A Spider In The Attic

Ethan Miller

TW: Gore, Arachnophobia

The two figures that approached the freshly painted red door and warm lights of the home were mother and daughter, but most wouldn’t have realized it. The mother was tall and skinny, a few years from frail, and the daughter, Angelica, was shorter with a healthy layer of chub, giving her features a rounded youthfulness that her mother would have killed for. Her mother was, after all, the type to kill with—and for—a look, and the threat in her eyes hadn’t faded like the beauty she clearly once flaunted. Angelica was always told that she looked more like her father, a handsome man who gambled a bit too much and never quite broke even. He had been a hunter, but one that hunted deer, unlike Angelica and her mother. They didn’t kill like him, but they took plenty.

Each of the two women that stood in the fat, fiercely billowing snowflakes held a box wrapped in glimmering red paper and topped with a bow. They had taken the better part of an hour to wrap just those two boxes, and each crease was precisely where it was meant to be. Angelica’s mother also held a bulky leather purse. When they knocked on the door, making sure to hold the boxes up with a big—Show more teeth, honey—smile, they were greeted by a young couple who invited them in quickly to get them out of the cold. Immediately, the conversation was warm and amicable, but the smile Angelica saw on her mother’s face suggested otherwise. If the couple noticed it, too, they didn’t let on. We’re glad to have you! I’m Monique, and this is my husband, David; are you new in the neighborhood?, asked Monique, gesturing for her husband to take Angelica and her mother’s presents to put them under the tree. Yes, just moved in last week!, said Angelica’s mother. We heard about your neighborhood white elephant party, and I just knew we had to swing by. With a sly look, Monique asked Angelica what they brought for the exchange. Angelica opened her mouth to respond, but her mother leaned in close, cutting her off. A couple of bricks, just for weight, she whispered, cracking a smile near the end. She and the woman laughed, a cheerful noise with frigid undertones. Angelica showed her teeth.

When they had a moment away from the rest of the party members—fifteen in total, plus the two of them, Angelica reported to her mother—they filled a couple of mugs with cranberry punch and lowered their voices. While her mother had been emphatically explaining to everyone how hard it’s been for them to get by these past few years, Angelica took stock of the house. Under the protection of her mother’s tears, Angelica slipped between all the various rooms of the
house, taking a practiced glance for any valuables. It was a large house, with two stories. Angelica counted a master bedroom, a guest room, two offices, two bathrooms, and an attic space. The offices and the master bedroom seemed to be the best places to search, plus Monique’s bathroom, which had what appeared to be a jewelry box on the back corner of the counter.

As Angelica relayed this information, her mother took a long drink of punch before letting out an unsettling giggle from between her thin lips, almost as if Angelica had finished telling a joke. It sounds like a reasonable haul, then, said her mother. What was in the attic? Angelica didn’t check; she’d had to duck into the bathroom before she could even think about pulling down the ladder. David had come up the stairs to take a phone call. He had seen her disappear into the bathroom and knocked on the door. As soon as the word “cramps” left Angelica’s mouth, David left her to her devices.

You didn’t even check the attic? said Angelica’s mother. The alluring glimmer in her eyes—the one that had men and women alike begging for her attention—became sharp, and the faintest snarl curled at the edges of her lips. Whatever. You’ll just check it before we go. Angelica whimpered inwardly; drawing unnecessary attention to their conversation would just bring more pain later. Angelica’s mother was beginning to take another breath through gritted teeth when Monique approached with a concerned look.

Is everything okay? asked Monique. Angelica winced; Monique was more perceptive than she or her mom had thought. Without missing a beat, Oh, yes, sorry if we seem tense. Angelica just isn’t feeling too well right now and she could really use a place to lay down for a bit, said Angelica’s mother. We didn’t want to trouble you, so we were thinking about heading out. Angelica grabbed her stomach, wincing again. Well, I’d hate for you two to miss out on dinner, said Monique. I won’t stop you, but we’ve got a guest room open if that changes anything?

After a couple false attempts at turning down Monique’s hospitality, Angelica’s mother finally gave in. Monique led the two women upstairs to the guest room and told Angelica that she could stay as long as she liked and no one would bother her unless she came downstairs. You’re too kind, said Angelica’s mother before turning to her daughter. We’re exchanging gifts after dinner, so about an hour from now; hopefully you’ll be ready to go by then! Angelica's mother dropped her purse in the room. If you need anything, you’ve got my purse right here, alright? Angelica nodded quietly, then went to lay down. She listened to the footsteps of her mother and Monique fading as her mother began describing Monique’s generosity at length. Angelica was confused by it; Monique didn’t owe them anything. Angelica’s mother wasn’t the type to give an inch, let alone a mile. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Angelica’s mother refused to buy her a plush rhino toy. Angelica had to steal it like she’d seen her mother do time and time again, but somehow it was only justifiable when her mother stole. Angelica forced the image of Monique holding out the stuffed rhinoceros from her mind. It was too distracting, and it hurt in a way she couldn’t quite understand. She did have to admit, though, the bed was among the softest she’d ever laid in. For a moment, just one, she pretended it was hers.

Angelica shifted and groaned under the covers, feigning discomfort. As per usual in these situations, she counted to exactly one hundred before getting up. Her mother taught her to count to sixty before making a move, but the last forty seconds were more important to Angelica than the first sixty. In those forty seconds, Angelica calmed her nerves, reminding herself that helping her mother is better than the alternative. If her mother was even capable of holding pride for her daughter, then Angelica would make her proud.

Sliding out from the soft sheets of the guest room bed, Angelica made her way over to her mother’s purse. Inside, there were three gallon-sized Ziploc bags that had been inflated, giving the purse false heft. It’s easier to walk out with everything if it looks like you’re just taking home what you brought with you, Angelica’s mother had taught her. After deflating the bags, Angelica cracked the door open and peered into the hall. No one in sight. She would check the attic first, then collect everything she’d seen in the other rooms on her way back. The attic door was on the ceiling, and a thin cord dangled just within reach to pull the ladder down. Grabbing the cord, which was tied to a small wooden rod as a handle, Angelica slowly pulled open the hatch. The hinges were old, but well worn and quiet. The ladder was wooden, and slid down with only a slight hitch that put ice in Angelica’s veins. She’d frozen immediately, listening for any disturbance in the conversation downstairs. Once her arms grew sore from holding the ladder partially up, Angelica reluctantly continued her work.

The attic itself was sweltering. Immediately, Angelica felt beads of sweat form on her neck and forehead as she pulled the hatch closed behind her. Pulling out her phone’s flashlight and walking as lightly as possible on the unfinished wooden floor, she began to look for anything valuable. The shadows clung to the corners and shifted around the room with every sweep of Angelica’s light. A maze of old, battered cardboard boxes filled the space, and the faint stench of
mildew floated in the dusty air. Twice, Angelica almost sneezed, but she held her breath and let the tickling of her sinuses pass. The longer she searched the room, the hotter it became, and soon there was sweat steadily dripping from her chin. Still, she persevered, opening boxes quietly, checking under childhood toys, warped records, and forgotten plastic gymnastics trophies. Eventually, Angelica came upon a small wooden chest about the size of her head. The chest was covered in what appeared to be Japanese shipping labels and a thick layer of dust that looked like freshly fallen snow. Brushing the dust aside, Angelica saw that there was a small brass latch on the front, but no lock. Whether the lock had been lost to time or the contents were simply not of enough value to require one, she didn’t know; still, the strange box would please her mother. Before stowing it away in her mother’s purse, Angelica popped the latch open and lifted the lid. Sitting just on the inside of the lid, was the spider.

Angelica resisted the urge to scream, but not the urge to jump back. Her foot slammed against the floor behind her, hard, and her blood froze again, icy veins pressing against smoldering skin. She realized that she had clamped her hand over her mouth and pulled it away, slowly turning back towards the spider. It was a fat thing, around the size of a half dollar coin, and its distended abdomen took up half the space. Its legs seemed far too spindly to support the weight of its body, but there it was, stretched out on the now-open lid of the wooden box. The matted gold and black hair that coated its body stood out against the stained wood of the box, and it seemed to take up the entirety of the space around it despite its ultimately meager size. How did you manage to get in there?, muttered Angelica. It seemed unlikely that it had squeezed itself under the lid; maybe there was a hole in the box? She didn’t remember seeing one. Shivering, Angelica put the thoughts from her mind. She still needed the box, and began edging towards it. The spider hadn’t moved a single inch since she opened the box, and she was hoping it would stay that way. Angelica moved closer and closer to the box, and now was able to barely see its contents. Inside the box was a golden chain—a bracelet or necklace perhaps?

When she looked back up, the spider was missing. Angelica had glanced away for all but a second, and her skin crawled at the thought of how fast it must have moved to get away. At least it’s gone, she told herself, but the thought provided her no solace.

Taking a deep breath and holding it in her lungs, she snatched the box and shoved it into her mother’s purse in a single, smooth motion, careful to keep the lid from slamming shut. If the spider was still in the box, Angelica decided, then she would take even more pleasure in delivering it to her mother. Angelica finished surveying the attic as she moved towards the exit. Once there, she lowered herself onto the ground, giving herself an angle to look through the narrow crack of the attic door and make sure no one was watching. On the ground, she came face to face with the spider, a mere six inches separating the two of them.

While Angelica’s vision had always been rather impressive—she had her father’s eyes, eyes that could see a bullet leave the chamber of a hunting rifle before the trigger had even been pulled—she could not have anticipated the painfully sharp image of the spider. Angelica could see every shift of the hair covering its body, every anticipatory twitch of the mandibles that contained the smallest drips of venom. She could hear the tension of its skeletal legs straining to keep its bulbous body off the ground. Its abdomen was nearly bursting from within, a vessel that contained something not meant to be seen. But most of all, she saw its eyes. The eyes held no reflection; they were empty tunnels that burrowed through the spider and into the depths of the earth, but somehow Angelica knew she was at the bottom of each cavern, separated into eight pieces. She also knew that the spider wasn’t looking her in the eyes, it was looking at her mouth.

Angelica screamed. The spider knew she would, and for the first time, Angelica saw it move. It was faster than any spider she had ever seen, ever killed. It sprung forward, releasing the tension in its legs and hurling itself forward. It landed on her tongue, eight bitter legs digging into the soft flesh. Angelica tried to spit the spider out, but it wouldn’t let her. One leg at a time, it crawled deeper and deeper into her mouth. Angelica heaved and retched, stomach acid burning her throat as she clawed desperately at her face and neck, but the spider was unfazed by the tidal wave of bile. In desperation, Angelica forced her eyes shut and tried the last thing she could think of. She bit down as hard as she could, moving her tongue into the path of her teeth. There was a wet crunch as the abdomen buckled, only slightly, under the full weight of her jaws, and the taste of blood filled Angelica’s mouth where the spider’s legs were pushed into the meat of her tongue—the spider was pushing back against her teeth, refusing to be crushed. Even with teeth bearing down on its body, the spider slipped free and pressed further, the hair of its bloated body rubbing against Angelica’s palate and uvula. She retched again and again, but her stomach was empty of all contents but a sobbing scream. Tears burned down her face in the furnace-like attic as the spider entered her throat, bristling down, down, down. As it descended into her esophagus, and eventually her stomach, the sensation of many intelligent legs was replaced by a single point of heat that filled Angelica’s stomach. She was still coughing on her hands and knees, her eyes bloodshot and sore from ruptured vessels. The heat was too much to bear in the attic, and her brain cried out for her to leave as fast as possible.

Angelica fumbled down the ladder, brushing her face free of sweat and dust. As hard as she wiped, she couldn’t get the feeling of legs off of her skin. Normally, she would have moved slower to avoid noise and her mother’s criticism, but luckily there wasn’t anyone around to see her sloppy work. The pinprick of heat in Angelica’s stomach was around the size of a golf ball now, a blazing lump of steel burrowing a hole through her intestines. Despite this, Angelica focused herself enough to close the attic door behind her.

With one hand trailing along the wall, Angelica began making her way towards the stairs, but her foot wouldn’t take the first step. Quit making a scene, she could almost hear her mother say. Honey, her mother would have added, almost an afterthought. Almost a real thought. Angelica turned around towards the guest room and threw herself at the door. The wood cracked slightly as the door flew open and Angelica climbed into the cushiony bed. The warm blankets were tossed onto the floor immediately. They were simply too much to bear alongside the burning in Angelica’s gut, which continued to expand, now a tennis ball of radiation. Here, lying in a bed she wished was hers, Angelica began to cry out in pain.

Monique was the first one to the room, followed shortly by Angelica’s mother, who was sweating profusely as she tried to explain that Angelica is probably just fine so there’s really no need to worry but if you’re concerned then I can check first just in case she’s indisposed. Monique wasn’t listening; she had put a hand on Angelica’s feverish forehead, whispering with a smile as she asked her what was wrong.

But Angelica couldn’t hear the reassuring coos of Monique’s mellow voice. She was somewhere far away, deep in a dark forest. She was suspended in the air by a thin, almost imperceptible thread, hanging upside down and gazing towards the ground. In another life, Angelica would have looked like a circus performer prepared for her next trick. But it wasn’t a trick. Angelica gasped and whimpered as her guts seemed to pulse. Her eyes screwed shut, and her teeth clenched almost to their breaking point. The heat in her stomach was spreading to her lungs, heart, and limbs. The rising pain now began to fade, and the energy was invigorating, intoxicating. Angelica felt something shift deep inside of her, a part of her she didn’t recognize, a part that wanted to hunt. To hate.

Angelica’s mother was dragging Monique out of the room, and had just succeeded in locking her out. Monique banged on the door for a while, but stopped. Angelica’s mother didn’t think Monique was going to accept any more excuses. It’s just a panic attack, she has them from time to time; she’s overstimulated, just let us have some time alone; I can handle this on my own, it’s really okay. She leaned in close to Angelica. You’re trying awfully hard to get us caught, honey, she said. Believe me, we will be addressing this later. Get up, we’re leaving. Angelica’s eyes snapped open, although they had already been intently focused on her mother. Her rib cage shifted under the skin, and the sound of bone grinding against bone pushing against flesh filled the room. Angelica’s mother took a step backwards, hands shaking. Angelica pulled herself forward and stood upright on the crisp sheets of the bed.

Believe me, mother, we will address this now.

Eight massive legs erupted from Angelica’s chest and stomach, each the length of a fully-grown man and covered in a smooth, chitin-like layer of bone that ended in a sadistic hook. The skin flayed instantly, hanging in tendony strips like a fringed jacket. Her heart remained in her chest, its beating mass exposed alongside her rapidly fluctuating lungs and other organs. Crimson ichor sprayed forth from the explosion of flesh and limbs, coating her mother and the bed Angelica loved so dearly with a fine spray of red. Bloody seams opened in Angelica’s face, revealing six fresh eyes that were born underneath the skin, each with a glimmering gold iris. Her lower jaw split with a wet crack, the broken bones twisting and sharpening into mandibles that clicked with malice.

Angelica’s mother screamed, but the skeletal forelimb that pushed between her vocal cords prevented anything more than a soft hiss of air escaping her lungs. Two more limbs burst through her torso in a spray of gore—one pierced her heart, feeling the tissue contract spastically around the chitinous spear. The other disappeared into her guts, searching in vain for the perfect shade of red, tossing all manner of crimsons and scarlets across the room in disgust.

Angelica could hear Monique outside the door. Angelica? Is everything alright? What was that noise? With a delicate flourish, Angelica removed her rib-legs from her mother’s perforated body, which crumpled into a bloody heap on the hardwood floor. Raising herself upon her newfound appendages, Angelica appeared almost as if she were flying horizontally over her mother. By instinct, the new limbs began their work, reaching past Angelica’s split and unhinged jaw and pulling out long strands of sinewy thread and binding her mother’s limp hands and feet together like a malnourished hog. Angelica? Are you hurt? Please open the door. Then, by spinning the body rapidly under the hovering form of Angelica’s gaping chest, the entire body was quickly bound in thread and suspended from the ceiling and walls by a dozen or more taut strands, a silken trophy.

Before Monique could speak again, Angelica leapt to the door, four legs burying themselves inches deep into either side of the door frame. With a hand, Angelica gently unlocked the door and pulled it open. Monique’s hand had been raised to bang on the door again, and a deep violet bruise had formed from previous impacts. Tears had been wiped away, but their paths were still etched into her face. Angelica smiled as Monique’s eyes grew large and her breaths grew short. I’m not hurt, it’s okay. My mother was upset, but she’s not angry anymore, said Angelica, her bisected jaw vibrating as the words wormed their way between the clacking bones. Thank you, Monique. And she rushed through the doorway, softly pushing Monique aside with a forelimb before crawling to the staircase.

In the kitchen downstairs, Angelica first bumped into a large man, his gut nearly bursting through the buttons of his flannel shirt as he filled a glass with cranberry punch. As the two made eye contact—several times, as he glanced at the various eye-wounds bulging from Angelica’s face—words welled up inside of him, catching in his throat. Angelica gladly released them with a skeletal hook, spilling his words and a gout of lifeblood onto the floor as more thick strands poured from her mouth, coating his twitching body in seconds and suspending him from the ceiling. A feast for later, said Angelica. Saliva pooled in her molars.

Next was a young couple in the process of kissing under the mistletoe. It was a grotesque affair as the girl’s cotton candy lip gloss began to taste of blood and the boy realized that her eyes weren’t closed anymore, that they wouldn’t close ever again. Angelica’s split jaw shuddered and opened wide before severing the girl’s spinal cord like the blade of a matador. The boy tried to pull away, a shout escaping his lips, but the two spider limbs buried between his shoulder blades pulled him back in as if to finish the kiss they started when they were young and living. Angelica, in a moment of clarity amongst the new instinct that drove her, wrapped them in silk together, an eternal embrace. They would have wanted it this way, Angelica whispered to herself before sinking her teeth into the dangling sac. Organic soup rushed into her mouth, delighting her senses. By now, other partygoers had begun rushing out of the house and the sound of screeching tires faded into the distance. The last person Angelica saw was David. He stood steadfastly between Angelica and the front door.

What did you do to Monique, said David. It wasn’t a question, and Angelica saw in the furious lines etched into his face that he wouldn’t be asking again. There was a silence as Angelica clicked towards him on her bony legs. Nothing. She’s upstairs. She continued pressing towards David, who remained still. Liar. Angelica, who almost appeared to float through the air, was face to face with him. She could smell him, taste the slurry he would become. She had always had a hunter inside of her, and it was fully awake now. Angelica saw his grimace eight times over, and each point of view saw him the same way—as prey. In her mind’s eye, she was dangling again from a thread in that dark, dark forest. Below her, David lay on the forest floor, eyes looking up, wide and burning. Back in the house, her prey stepped forward abruptly and without fear. Angelica knew he would and flung herself forward, her hooked rib-legs pushing between ribs that cracked like kindling. The warm blood pumping against her limbs was far too much of a delight for her to resist.

Behind Angelica’s predatory visage, David saw Monique descending the stairs. There was a scream lodged in her throat, but it was far too frightened to leave. Angelica removed her hooks from David’s perforated, bleeding body, turning to face Monique.

Leave, Angelica. The scream was beginning to fester and crawl inside Monique, leaking out through tears and the faintest of snarls. Get out, continued Monique, her voice absent of the gentle tones that Angelica was—despite her best efforts to detach herself—so excruciatingly fond of. Now. Angelica was frozen, her metamorphosis unable to keep the ice from forming in her blood. Monique walked up to Angelica and shoved her away from David’s body, slamming her against the wall. Monique’s palms smeared against Angelica’s exposed entrails, her heart beating against the pressure of furious hands. Angelica could only stare, her old eyes weeping while the new ones bled sympathetically. Monique bent to the ground, cradling her husband as the scream ripped itself free, filling the silence with agony.

A frigid draft finally pulled Monique back to her senses and away from David’s fading warmth. The front door was wide open, and snow billowed in from the blizzard outside. A small snowdrift was piling up on the welcome rug. Pressed into the snow just beyond the threshold was a single set of footprints accompanied by dozens of puncture marks and a drizzle of wept blood.

Ethan Miller is a third-year EIU student who enjoys disturbing his readers with tales of horror, and his Vehicle-featured piece "A Spider In The Attic" is the first story in his future collection It Stays Under Your Skin. Despite his love for horror, Ethan is also a huge fan of cheesy 90s science-fiction novels, dark fantasy, and playing Dungeons & Dragons.