Spiders Under the Bed

The boy trembled with excitement under his bed covers. His fists gripped the sheets so tightly his fingers hurt. He graced the alarm clock with a glance. Only 10:45pm. They never arrived before eleven. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He had something special to share with his friends.

They came every night, at the same time and always in the same way. First one, then another. Until a swarm skittered across the hardwood floor and settled in the old box spring. Then they would sing their song. He wasn’t sure if sing was the right word, but he called it that anyway. It was a hum that soothed him.

While they sang, they showed him pictures. Movies really. He called them stories. They showed him grownups. Not kids, not even young adults like himself. But actual adults doing adult things. It made him feel mature for his thirteen years. He loved their stories.

His eyes darted to the clock. 10:54pm. They’ll be here soon. A giggle escaped his lips. It sounded like a fart passing between his pressed lips. It made him laugh harder.

The boy’s friends started visiting when he was eight-years old. Their song and stories scared him at first. He couldn’t understand them. But now that he was thirteen, he was sure he knew what they were doing. They were teaching him about the real world. Teaching him to be a grownup.

The pictures would start slowly. One at a time. Sometimes they’d show the story of a girl slipping a pack of cigarettes up a coat sleeve, or into a boot. Or a guy sipping from a small bottle he kept hidden in his desk drawer, thinking no one knew what he was doing. The boy really liked that one and thought he might try it someday.

As the boy would drift into sleep, the stories would come faster. One on top of the next, like a dream bleeding into another. They were strange, surreal. A man slapping his wife over a credit card. Naked arms and legs intertwined. A woman hiding in a dark closet, or bathing in a tub of crimson water. They’d show him things shiny and sharp. Or cold and blue pointed at a naked couple in bed. They’d show him stories he didn’t understand. But he wanted to.

The following morning his friends would be gone, but the stories would remain.

It had been the same every night for five years. But tonight, he had a story of his own. He had done it that day, just that afternoon. Just the way they had showed him. Today, he was a grownup, and he couldn’t wait to share his story with his friends.

10:59pm. He pressed his eyes shut and re-played the story in his head to prepare himself. Even though the day had been overcast, and she was dressed in a black wool coat, her eyes and curly locks glowed. His entire world gleamed like summertime, all because of her.

Are they here? He could hear the skitter. The boy’s eyes scanned the floor. There it is, over by the heating vent. Then another. And a third. A grin cracked his face. His legs trembled.

They leaked onto the hardwood floor until it looked like the surface of a pond in a rainstorm. Everywhere the light reflected off their tiny bodies. House spiders, brown recluse spiders, wolf spiders, daddy long legs and hobo spiders. His friends swarming toward his bedframe.

A few moments later the floor was still. His friends were settled in for the night and their song began. A hum rising in volume.

He pressed his eyes shut and screamed in his mind — Stop! I have a story to share with you.

The room was silent.

He introduced them to a vision of deep blue eyes and shimmering, sandy colored curls. And the smile she awarded him when he asked her name. The smile that drove the clouds away.

Sarah. She was thirteen and had just moved into the neighborhood; and she was talking to him. They had met in the lunch line and he had offered to walk with her after school. Just like he had seen in their stories.

His heart was racing. He couldn’t wait any longer, so he jumped to end. He and Sarah were down the street, cutting through the alleyway between Fifth and Sixth. He held her image for one last moment, allowing his friends to see. Her eyes. The curly locks. The smile.

Then he showed them the good part. His fists, clenching, twisting, pulling at the scarf. Her mouth open in a silent scream. Tears running, staining the grimy asphalt behind the shining locks. Like the sun going down, the eye lids closed over blue. The body was slack.

His chest heaved. He waited, making sure she wasn’t faking. Making sure he had done it right. She was still for a long time before he dragged the body behind the dumpster and ran home.

The boy opened his eyes, and he waited. Waited for their song. Waited for their approval.

Silence.

Then the floor was roiling, wave after wave pushing toward the heating vents. Like water rushing away from an overflowing toilet. They were leaving. Why are they leaving?

He had done just what they had showed him.