Date with a Spider

Date With A Spider

(The Lost Story of Edgar Allan Poe)

In April of 1826, while enrolled in his first and only year at the University of Virginia, Poe confided in his teacher, Professor Blaetterman, about his dire financial circumstances. Poe had been borrowing money from fellow students and friends, and had even tried to win more money through failed gambling.

Poe went on to say that he was now deeply in debt but wanted desperately to stay in school to pursue a formal education in literature. He told Blaetterman he wanted to be a writer and a poet, but that his guardian, John Allen, was pressuring him to have a military career instead, where he could at least earn a decent wage and establish some social prominence.

In one instance, a pair of heavy set gangster types showed up at John Allen's door, looking for money. They were insisting that if Poe couldn't pay off the gambling debts he owed them, then Poe's unofficial adoptive father would have to, or else!

John Allen, furious over Poe's gambling and excessive borrowing, told Poe in no uncertain terms that he would prefer it if he would leave the University of Virginia, and consider studying at West Point where he could receive military training and lots of discipline.

This put a lot of pressure on Poe, who became desperate to jump start his writing career so he might earn some money, and thereby escape both his debts, and the dominating wishes of John Allen. But up to that point, Poe's writings had produced no interest from any potential publishers.

Blaetterman, sympathetic towards Poe's predicament, introduced Poe to a literary agent for a prominent British magazine, who just happened to be visiting Virginia at the time. The British Magazine, which was launched as the "European Magazine, and London Review" in January 1782, was now merely entitled, by 1826, as "The European Magazine."

The agent, willing to do a personal favour for his good friend, Blaetterman, informed Poe that they were thinking of publishing a horror short in their next issue and that he would be willing to look at any suitable short horror story Poe had laying around, provided he could have it within two days, which was the time of the agent's departure back to England.

Poe was awash in brilliant ideas and half-finished manuscripts, but nothing readily completed at hand. But he excitedly agreed to both write and bring him a story within the two day period.

Poe, pressed for time, quickly wrote "Date With A Spider" all at one sitting, mindful of the two things the agent had told him. First, there were rumors of big changes coming to the magazine. They were trying to cater to all age groups, and thought a short horror tale might stimulate interest from the young teenage crowd. The story was to be written for kids ages 12 to 16. As such, Poe was under pressure to 'dumb down' his vocabulary while still bringing out a sense of the macabre, grotesqueness, and sensationalism. That being the case, Poe readily abandoned his usual verbosity, sense of grandeur, and gratuitous literary finesse.

Secondly, the story was to be for a British audience, and so the agent expressed the magazine's need for the story to at least appear to have British characters and at least five or so British expressions. This explains Poe's use of such British slang as "blimey," and "collywobbles," words Poe no doubt learned in the five years he had spent in Britain, from 1815 to 1820.

When Poe did hand in the story to the agent, in April of 1826, Poe received an astonishing twenty dollars for his trouble, which at the time was no small sum. Not only was the agent pleased with Poe's work, but it enabled the agent to cement his friendship with his dear friend, Professor Blaetterman.

After an approximate three week journey back over the Atlantic, the agent enthusiastically submitted Poe's torrid tale to the editor. However, as luck, or rather bad luck would have it, the story was never published by European Magazine. Although accepted by the magazine's grateful editor, and slated to be published in the fall of 1826, the final magazine produced by the publisher was June of 1826. From here on in, the European Magazine was absorbed into the "Monthly Magazine." Ironically, the new combined 'Monthly Magazine' felt the story, although suspenseful and scary, lacked academic polish.

Ironically, the new amalgamated mag no longer wanted a story for children aged 12 to 16. They now wanted something for the adult crowd, particularly university grads.

Had Poe simply of written it in his usual verbose style, it undoubtedly would have been published. Howbeit, as already stated, the agent had coerced him into strongly suppressing his sophisticated prose.

The end result was that a sulking agent, miffed over having not been reimbursed the twenty he had given to Poe, felt pressured to do something with Poe's submission, hopeful that publishing it somewhere might give Poe some recognition.

The agent submitted the story for free to an upstart local London horror magazine, rumored to have been called, "Witches and Warlocks." (It is not certain if this is the true name of the short lived mag.)

The story, "Date With a Spider," was published in that magazine in October of 1826. The magazine failed to receive any money producing ads, and instead slid into bankruptcy, after only one month of operating. Then it merely permanently folded, almost as soon as it had begun.

It is thought that no more than fifty copies of the failed mag were ever sold. And of those, no copies are known to have survived today.

"Date With a Spider" is considered, by the few that were able to have read it, to be one of the scariest stories they have ever read. And yet, Poe never thought enough of the story to rewrite it in his usual style, and have it officially published along with his other works. One assumes that since it was only published by the bankrupt upstart, and never published by the much more successful major magazine, that Poe felt it a lost cause, and focused on far more polished works.

Here then, without further delay, is "Date With a Spider," in its original form.

It is the long lost story of Edgar Allan Poe, written at just one sitting, for the young teen crowd, a departure from his usual stylistic prose, and long before he had any recognition or prominence.

Date With A Spider

By Edgar Allan Poe

Harding seemed not to be his usual exuberant and loquacious self.

We nonetheless mounted the creaking steps to the front porch, then strode across the century old floorboards.

"You seem somewhat pale and frightened," I offered, watching his frantic eyes dance under a shadowy half moon.

"Not frightened at all," Harding corrected, adding, "merely under the weather. Most assuredly, and quite merely, the results of some tainted chicken at lunch."

"Poppycock. You were fine a few minutes ago," I challenged.

"If you must know," he rebutted, "I'm starting to have second thoughts about rummaging through some decrepit abandoned home, looking for a hideous insect with eight eyes and eight giant legs. An insect that is, according to the new owner of this wretched home, one foot high, and a whopping two feet long."

"I still say the owner could have been mistaken," I said sheepishly. "He could have seen some stray, rabid dog in the darkness and merely assumed..."

"Blimey! We both know that is not true. You know just as well as I, that he claimed to have risen his lantern mere inches from the creature's face. He also claimed to have seen, with astounding clarity, that it was indeed an overgrown, and quite monstrous spider that was confronting him. And then he turned and ran like hell, bounding back through the house, then leaping off the porch and out into the rain-soaked woods."

I frowned at his bout of angst and let my fingers tickle the pistol handle tucked in the right side of my belt.

"Even if it is some giant insect, I'll merely fire a barrage of shots right between its eight putrid eyes."

"So you say! But I'm still worried it may bite us, or even-"

"Tell you what then, mate. After I've killed whatever it is, and you're still standing here, sporting a right proper case of the collywobbles, I'll be out yanking the knickers off of pretty Polly Wilkens, down at Gary's Pub."

I then took out my flask of gin, absent any tonic, and took a swig. Next, I took out the spray bottle tucked in the left side of my belt. It was filled with kerosene.

I waved the spray bottle at him ceremoniously. "Then, after I've shot the damnable eight-legged bugger I'll spray it with this and light a match. Then up in flames the hairy bastard will go."

"So you say!"

"I do indeed say," I shouted, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a fistful of my share of the money that the owner had paid us to exterminate the eight-legged vermin.

"A hundred pounds each, just to get rid of some stupid bug. That's more money then we've seen between the two of us the whole of last year, so pull yourself together mate, and start dreaming of all the sassy tarts with their ample bosoms that money can buy."

He swallowed hard, then propped the door open with a piece of brick he'd found.

"We'll need some light, the windows are all boarded up. Plus we'll need some air. The smell is gobsmacking. So the door stays open."

The sickening smell was coming from thick damp mold along the walls. The mold was decades old, and obviously quite dangerous. It had begun to sprout a hair-like fuzz.

The house itself had been left shuttered and abandoned for over thirty years. The new owner had just inherited it, but only been inside of it once. It was upon that first inspection that he claimed to have seen the giant spider. And so he had hired Harding and myself to exterminate the foul abomination.

Two hundred pounds??!! No way the new owner would have paid so much unless the job was going to be next to impossible. It was one thing to evict troublesome human tenants, but quite another to eject a monstrous spider that was as big as a yelping puppy.

A sense of melancholy and dread now seemed to permeate the rickety old house.

"Let's get started," Harding said bravely as he pressed a palm against his nose.

The stench was unbearable, causing me to also raise a hanky to my face.

"Try to keep moving," I encouraged, astonished at how foul the stenchy mold actually was.

Harding trod forward gallantly, using his free left hand to swipe at thick dusty spider webs, fully laden with dead insects and twitching rodents.

"These rat corpses are way too fresh," I whispered to myself.

"The further we go, the darker It gets," Harding shouted, the apprehension in his voice becoming more notable.

I failed to answer him, and instead concurred to myself that the once bright light from the door we had left propped open, was dwindling in intensity.

Although there were windows on this floor of the house, the previous owner had decided to heavily board them up on both sides. He undoubtedly had much to hide.

"The wall has ended, and I've come to a set of stairs," Harding whined, adding, "looks like the basement, but it's pitch black."

I reached into the leather bag slung over my shoulder, and rummaged through it till I had retrieved the kerosine lamp and a full box of wooden matches.

I lit the wick quickly and noted the low level of oil still left in the bottom.

I lift the lamp with my left hand, repositioning my right hand back with the hanky to my face. A stream of shadowy light danced along the slimy walls.

"We'll have light for an hour or two, until the oil runs out, but after that..."

"But after that we'll have passed out from the odor," Harding managed. "It smells even worse down there in the basement, like a room of rotting corpses."

"No corpses apart from insects and rodents, I should think. Just this damnable mold crawling along all the walls. Probably been here for over thirty years.

I followed him down the stairs, but the stench of the hideous mold was increasing now, causing me to periodically gag and wretch.

"Smells worse than a sewer down here," Harding spat out as I followed him and crossed over the last step.

The basement floor was not grimy hardwood like upstairs, but rather slimy dirt.

An oversized rat lay flat on it's back, it's stiffened four feet perched up in the air. Either it had succumbed to the insidious mold, or had received a fatal bite from the supposed giant spider.

"Careful where you step," Harding managed, his breathing labored against the rancid air.

I gingerly stepped around the rat, then side stepped an enormous octagon shaped web, dangling from the ceiling like some sticky, filthy blanket. Whatever had woven that web could have been no ordinary bug.

Suddenly, the sound of something scampering along the far wall, brought us to a riveting attention.

"Did you hear that?" Harding asked, his voice desperate and wheezy.

A sense of dread and pulsing melancholy permeated the basement. Something was scurrying towards us at lightning speed, its legs brushing against the fuzzy brick.

Harding was frantic, but yet still thinking clearly. He yanked the lantern out of my hand, then grabbed the baton that had been shoved under his belt.

"Grab your pistol," he shouted at me frantically.

I did as he instructed, pulling the flintlock pistol out of my pants and cocking back the hammer. Then I trained it at the flashing light as he swung the lamp all along the wall, trying to not only locate, but illuminate the scurrying beast.

He suddenly stopped swinging the lamp, and held it shining rays against the two foot long spider, now stopped against the corner of the wall, it's eight hairy legs coiled and ready to spring at us.

The spider seemed dazed by the bright light, and focused its gaze away from Harding and onto me.

I aimed the pistol at it carefully, knowing I would only get one shot at it, with no time to reload should I miss.

It's wanton eyes glistened with savagery, and its disgusting fangs were bared and ready. It hissed as me as I got ready to fire.

It coiled tighter and began to spring off the wall towards me.

It was now in mid-air, and my first instinct was to fire instantly, but it was coming for my throat, and I knew I had to be accurate. There would be no second chances. I therefore surmised that the small head would make a much harder target than its giant bulbous body.

I therefore took my time and steadied the gun barrel, aiming directly at the large round body sac as it leapt toward me. I allowed it to get to within a few feet and then I fired.

The sound of whimpering yelps filled the air, and the shot ripped through it's flesh, causing the dirt to become splattered with a greenish colored blood.

It crashed to the ground, it's legs flailing wildly as the yelps continued unabated.

I started to reach for my spray bottle and matches, but Harding had other ideas. He sat the lamp on the ground, then began to pummel its head with his baton.

Each blow was decisive and angry, slamming away until the whimpering stopped and its legs became motionless.

A smile quickly rolled across Harding's once tensed face.

"We did it," he spat out triumphantly, "now let's go get those sassy tarts you were talking about."

"Damn," I muttered, absolutely flabbergasted, kneeling down to have a closer look. "Just look at the size of that monster."

A tentative smile slowly played around the edges of my own face, as the fear slowly oozed out of me like air from a leaking balloon. As for Harding, his impressive grin was now pitched ear to ear. Still, he didn't want to spend even one minute more in that house than was absolutely necessary. The putrid stench was beyond unbearable.

"You don't have to look at the damn thing so close," he cautioned. "God only knows what kind of germs or diseases it has. Let's just get the hell out of here. We did what we were hired to do. Now let's go spend our money."

"Not so quick," I objected. "At least let's examine it for a bit. There's probably not another one like it in the whole of England...hell maybe even in the whole wide world. A one of a kind monstrosity."

Harding shrugged. As far as he was concerned, it was time to count our blessings and get the hell out. We had accomplished what we had come to do. In his terrified mind, there was no reason to stick around and tempt fate.

"Let's just go, dammit!"

"Hang on a second," I whined. "This spider corpse might be worth a lot of money."

"How do you figure? I've bashed its brains in until there's nothing of its head left but mush."

"What about it's legs? They're untouched, all eight of them in perfect condition. A science lab at a university might pay a fortune for them, don't you think? They might preserve them in a bottle...or for a museum...or chop them up and slide them under a microscope."

"You're daft and scatterbrained. Why hang about and risk more trouble. For all you know there might be another one of those things around."

"In which case the owner could claim we'd have to come back and finish off the rest."

"Not a chance! Our deal with him was to simply turn one giant spider into a corpse. He never said nothing about taking on two or more."

Harding's words were re-inflating me with fear and trembling. A chance there might be another one of those damnable things? Or maybe even a whole tribe? After all, spiders laid eggs, did they not?

"Fine, we'll get going. And we'll leave the spider corpse right where it is, so that when the owner does come back, he can see for himself that we've done the job we were hired to do."

"Now you're talking," he bellowed, sounding relieved.

I started to rise hastily off the ground, but my shoe slipped on some of the slimy green blood. This meant I was going to fall face first onto the corpse unless I steadied myself. I therefore dropped my bag, and pressed my hand to the ground. That stopped the fall from happening. Then I rose to my feet but felt a burning sensation. The tip of my index finger had accidentally touched a tiny bit of the spider's green blood, and it scalded like acid.

"Damn, that stings," I yelped, feeling the patch of skin around the fingernail begin to sizzle.

It burned like hell, and I instinctively needed instant relief. I absentmindedly spit on my finger, hoping to quench the heat with a layer of cooling saliva.

It stopped burning almost immediately.

"Careful, you idiot!" Harding snapped at me. "Your lips almost touched your finger. God only knows what kind of germs and poison is in that blood."

"My finger was on fire, and I wasn't thinking, what can I say?"

"Never mind. Let's just get out of here."

Harding then picked up the lamp and began moving quickly back towards the stairs. He was really spooked, and it wasn't long before he was already halfway up those basement stairs.

Suddenly he stopped, frozen like a statue as he waited for me to follow. He didn't want to venture onto the main floor alone.

"Are you coming or not?" he shouted. He was in a full-blown panic. It was as if some sixth sense had kicked in.

"I'm not leaving my bag behind," I answered wearily, adding, "It cost-"

"Shhh! Did you hear that?"

"I heard nothing."

"I heard something. Like scurrying footsteps."

"Probably just the sound of my feet sliding across the dirt floor while I'm trying to find my bag. Can you come back here with the lamp? It's hard to see anything with the lamp so far away."

"I am not coming back down there," he said, sounding terrified. "Just light a damn match."