by Stan Mason
‘Tiger!’ he uttered urgently. ‘It’s Fletch. Look, this is very urgent. Very urgent! Something’s happened here. I want you to come over right away. But I warn you, you’d better prepare yourself for a shock.’
‘What kind of shock?’
‘There’s a spider at the door of my bedroom and it’s three feet high. It’s staring at me now. I know it sounds ridiculous but you’ve got to believe me! You’ve got to come round right away! I’m in mortal danger!’
There was a brief pause at the other end of the line as Tiger Smith turned away to tell two other members of the team the gist of the call and his voice could be heard vaguely on the line. ‘Listen to this!’ he roared. ‘It’s Fletch. He says he’s trapped in his bedroom by a spider that’s three feet high.’ This was followed by a guffaw which turned into gales of laughter. There was a further pause and more laughter erupted in the background as he returned to speak into the receiver. ‘Tell me, Fletch, is it coloured black?’
Fletcher stared at the creature. ‘Yes, it is. But what difference does that make?’
‘What difference?’ roared Tiger. ‘Why you lucky old dog! What you have there is a black widow! There’s a lot of people I know who would like to spend an evening with a widow dressed in black. Come on, Fletch! I know what you’re up to! You took Sharon home, she’s rejected your advances and she’s in the other room. You want to get rid of her so you ‘phoned me to come round and bail you out. That’s why you’re whispering on the ‘phone in your bedroom. Well I’m busy tonight, old buddy, playing cards. Sorry and all that! However, if you find a six-foot mouse with a large curly moustache, you ring me again. Oh, boy, do you have a sense of humour! I love it! That’s what the world needs... someone to keep them laughing!’
The line went dead and Fletcher closed his eyes in despair. It was becoming a hopeless task! No one believed him! Who else could help him? Suddenly he thought of Freddy Pearce, the centre forward, who lived within reasonable distance. He tapped out the number and listened to the dialling tone. The spider rubbed its jaws as if to scratch itself but did nothing more.
The dialling tone stopped and a voice could be heard on the line. ‘Pearce, four, one, double six, double nine!’
‘Freddy., it’s Fletch,’ he said in a quiet tone, talking at a rate of knots. ‘I need help. There’s a spider at the doorway of my bedroom and it’s three feet high. Will you come over right away. I need you here now!’
‘Were you hit on the head during the game or something?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘You haven’t been taking drugs, have you? It sounds as though you’re on dope.’
‘Of course not! I don’t take drugs! Can you come over? I swear to you it’s urgent. I’m in mortal danger!’
‘If this is another of your pranks, I’ll... ’
‘It’s not a prank!’ he told the centre-forward desperately. ‘I assure you it’s not a prank! It’s a three foot high spider. I can’t get out of my bedroom.’
‘Look,’ responded Pearce, ‘I can’t come over right away. Give me an hour or so. But I’m warning you, you’d better not be having me on!’
‘No... it’s true... absolutely true!’
Pearce hung up and Fletcher replaced the receiver slowly having second thoughts about his colleagues. A fat lot of good they were when a fellow was in a jam! Give me an hour or so! What help was that in an emergency? Yet there was still Harry Toms, the goal-keeper. Good old Harry! It was his last year with the club and he was an understanding caring person. Why didn’t he think of ringing him first? He tapped out the number on the instrument swiftly and waited for the response.
‘Hi there!’ relayed the answerphone mechanically. ‘This is Harry Toms! I’m not available at present but if you leave your name, address and message I’ll call you back later. Please speak clearly when you hear the tone.’ There was a bleep and the instrument fell silent. It was abundantly clear the goal-keeper was not going to help him either!
Abandoning his quest for assistance by telephone he aimed his attention at the creature in the doorway. What sort of spider was it? They all looked very much alike to him. He had purchased a book on the subject some time ago when attempting to rid himself of the phobia. His eyes moved to the bookshelf above his bed. He reached out slowly to grasp it and opened it at random to look at the photographs of the many arachnids displayed therein , trying to compare one of them with the spider standing before him. Details about spiders leapt at him from the pages. There was the cephalothorax, which contained the stomach and brain, and the abdomen. A spider had six pairs of appendages... the first being the jaws with a fang containing the opening of a poison gland near the tip. He froze for a moment to consider the implications. A fang with a poison gland! Could this specimen be poisonous like a tarantula? There was every reason to believe so! The second pair were the pedipalps, generally used to handle food. The other four pairs were made up of walking legs. Each leg having two claws in running spiders and an additional median claw in web-building spiders. He scanned the creature carefully to determine its feet before returning his attention to the book. The young of two-clawed running spiders often had three claws. How could he possibly identify the creature with such conflicting data? How did one classify a spider three feet high anyway? Was it young or old? And how did it get there... in his house? The book became more specific in a macabre fashion. Spiders covered a captured insect in silk and turned it, as though on a spit, before biting it and using it for feeding or storage. He let the volume slip from his fingers, feeling revolted at the idea of being wrapped and eaten by the monster for its meal.
Sharon entered his mind at that moment. Somehow he had to contact her! There was a chance she was late as well and hadn’t yet left home. It was a long shot but it was worth a try. He tapped out her telephone number and listened to the dialling tone which continued without response. She was waiting for him patiently outside the local cinema! Eventually, he replaced the receiver and stared at the eight eyes which moved as the head of the spider swivelled slightly. Before he could apply himself to any course of action, an unexpected turn of events occurred. The sound of footsteps could be heard marching along the paving stones leading to the front door and someone rang the doorbell, causing the dulcet chimes to ring sonorously throughout the house. It was the newspaper boy who called late on Saturday to collect the money for the daily deliveries. The footballer recognised it to be a golden opportunity to call for help. He paused for a moment and then called out incoherently in a feeble voice. The spider made a slight squealing sound as though imitating him. Fletcher called out again... a little louder this time. The spider squealed again, but this time it leaned in his direction and took a step forward in a menacing manner, the legs appearing to quiver and vibrate as they stretched. The threatened onset was thwarted by the newspaper boy who rang the doorbell again, causing the arachnid to halt in its tracks. Ultimately, fearful of an attack by the spider, the sportsman refrained from calling out for help again and, to his dismay, the footsteps pounded against the paving stones again, fading away into the distance.
It was now time for sterner measures. Acting passively and waiting for the opportunity to escape had turned out to be a pointless exercise. Negative thinking was getting him nowhere! The creature seemed to recognise it controlled the situation by hovering menacingly in the doorway. Therefore, Fletcher needed to alter the emphasis with some kind of action. The only strategy he could contemplate was to attack the spider with intent to kill. But how? The thought of touching or tangling with its hairy legs, and the probability of getting bitten, set his hair on end and made his flesh creep. In any case, what sort of deadly weapon did someone use to kill such a monster? It was possible to wash a small spider in the bath down the plug-hole... but facing one almost three feet high was a different matter altogether! His eyes searched the room slowly before resting on the tall standard-lamp beside
the bed. Reaching across stealthily, he removed the plug from its socket, and coiled the electric cord around the body of the lamp, tying it into a knot. Then he unscrewed the lampshade which he lowered carefully on the bed. He was now left with the central piece of the standard-lamp and held it in his hands like a club. Eight eyes watched every movement he made but the spider failed to move an inch. Without warning, Fletcher took a deep breath, took two steps forward, and struck hard and fast at the head of the creature using the lamp-standard like a baseball bat. The spider buckled at the first blow, emitting a loud squealing sound of pain. The second blow caught it squarely in the abdomen. Fletcher lost control of his actions after the initial onslaught, raining blow after blow on the creature until it expired in a tangled heap on the bedroom carpet. Once the deed had been done, the footballer allowed the standard-lamp slip from his fingers to the floor and he sank back on the bed with a sigh of relief. The experience had been horrifying but it was over! His body relaxed as he lay back, his eyes half-closed, breathing gently until he was certain he had recovered. In his own mind he was a hero. His actions had been brilliant! A chronic sufferer of arachnaphobia, he had dealt with the problem with great expediency. In a few moments, he would dress and rush off to meet Sharon at the cinema, offering an excuse for keeping her waiting.
A short while later, as he was about to get to his feet to leave the room, he heard a gentle swishing sound in the hallway. Sitting up, with a puzzled expression on his face, the malaise he usually experienced whenever he saw a spider returned again. He waited tensely, unable to move a muscle. The noise became louder and his eyes widened in terror as he faced a spider that was six feet in height standing at the threshold of the bedroom. There was no doubt in his mind this time. The spider he had killed was the baby of the family: this one was obviously its mother. She stared down at the shattered body of her offspring with eight sad eyes and turned to Fletcher with a determination to take revenge for her loss. He would not escape from the room... that much was certain! The footballer’s mind raced in turmoil as he reached out to recover the lamp-standard, intending to inflict the same death-dealing blows for the second time. However, on this occasion he was faced by a far more experienced foe. She reached out and knocked the lamp-standard to the far wall. Within seconds, she began to weave a web across the doorway, hissing and spitting at him which brought on convulsions so that he was unable to take any other evasive action. When this was done, she moved to the window to weave another web across it. Then she drew a slender sticky line from the doorway which she stretched across the bed and repeated the action time and time again to manufacture a large cocoon. Fletcher began to scream, convulsing with terror. He was fixed by fear and escape was now impossible. The large spider moved towards him with a menacing expression... her eight eyes glaring at him. Hope was fading fast. The house was detached, the windows were closed, the doorway was blocked, and no one could hear him. It was no comfort to know that Freddy Pearce would call on him later on... in about an hour’s time! As the spider completed her task, it was quite clear that Fletcher had played his last game of football... even though his team were through to the next round of the cup!
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