The Story Spinner

He’s there again – watching.

Enveloped mostly in shadow, as has been his want lately. I’ve given up trying to catch him. To kill him. It’s useless, he’s too quick. His lair a mystery to me, despite my best efforts to find it.

Now, I lay in bed, engulfed in anxiety, sheets pulled tight whilst staring back at him. I try to penetrate the darkness in the corner of my room. He shifts his body, revealing one of his long hairy legs. And I catch a faint reflection of light in one of his beady black eyes.

My breathing is heavy, heart racing. I don’t usually have a problem with spiders. One of the results of living near farms and forests and fields is that insects find their way into your home. This spider, however, is unnatural.

I first noticed him when he was the size of a common house spider. Each time I’d sit quietly at my desk to write, I’d get the prickly sensation of being watched. Hairs would stand on end. My arms looking like the hairy legs of the spider that was sat watching me. Always observing from a distance.

It freaked me out. The more awareness I gave him, the more he followed me – always watching. I tried to catch him when he was small, but he was always too quick. Vanishing into some deep dark recess in my home. And then – he began to grow. Barely noticeable at first. Then seemingly doubling in size every other day.

Now, he’s the size of a small housecat, perched in the corner of my room – still watching me.

I often wonder if I’m losing my mind. After all – we don’t get spiders like this in England. Spiders with eyes that hint at a deeper thought process. An understanding lurks behind those little black pearls of abyss. An intelligence.

At first, I blamed my new anti-depressant medication. I stopped taking them and instead of vanishing – he grew. I rarely went out as it was, my anxiety and depression making the mere thought of it overwhelming. Basic tasks like getting showered, getting dressed and making my bed a daily, monumental struggle. My safe-space was my home – and now this. A long-limbed lodger invading my sanctuary.

Attempts of capture are always futile. He’s too quick. Too agile. Always one step ahead of me, which must be made easier by having eight legs. I can no longer concentrate on my writing. I can’t sleep. I barely even eat. He occupies my mind just as much as he occupies my home. Always there, in the deep dark corners. Observing.

I don’t know how he gets around my home. I’ve searched all the nooks and crannies and cracks and come up short. Nevertheless, he always silently settles into his favourite spots to watch.

My eyes start closing and I drag them open again. Scared to sleep. But, it’s a battle I’m destined to lose. Eventually I succumb, and a restless dream takes me.

I awake with a start in the deep of the night. Wait for my eyes to adjust and look in the corner of the room. He’s gone. You’d think that would be a relief, but it’s worse. Being unable to see him, not knowing what schemes he’s coming up with.

My blood freezes as I feel a slight shift in the duvet at the foot of the bed. I immediately sit up, dragging my legs up to my chest. Breathing heavily through my mouth as I watch the end of the bed – slightly illuminated by the clear winter moon outside.

I let out a shrill shriek as I see a long, black leg slowly rise from the bottom of the bed. Angry hairs jutting out like needles. I’m completely frozen with fear as another leg follows.

Ever so slowly, he effortlessly drags his bloated body up onto my bed. This is the closest he’s ever been. Terror travels through my veins like icy bullets. We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. My leg twitches involuntarily and he recoils, almost like – he’s scared of me.

Through the tempest in my mind, I realise something. I’ve never tried speaking to him.

“What do you want?” I whisper, my voice a vibrato made of fear. A whimper.

He takes a deep breath. At least, what looks like a deep breath.

“I have an offer.” A voice slow and ancient. A low whisper, seeping with pain.

A million thoughts instantly twist through my brain. The main one is that I’ve finally lost my grip on reality. A giant, abnormal spider is talking to me! The second one is, what offer? He must somehow sense the question within the storm of my mind and continues…

“If you allow me to come and go as I please, I will write your book for you.”

“You already come and go as you please. And, you’re…” I gesture at him, “a spider. How can you write a story?”

“You need not worry about that. The story I have to tell will bring you a certain level of fame and recognition. In return, I can begin to heal. To live without fear.”

There’s a desperation in his voice. I wonder how something so scary could possibly feel fear. Looks can be deceiving, I guess.

“Will you leave me alone, if I agree?”

“Our deal would mean I can come and go as I please. I may visit – from time to time.”

Better than him watching me all the time. He may go and decide never to return, too.

“Okay, it’s a deal.” I say.

I still don’t believe this could possibly be real – but it feels real, and I don’t want to antagonise him. He lets out a long slow breath, like he’s releasing a tension he’s been holding onto for far too long.

“Excellent” He says.

I don’t have time to react as he lurches at my face. The last thing I feel before losing consciousness are his legs, wrapping around my head.

My dreams are strange. I’m scuttling through tunnels, hunting unseen creatures in the dark. Hiding from other creatures. I feast and I sleep. I hear the soft patter of millions of legs. The chatter of fangs and mandibles and buzzing noises.

I awake slowly, at first. My legs curled and numb. Memory of my encounter with the spider still stuck in post-sleep sludge. I stretch my left leg, before untangling my right leg. I stretch one of my other left legs…

WHAT THE FU…

My eyes immediately flash open – all eight of them, unable to see.

I try to stand, but a lifetime of walking on two legs makes the use of my other six overly complicated. My heart feels like it’s going to explode. What has happened to me?!

I don’t know how much time passes in the darkness. It’s impossible to describe the fear and turmoil in my already fragile mind. I quickly figure out that all my eyes are useless in this pitch-black space. The loss of vision is frightening and causes more panic. In my desperation, I slowly realise I could ‘smell’ my way out – through my legs!

Faint whiffs of familiar smells paint a map in my mind. I was in a cavity in the wall of my home. I had a lair, with tunnels that travelled to hidden spots I had failed to check in my human form. The back of the cupboard under the kitchen sink. A hole in the floorboards of my bedroom, underneath some loose carpet.

I followed this mental-map to my kitchen. Still unable to use my new excess limbs, I crawled on my abdomen, using my two front legs. My others sometimes getting themselves confused and kicking out sporadically. This would cause the sheer horror of my situation to almost boil over.

I finally reach my kitchen cupboard and manage to open the door, peeping through the gap. My eyes working now, but everything is blurry, out of focus. I need to find help. To fix myself. To…something! I don’t know what. I don’t know how to fix this mess. Who would I even go to? A neighbour? They’d probably kill me, given half the chance. I wouldn’t blame them.

Suddenly hit with that primal urge to preserve my life, I sculk back into the dark cupboard, between the bottles of polish and bleach and air fresheners. Back into my tunnels, where I exist in a permanent state of fear.

Time is arbitrary here, in these tunnels – in this body. I don’t know how long passes, but it feels like an eternity. I ultimately learn to use my legs. I’m able to scuttle through my tunnels at great speed now. I get used to navigating by smelling through my legs. I eat anything that’s unfortunate enough to find itself lost in my labyrinth. I find I am terribly scared of light, so I remain completely confined in my tunnels. Existing in this perpetual night.

I sometimes hear footsteps outside of my small universe. I wonder if it’s me, or the spider version of me, or something else entirely. I wonder if I’ve always been a spider and was imagining life as a human. My identity of life as a human becomes so intermingled with my existence in this darkness that I begin to lose myself. More spider than human, now.

One night, or day – impossible to tell which – I curl up in my lair, abdomen full from an unfortunate mouse I had for supper, and I fall asleep. I’m dreaming my usual spider dreams when a familiar voice disrupts my slumber. An ancient, painful, slow rasp…

“Your book…is finished.” It says.

I wake up blinded by a raging red veil stinging my eyes. I try to shield my eyes with my front leg and become aware of fingers. Fingers attached to hands, attached to arms, attached to a very human torso. A serious lack of legs lay stretched out before me. I’m human again!

I sit up awkwardly, eyes still adjusting to being useful again. My room is how I left it that night I spoke to him. He’s nowhere to be seen. I precariously get myself out of bed and head downstairs – clinging to the banister, unsteady on two legs.

I open the door to my living room, which is more of an office space these days. The curtains are drawn tight, barring the morning sunlight. There’s a musty smell in the still air. Empty wrappers, clumsily torn apart, lay strewn about my desk. Upon the desk, sits my laptop, its screen glowing faintly.

I take a seat – grateful to be off my legs. The screen is displaying the title of a story. I begin to read.

It is beautiful.

A tragic tale of someone lost at sea. The protagonist in a constant battle against the elements. They battle magical and mythological creatures - mermaids and krakens and pirates and sea-serpents. A tale of survival, of loss, of rebirth. A tale of hope.

I finish reading in one sitting. I wipe tears away as I reach a deep understanding. This was a story about me. Every battle, every struggle, every hurdle, a metaphor for my own experiences these last few years.

I spend the next few hours looking for him, to thank him for such a beautiful story. He is gone. I search under the sink and floorboards, calling to him. Nothing.

*

After I self-published my story – our story – not much happened for the first few weeks. Then, one read turned into two. Two turned into four and so on. It was like the lone rock falling down a mountainside that leads to a landslide. The reads grew exponentially, as did the positive reviews. People began talking about my book and me. It was picked up by a publisher and I won multiple awards.

He had kept his end of the bargain.

*

I look at myself in the mirror of the dressing room. I’ve just completed another talk-show promoting the sequel to my book. I don’t remember any of the interview – not really. He takes care of all that. He comes and goes as he pleases, now.

After a long time, I came to realise he was a part of me all along. A manifestation of emotions and feelings I didn’t want to deal with. Emotions I needed to pour into my writing, if only I could yield to them. To allow them space inside of me.

I look back into the mirror as I remove my clothes, revealing my naked torso. I smile at us both.

Standing on my two human legs – I uncurl and stretch eight long, black legs out of my back.