” He stared at it like it was an explosive device. 

“You’re a Marine,” he told himself. “You’ve fought wars. You can do this. Semper Fi. Oorah!” 

He crept toward the spider like it was a live grenade, every step careful and deliberate. His breathing quickened as he got closer, the jar clutched in one hand, a piece of cardboard in the other. His heart thudded like a house being shaken by a California earthquake. He felt his blood pressure rise.

The spider bobbed lazily in the air, as if mocking him. 

“Alright, you little nightmare,” Jack growled. “This ends here, now.” 

He raised the jar, ready to trap the beast. But as the jar came within an inch of the spider, it moved—scrambling up its web in a burst of horrifying speed. Jack yelped and stumbled back, nearly dropping the jar. 

“Okay. Okay. Round one goes to you,” he said, his voice shaky. 

For the next twenty minutes, Jack engaged in a one-man war against the spider. Every time he thought he had it, the spider evaded him, scuttling to a new position: the ceiling, the corner of the doorframe, the middle of the web. 

Sweat dripped down Jack’s face. His hands trembled, but he refused to give up. The spider was taunting him, daring him to admit defeat. 

“No way, pal,” Jack muttered. “You’re not winning this.” 

Finally, with a burst of courage, Jack lunged forward. The jar clinked against the web, and this time, he trapped the spider inside. It scrambled wildly, its legs tapping against the glass. Jack’s stomach churned. 

“Gotcha,” he whispered, though his victory felt hollow. 

He slid the cardboard under the jar, sealing the spider inside. His hands shook as he carried it to the front door. 

The moment the spider was free, Jack let out a sigh of relief. He watched it scurry into the bushes, disappearing into the shadows where it belonged. 

Jack closed the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding like he’d just run a marathon. 

When Marie came home that evening, she found him sitting on the couch, a cold beer in hand and a triumphant smile on his face. 

“You look proud of yourself,” she said, setting her shopping bags down. “What happened?” 

Jack took a long sip of his beer before replying. 

“Just took care of a little problem,” he said casually. 

Marie narrowed her eyes. “Jack…did you kill a spider?” 

He smirked. “Nope. Caught it and released it. Just like you showed me.” 

Marie’s face lit up with pride. She kissed him on the cheek. “See? I knew you could do it.” 

Jack didn’t tell her about the yelling or the sweat or the twenty minutes of pure terror. Some battles were best kept private.