For a full hour, I didn’t go back. I paced, replaying the image in my mind, trying to convince myself that maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. But no amount of rationalizing worked. I knew exactly what I had seen.
When I finally did go back, I wasn’t alone. My husband came with me. Embarrassed, I whispered about what I had found, expecting him to laugh and tell me I was exaggerating. At first, he did laugh. But the second he looked behind the cabinet, the smile fell from his face. His eyes widened, and his whole expression hardened. That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me. This was real, and it was worse than I’d imagined.
The webs stretched farther than I had noticed, fine silk strands lacing across the walls and shelves. The cabinet had become a sanctuary, a breeding ground. The eggs clung in clusters like little pearls of dread, evidence of just how long this hidden world had been building. Every cobweb I had ignored over the months now made sense—they had been part of something much bigger, something I hadn’t wanted to see.
I turned to my husband and whispered, “How did we even live here all this time?” The words sounded surreal, like I was describing someone else’s house. But it was ours. And we had been sharing it, unknowingly, with a thriving metropolis of spiders.
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