Date with a Spider

"How can I light a match when the matches are in my bag?"

"Forget about your bag. I definitely heard something, and your pistol's not even reloaded. Let's just get out of here, shall we?"

The sound of legs scurrying across the mold suddenly reached my ears. There was indeed at least one more of those damnable things.

I let my fingers reach the handle of the pistol that was firmly shoved down my pants. I wanted to reload it, but then remembered that my powder and shots were in the missing bag.

I began to circle the area where the spider had perished, kicking at the air with my feet. If I could find the bag then I could at least reload.

The sounds of racing legs were much louder now, even coming from multiple directions. It was now obvious to me that there was more than just one of those hideous bugs coming towards us.

My right foot suddenly struck the bag. I reached down and picked up my bag very carefully. I feared that some of that green blood might have gotten on the sides of it, and I didn't want any of my fingers getting burned again.

I grabbed the pouch containing round balls, patches, my loader, and lots of black powder, but couldn't help spilling some as I fumbled at my pistol. The darkness was blinding and Harding was still frozen on the stairs, causing the precious light to uselessly permeate the ground floor, rather than in the basement where I was.

Nevertheless, I finally reloaded my pistol and began making my way through the blackened gloom.

"Are you coming or not?" an impatient Harding shouted at me.

I could just barely make out the stairs, and guessed I was twenty feet away.

"Almost there," I said.

"Well hurry it up or I'll leave you."

As afraid as I was, I had to manage a wry smile. No way he was ever going to leave me. He was paralyzed with fear. The sickening sound of thick hairy legs was closing in all around him, and I was the one that had the pistol.

I finally reached the stairs, and bounded up the creaky steps just as fast as I could until I brushed against him.

"Thank goodness," Harding whimpered, still wielding his baton in one hand and the lamp in the other. His face was consumed with anguish, and he seemed like some crazed wild man on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"Now let's go!"

I followed as he rushed forward, his trembling hands brandishing both the baton and the swinging lamp.

The sound of scurrying legs was all around us now, but I estimated we had a mere thirty feet to go. Light from the propped up open door was luring us like light at the end of a tunnel.

Suddenly, as a result of scattered debris, and dangerously careless haste, Harding slipped and fell, his face slamming directly into the slimy hardwood. Broken teeth flew from between his split lips, while blood gushed unabated from his flattened nose. It had been a monstrously brutal fall.

He slowly tried to get up, his stunned and rattled visage peering at me as if silently asking me to help.

I thought about helping him get up and shake off the doldrums, honestly I did, but the sudden sight of one of those green blooded bugs, scurrying across the floor, made me lose both courage and honor.

The foul creature was suddenly a mere feet from where my good friend sat upright.

I screamed at Harding to rise and run, but he was slow to respond, being totally stunned and gobsmacked. His face had taken quite a wallop from the unforgiving hardwood.

Had I of been less in a panic, and more in control of my reflexes and intellectual faculties, I might have remembered the fact that a loaded flintlock pistol was still tucked in my belt and thereby ready at my fingertips. But for now, the only thought permeating throughout my frantic mind, was self-preservation.

I therefore ran, abandoning any sense of duty as the foot-high spider jumped into the air, and hissed at a helpless Harding.

Had my good friend not of fallen, then it is certain he would have made it through the door and out to safety in the afternoon sun. But as things now stood, there could be no escape.

I myself did make it through the door, but then stopped and turned, anxious to see what fate might befall him.

The spider was now mere inches from his face, its hideous hairy legs latching onto his neck and shoulders.

The hissing grew louder, until I watched in horror as the spider unleashed a frothy and steam laden spray directly into Harding's face.

The shocking pain from what obviously was a poisonous and debilitating venom, suddenly snapped Harding out of his stunned and docile state.

He leapt to his feet like a man possessed, screaming in unbearable anguish as steam began rising from his afflicted face. The venom was harsher than acid.

He began to whirl in circles, flailing wildly at the spider, yanking in utter futility at the powerful grip the spider had on his neck and shoulders.

I cringed in horror as the spray into Harding's helpless face continued unabated.

After half a minute or so, my good friend stopped running in circles, and actually ceased his panicked swiping at his furry nemesis.

It was obvious to me that the burning venom had caused him to become paralysed, and yet, it did not seem to affect his vocal chords.

His screaming still remained so very profuse and deafening.

"Get it off me!"

"I can't see!"

"Shoot it, damn you, shoot it!"

He was undoubtedly in unbearable and unimaginable pain.

I watched closely as steam rose from the dissolving flesh on his changing face.

I finally pulled myself together and snatched the pistol from my belt, raising it at the combative spider. And yet, I didn't bother to fire. A second and third spider were now leaping upon poor Harding, adding to his hellish misery.

Shooting at any one of the three brutish beasts at this time would have made no sense. I only had one shot. I was not about to leave the safety of the door to go back inside after it,

Instead, I merely glared at Harding's face. It was a hideous stream of sizzling flesh, and his eyes had long since melted from their sockets.

My mind began racing in a hundred directions. Even if I went back inside and shot one of the spiders, I would need at least thirty seconds to reload, time I undoubtedly was not going to have.

That would still leave me at the mercy of the other two eight-legged bastards.

I also had the stark realization that I had spilled most of my black powder when reloading in the darkness the last time. There was no guarantee I could even get off a subsequent shot.

Harding suddenly stopped screaming, a tribute, no doubt to the fact the spider was now ripping out his tongue.

All I could simply do was watch in horror. The spiders were using their razor sharp fangs to rip strips of flesh off my poor friends face, belly and leg. They were devouring him alive, and slurping up the gushing blood, but I was too helpless to aid him.

And then, I saw it. The fancy embroidered money satchel that Harding had kept his hundred pounds in. No doubt it had earlier slipped from his pocket when he'd fallen to the ground.

I raised my pistol in the air and re-entered the house, walking quickly towards the fallen money satchel.

The three feasting spiders were too busy enjoying their meal to pay me any attention.

I stooped down to grab the bag, all the while keeping my pistol trained on them in case one of them should decide to suddenly leave Harding and leap at me. But they kept slicing and gnawing, totally impervious to my presence.

I placed the bag in my pocket then paused to stare at my old friend. Incredibly, he was still alive, his suffering incalculable. I cautiously backed up towards the door and raised my pistol towards the back of what was left of his head.

I reluctantly fired into his skull, and he suddenly stopped his insidious twitching and writhing. He was now out of his misery, and his money was safely in my pocket.

I turned and ran, swinging the door shut as I leapt off the porch. Then I jogged through the woods and didn't stop panting until I had reached my scanty lodgings.

I spent the next two hours soaking in a soapy bathtub, desperate to get the smell of mold off of me.

Once in bed, I tossed and turned for most of that night, unable to get the memory of his screams and dissolving face out of my mind. It wasn't until the trickling rays of a rising sun began to slip around the sides of my drapes, that I finally fell asleep.

I was soundly awakened a few hours later by a ferocious knocking at my door. Whoever it was, was determined not to leave until and unless I was going to answer the damn door.

I reluctantly rose and headed for the door, yawing and shaking as the events of the previous day kept accosting my weary mind.

I undid the lock and opened it ajar slowly.

It was Gerald, the homeowner whom had hired Harding and I to kill his spider.

"Sorry to wake you," he offered, adding, "let me in, will you?"

I swung the door open and he stepped past me, stopping in the middle of the room before turning to face me.

"You promised you would kill the damn bug yesterday. Did you do it?"

"Yes, we indeed killed it. We left its corpse sitting in the basement. You can go to your house and have a look at it if you like."

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to my office later and let me know? You were supposed to inform me as soon as you'd killed it."

"Sorry. Harding and I were tired. We wanted to get some sleep first."

"Is that why your friend Harding never answered his door? I just came from his place. I guess he was exhausted and sound asleep."

"That would be my guess. It wasn't easing killing that damn bug. It took us a few hours. A formidable adversary."

"A most wretched and horrible beast, to be sure. Well, if the deed is done, I shan't wait going there any longer. My bride to be and I are planning to clean the place up straight away. We want to rent it out as a daily bed and breakfast to eager guests for five shillings and sixpence."

"I shouldn't be bringing my lady to a hellish place like that," I blurted out, quite flabbergasted. "For one thing, the stench of that foul mold is overpowering. And there are rodents caught in the dangling spider webbing. She's likely to pass out, or at least run out of there screaming."

"Nonsense. My lady is quite robust and adventurous, not the dainty flowery type. She's most ready in my carriage downstairs, surrounded by buckets and mops and mounds of soap. Not to mention sturdy brushes to tackle the mold on the walls."

"You're going to let your lady clean up that nightmare?"

He suddenly frowned. "You didn't see any more of those things, did you?"

"No," I lied. "One of the snarly bastards was quite sufficient. As far as me and Harding could tell, there was only one, the one we killed."

A look of relief splashed across his face.

"Well then, since the dastardly deed has been so thoroughly accomplished, I'll bid you thanks, and take my leave. It is off to clean up the place and start taking in lodgers."

He abruptly turned, a smile stretched across his unsuspecting face. Then he walked away.

That was the last time I ever heard from him or his lady, ever again.

I felt guilty not telling him the truth, but if I had of, he would have most assuredly wanted his money back, and there was no way I was going to give up the two hundred pounds now tucked neatly under my pillow. For me, such a large sum of money was a King's ransom. I sighed, knowing that both he and his bride to be, were undoubtedly going to become a succulent meal to some already well-fed bugs.

Chapter Two

Dear Diary:

The rain is torrential, pounding on the roof.

My room feels damp, and the lone flickering candle, sitting on the table next to me, casts ghastly shadows along the paint chipped walls.

It has been fourteen days since my right index finger came into contact with the green acid-like blood. The tip of that finger, about half an inch worth, was amputated seven days ago in an

attempt to stop the life-threatening infection from spreading any further.

Doctor Samuel Wilkens moves the candle closer to where I sit, then leans and examines the

bandage on my right index finger.

There is a green and red staining coming through the tip.

"The smell's gotten worse over the last seven days," I worriedly whisper.

"Indeed it has," he says, his frown deepening. "Let's take a closer look then, shall we?"

He slowly unravels the bandage, then gasps audibly at the top half of my finger, swollen with green pus.

"Let me know if you can feel this," he says, sticking my finger with a long needle.

"Can't feel a thing. It's totally numb."

"Just like before," he says grimly.

I sigh and roll my tired eyes at the ceiling. "You're going to have to cut more off, aren't you?"

He shrugs sheepishly. "I should think so. At first the infection was limited to just above the first knuckle, and that's where I amputated it last time. Only now-"

"Only now?"

"Only now it's spread to the second knuckle."

I try to put on a brave face, yet end up staring glumly at the already cut finger. Only three quarters remain, and I had no illusion that he was going to have to cut another half inch off it, all the way down to the second knuckle.

"Guess you'll be wanting another five pounds to do the cutting?"

"That is my standard fee for a minor amputation in such house calls."

"Hardly seems logical to save half a finger," I tell him in a deathly whisper. "If it spread once it will probably spread again. Then I'll end up losing another five pounds...and another...then another, until-"

"What are you saying?" he says softly, trying not to look into my worried eyes.

"What I'm saying is that prevention is better than wishful thinking. You might as well chop off my entire damn finger. That would be the only way to ensure all of the infected flesh is removed. But if you only take off flesh to the second knuckle, it might keep on spreading."

"I guess, under the circumstances, if you think it best, then we will indeed remove the whole finger this time."

Dear Diary:

It has been three weeks since my right index finger was removed. It is difficult for me to write with my left hand, but I am doing my best...although it is kind of like learning to write all over again.

I've had four rather large shots of bourbon since nine o'clock this morning. That is when I first noticed a speck of that abominable green, forming at the base of the thumb on my right hand. It is also visible around the top of my middle finger, closest to the nail.

I paid a lad a shilling to run fetch the good doctor, and I expect him here at any moment.

I haven't said anything yet to Carol, my live-in girl friend. She was aghast when the tip of my finger was removed, and even more aghast when the entire finger soon after disappeared. I can only think how distraught she would feel if I ended up having to have the whole hand removed.

And yet, what choice do I have? The doctor has said that the greenish poison might end up surging through my veins and killing me with a slow hideous death unless I keep on cutting it away. The doctor did say after the last time that he thought the infection had been eradicated, and yet, here it was, back with a vengeance.

There is a knock at the door, and Carol asks me if I am expecting anyone.

I say nothing as she answers the door. I merely stare sheepishly as she turns white as a sheet upon seeing the doctor standing there with his butchering black bag.

"Surely not again?" she whimpers, a tear flowing down her cute silky cheek. Dangling gorgeous red curls frame a truly angelic yet desperate face. She knows I would never have called him back unless I was in need of his razor-sharp knives.

Carol merely leaves the door open, and runs off, trying not to blubber out loud until she has gone into the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

"Good morning, doctor," I say.

"Not so sure what's good about it," he says in a retaliatory tone. "I had surely thought since you'd not called for me in three weeks that the infection was utterly gone."

"Guess you had better do the whole hand, this time," I muttered apprehensively. "It's the only way to be sure."

"Until the next time," he whispers, not intending I should hear him. But I do hear him.

I sigh frantically. What if he lops off my hand, and then it starts showing up again, only next time on my wrist? My mind is racing in a hundred directions. If I am going to lose my hand, then why not all the way up to my elbow, to better stop the spread, or better yet, the entire arm right up to my shoulder? I know I need to finally stop the infection's spread, dead in its tracks!

"Pack what you need for a few night's stay. I'm taking you to the hospital."

"I'd rather you did it right here."

"That would not be wise or even possible," he shot back. "I've had an expert colleague examine your severed finger. It's a very deadly and unpredictable, infectious poison. I'm only guessing as to how dangerous it is. I might spread to others very easily. What about your girlfriend Carol? Has she shown any signs?"

The room began to spin at his stunning words. I hadn't thought about spreading it to her.

"She hasn't shown any green skin if that is what you are implying."

"Fine. But I can't cut off your hand or a whole arm here. I need to be able to stop the bleeding and work in a controlled environment. I'll need to conduct some tests and do some observations. I'm assuming, of course, that you have the means to pay for it?"

"An operation, followed by tests and a few nights in the hospital. How much would that cost?"

"All told, thirty pounds or so."

I gulped hard and rose from my chair.

"Fine, I'll get ready and tell Carol I'm leaving."

Dear Diary:

It's been a whole three months since the good doctor removed my right arm.

To date, there has been no more green showing up on me at all. I guess I am healed. I am really glad I took off the whole arm and not just the hand.

The doctor checked up on me just yesterday, and he told both me and Carol, that as far as he is concerned, my infection is gone.

She and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

I still have a hundred and forty pounds left over from the two hundred I first had. But I am going to try and save it to make it last as long as possible. It isn't easy for a one arm man to find work.

I go into the bedroom, and watch as Carol waits naked for me on the bed. She is excited for another reason as well. She just told me this morning that she is expecting our first child. She is two months pregnant, and in a celebratory mood. She wants to make love to me.

I move quickly towards her, almost reaching her face, before I suddenly recoil in horror.

I can't believe what I am now seeing. I am seeing what Carol herself has not yet noticed. Her lips have begun to turn that hideous shade of infectious green...