Old Neighbours

By Ema Poposka

I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there. The spiders had crept into the bedroom and were slowly crawling towards my bed. I could hear their pincers open and close. My racing heartbeat had left my chest and was now thumping in my throat. I wanted to scream but my mouth stayed closed. These were not the tiny spiders you usually see in dark corners of an empty attic. They were the size of a bulldog. And they were here for me. 

It seemed incredible that only a few hours ago I was unpacking in my old family house. The house was dusty and old. The walls were covered in mildew. The air smelled stale like an attic. Horrid, gigantic cobwebs dangled in the corners. No one had lived here for decades. After twenty years spent moving from one foster home to another, I was finally coming back home. I don’t remember my mother and father. They disappeared when I was only six. One morning I woke up and they were gone. No goodbye or see you later. They just vanished into thin air and I never heard from them since. 

As I was moving back into the house an elderly woman came up slowly to my door. She watched me in silence while I was carrying the boxes inside the house. She looked vaguely familiar, but I could not recall from where. Maybe it was just an old neighbour. 

“You don’t belong here, pet. This house is no place for somebody like you. You should leave before sundown,” she said without any bitterness.

I glared at her. “What do you think you know about me?” Something told me she knew much more than I could remember. Something in her look sent a shiver down my spine. She looked old and harmless. But there was some wickedness in her eyes. She was wearing a black dress. Her hands were covered in black gloves. Her hair was grey and pulled back in a bun covered with a net that looked like a cobweb. I think I even saw a tiny spider crawling over it.

I hate spiders. I’ve hated them ever since I can remember. Our house attic was always swarming with spiders. Small, black-haired, crawling out from the shadows on their eight hairy legs. I used to hunt the nasty little creatures. I would put them in a jar and screw the lid on. I would look at them crawl over each other. The crawling would eventually come to a stop after a few hours. 

When I got older, I went to study entomology. Everyone in my class was crazy about insects. They thought spiders were cute. Not me, I was there to learn all I could about spiders so that I could one day find a way to exterminate them all. And after years of study, I was now at the brink of discovery of poison to do just that.  

“That’s not a polite way to talk to your neighbour,” she said raising an eyebrow. 

I snapped back to the present. “Who said I wanted to be polite!” I felt my blood rushing to my face. 

“My grandchildren will soon be here, and you’ll regret not listening to me,” she said softly.

“I don’t see anyone here! It seems your grandkids only exist in your head,” I shouted as I slammed the door in her face. 

She remained standing in front of my door for a while, murmuring something to herself. I could see her through the glass panes, her frail outline dark against the setting sun coming from behind her. 

I should have invited her in and gotten to know her better. I should have asked her about her children and grandchildren. I should have asked if she remembered my parents, and whether they were good neighbours. 

It’s too late now. I could feel their hairy legs brushing on my cheeks. The clicking of their pincers filled my thoughts. They were all over me now. A quick pinch and I could no longer move. Their venom paralyzed me. No spider killing poison could help me now. There was one more pinch and then everything went dark and silent.