On Spiders, part 1

“But I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid of you

I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid

I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid of you

I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid”

~ ‘I’m Not afraid’, by John Mark Painter and Fleming McWilliams

      from the Fleming and John album “Delusions of Grandeur”, 1996

I’m one of those lumbered with the dire curse of the phobia.  I suspect that I developed the phobia after one particularly nasty experience that you’ll hear about should you have the intestinal fortitude to continue reading the horror that is to follow.  My confession: the very sight of the furry monstrosities known commonly as spiders makes me quiver and squeal like a little girl.  So!  For your amusement, I bring you...

My Top Bottom 4 Experiences With Vile Arachnids - Part One

Ironically titled as there is quite simply no other kind.

1.  My earliest memory was when I was still in short pants.  Memories of childhood have always been a little fuzzy for me, more like snapshots of events rather than a whole experience, hence I have little recollection of the surrounding time.  All I know for sure was that I was of primary school age.  I was pottering around the garden finding small amusements in the nooks and crannies of the yard while my father dug in the veggie patch.  My sweaty Dad caught me wandering past him out of the corner of one eye, and as I drifted past, lost in innocent thought, I suddenly found a cloud of dirt penetrating my personal space.  I jumped back in surprise, as was the old man’s intent.

To this day, I’m reasonably sure what happened next was not his intent.  This particular patch of ground hid a dirty secret which became apparent to me as I glanced down to my chest.  Sitting on me was a huntsman the size of a dinner plate.

For the merest of seconds, we connected, my spider and I.  He looked at me and he spoke words that seared into my brain.

“Michael,” he whispered (arachnids need not raise their voices to be terrifying),  “I am a spider the size of a dinner plate.  I have very hairy legs and 6000 eyes which are right now all fixed on you.  Now, forget all you have learned about me and remember this whenever you see me or my kin; we know where you live and eat and sleep.  We will, at times of our choosing, make ourselves known to you, usually in a shocking and horrible ways.  At none of those moments will you know whether we are randomly in you vicinity or if we have in fact come to suck your brains out through your ears.  A good day to you, sir.”

No doubt, dear reader, should you be of an appropriate age, you will remember that one day you heard an inhuman wail the likes have not been uttered by the human voice in the history of mankind.  Finding no source of said scream, you went about whatever business was pressing upon you.  Now you know, that was me.

The scream was soon joined by a furious flailing of arms and legs in every direction possible.  Several impossible ones too.  My fate with respect to spiders was apparently sealed.

2.   I need not explain that during a drive is possibly the worst time to encounter that which you dread.  But that’s what happened to me one sunny day on my way to the local shops.  It was close to peak hour, so the roads were busy if not completely congested.  Enough to require a reasonable amount of focus to avoid potential tragedy.  It was just at that moment that another dreaded huntsman decided to traverse the driver’s side window.  He seemed to almost cover the whole window, but in reality, he was probably only about the size of a dinner plate.

Rational thought decided that that moment was a good time for it to go for a nice, quiet lie down.  In rational thought’s absence, my brain was absolutely convinced that the most sensible course of action was to urge my body to propel itself at great pace from the vehicle.  Fortunately, the instinct to preserve my life decided to have it’s say and reminded my brain that (a) I was in fairly busy traffic, (b) the car was still in rapid motion, and (c) I was driving the car.

Conscious thought then raised a valid point.  What was that ungodly noise?  It then realised that the noise was indeed a scream, lifted to the level of cacophony within the confines of my small hatchback.  It also thankfully saw fit to remind me that my hands were likely better served steering rather than furiously trying to push the spider away from myself, which wouldn’t have worked anyway as the spider was on the outside of the car.

How I am here writing this and not a half-forgotten smear on a patch of bitumen is frankly beyond me.

So there you have the first two of four tales of abject horror that I’m sure gave you as many palpitations reading them as I had writing them.  Be sure to come back next week for more terrifying confessions!