The Ghosts of Spiders Past
By Tim Galati
A man slouched into a doorframe, blinking, kneading a hand still raw with tendonitis, viewing the sink ahead that was immaculate like marble yet only half the cost. The toilet, too, gleamed with a chaste-white excellence. Sunbeams poured through the windowpanes, ricocheting off the mirror and paint, illuminating a bathmat. He’d scrubbed the tiles, toilet, and sink last Wednesday: his customary day of cleaning.
He tugged at a length of cording, wrenching the blinds shut, and he undressed amid the sudden dimness, pondering this week’s article. Pale skin, over decades, had drawn onto his spine and shoulder blades, the contours of which held shadows. He dawdled into the shower, disgusted by the scum that skirted his chrome drain. Stiffly, he yanked a lever and waited, listening to water hiss through faraway piping, and he gawked at the showerhead impatiently, suffering and squinting from a volley of water; and he shuddered, frigid and frail, shrinking into the shower’s cleanest corner.
He washed his locks afterward, all frizzed from the tedium of deskwork, scraping his fingernails into his scalp, rinsing, and dolloping on more soap. He patted his head evenly and glanced over the curtain, spying the cellar spider that dwelled in the farthest of the wall-ceiling nooks. Soap streamed into his eyes, burning them bloodshot, but still he peered, unblinking, fretting and reaming with spider-legged chills that danced along his back.
“It’s going to crawl over here,” he thought, tucking his forearms into the bare skin of his chest.
With up-cast eyes, he beared upon the lever with the heels of his hands, ending the downpour. He peeled back the curtain and crept onto tiles, dripping, sidestepping naked towards the doorless entryway, avoiding the towels that hung underneath the bugbear, his avian face taut with terror. He clenched with his toes a hem of rug, and he wheeled and bolted through a corridor, swinging left at an oak pedestal and sprinting downstairs, passing a picture of his late mother, stumbling onto linoleum below where soap sloshed from his scalp and splattered in his wake; and he curved, prancing on damp heels through a sunlit hall, entering the shiniest kitchen in the county.
He jaunted, relieved for the moment, slipping in an instant and landing and shivering from pangs along his backbone, skull, and hips, which had all fallen flush. His arms folded like the legs of a moribund spider, and his diaphragm spasmed, and he croaked, bug-eyed. Seconds passed, during which air trickled past his tongue and through his throat, and soon he wheezed and blossomed, the thin print of moisture remaining on the floor.
Still fleet with his footing, he tore a paper towel from its roll, then held his ankles and wiped dry his soles, and he disposed of the rag properly before seeking out his flyswatter, which eluded him for a minute or more. It wasn’t hiding amongst the closet’s shelves, sandwiched between boxes of brown rice, nor was it on a stretch of counter or alongside cookware or underneath his coffeemaker. Sore, he whisked open the door to a stairwell, peering past the murk at a basement of boxes, heirlooms, and mildew, noticing the flyswatter lying across the steps, seeing the hundreds of specks strewn across the slant of ceiling; and he grew lightheaded, drifting through bouts of dread unequaled, quietly clicking the door shut, praying and panting and praying, remembering the prior week’s horror in the basement.
He opened the drawers of his cabinetry, desperate and soughing, rummaging through notepads, pencils, and documents to find a rubber band lying near the back; and he stole away with it, striding through the hall and tiptoeing upstairs, inching to the bathroom’s entryway and scanning elsewhere twice. The spider hung idle, its threadlike legs hooked inward, its feet clinging to the ceiling. He edged into the bathroom, hearing his heart, huffing, his skin crawling with the ghosts of spiders past.
“If I walk too close, it’ll jump on me,” he thought.
A long pause ensued. His toes numbed; his neck thumped; blood seethed through his chest.
“But if I’m too far off, I’ll wing it,” he reconsidered. “And then it’ll scurry into a crevice and crawl out when I’m asleep. And it’ll sneak under my blanket and bite my toes.”
He shuddered at such an idea. Trembling, he stretched the rubber band from where he stood, training its lanes on either freedom or imprisonment, depending on his luck. He loosened his hind fingers, winced, and wilted into himself while scuttling back. He peeked at the wall, noticing flecks of the demon and its glued-on legs, and he breathed steady for a minute or more, then trusting it was dead. In the moments after, a sense of emptiness reigned.
He recalled the messes of moisture and grime, which he’d tend to at once, starting with the scum. He snatched a rumpled cloth from the sink, kneeling alongside the bathtub. The folds of his palm tickled, and he tossed the rag without delay and gazed into his little hand. An egg sack hung from his finger, ruptured, while the lucent babies crept across his skin.
- - -
Tim Galati hikes and studies nature nearly as frequently as he writes. He crafts fiction of all lengths, from flash to novels, and it's among his few dreams to be widely published. At present, he attends community college.
By Tim Galati
A man slouched into a doorframe, blinking, kneading a hand still raw with tendonitis, viewing the sink ahead that was immaculate like marble yet only half the cost. The toilet, too, gleamed with a chaste-white excellence. Sunbeams poured through the windowpanes, ricocheting off the mirror and paint, illuminating a bathmat. He’d scrubbed the tiles, toilet, and sink last Wednesday: his customary day of cleaning.
He tugged at a length of cording, wrenching the blinds shut, and he undressed amid the sudden dimness, pondering this week’s article. Pale skin, over decades, had drawn onto his spine and shoulder blades, the contours of which held shadows. He dawdled into the shower, disgusted by the scum that skirted his chrome drain. Stiffly, he yanked a lever and waited, listening to water hiss through faraway piping, and he gawked at the showerhead impatiently, suffering and squinting from a volley of water; and he shuddered, frigid and frail, shrinking into the shower’s cleanest corner.
He washed his locks afterward, all frizzed from the tedium of deskwork, scraping his fingernails into his scalp, rinsing, and dolloping on more soap. He patted his head evenly and glanced over the curtain, spying the cellar spider that dwelled in the farthest of the wall-ceiling nooks. Soap streamed into his eyes, burning them bloodshot, but still he peered, unblinking, fretting and reaming with spider-legged chills that danced along his back.
“It’s going to crawl over here,” he thought, tucking his forearms into the bare skin of his chest.
With up-cast eyes, he beared upon the lever with the heels of his hands, ending the downpour. He peeled back the curtain and crept onto tiles, dripping, sidestepping naked towards the doorless entryway, avoiding the towels that hung underneath the bugbear, his avian face taut with terror. He clenched with his toes a hem of rug, and he wheeled and bolted through a corridor, swinging left at an oak pedestal and sprinting downstairs, passing a picture of his late mother, stumbling onto linoleum below where soap sloshed from his scalp and splattered in his wake; and he curved, prancing on damp heels through a sunlit hall, entering the shiniest kitchen in the county.
He jaunted, relieved for the moment, slipping in an instant and landing and shivering from pangs along his backbone, skull, and hips, which had all fallen flush. His arms folded like the legs of a moribund spider, and his diaphragm spasmed, and he croaked, bug-eyed. Seconds passed, during which air trickled past his tongue and through his throat, and soon he wheezed and blossomed, the thin print of moisture remaining on the floor.
Still fleet with his footing, he tore a paper towel from its roll, then held his ankles and wiped dry his soles, and he disposed of the rag properly before seeking out his flyswatter, which eluded him for a minute or more. It wasn’t hiding amongst the closet’s shelves, sandwiched between boxes of brown rice, nor was it on a stretch of counter or alongside cookware or underneath his coffeemaker. Sore, he whisked open the door to a stairwell, peering past the murk at a basement of boxes, heirlooms, and mildew, noticing the flyswatter lying across the steps, seeing the hundreds of specks strewn across the slant of ceiling; and he grew lightheaded, drifting through bouts of dread unequaled, quietly clicking the door shut, praying and panting and praying, remembering the prior week’s horror in the basement.
He opened the drawers of his cabinetry, desperate and soughing, rummaging through notepads, pencils, and documents to find a rubber band lying near the back; and he stole away with it, striding through the hall and tiptoeing upstairs, inching to the bathroom’s entryway and scanning elsewhere twice. The spider hung idle, its threadlike legs hooked inward, its feet clinging to the ceiling. He edged into the bathroom, hearing his heart, huffing, his skin crawling with the ghosts of spiders past.
“If I walk too close, it’ll jump on me,” he thought.
A long pause ensued. His toes numbed; his neck thumped; blood seethed through his chest.
“But if I’m too far off, I’ll wing it,” he reconsidered. “And then it’ll scurry into a crevice and crawl out when I’m asleep. And it’ll sneak under my blanket and bite my toes.”
He shuddered at such an idea. Trembling, he stretched the rubber band from where he stood, training its lanes on either freedom or imprisonment, depending on his luck. He loosened his hind fingers, winced, and wilted into himself while scuttling back. He peeked at the wall, noticing flecks of the demon and its glued-on legs, and he breathed steady for a minute or more, then trusting it was dead. In the moments after, a sense of emptiness reigned.
He recalled the messes of moisture and grime, which he’d tend to at once, starting with the scum. He snatched a rumpled cloth from the sink, kneeling alongside the bathtub. The folds of his palm tickled, and he tossed the rag without delay and gazed into his little hand. An egg sack hung from his finger, ruptured, while the lucent babies crept across his skin.
- - -
Tim Galati hikes and studies nature nearly as frequently as he writes. He crafts fiction of all lengths, from flash to novels, and it's among his few dreams to be widely published. At present, he attends community college.
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