Bart

It started Saturday night.

We were on the couch, lights dimmed halfway, the kids upstairs. Everything was normal.
Until we saw him.

Tall. Black. Still.

A spider. But not just any spider.
Big. Logically speaking, at least as big as a human hand (okay, in our minds).
And he was watching. Not really, of course, but you felt it.
Like he was keeping an eye on us.

The kids named him Bart the next day.
As if that would help.

We couldn’t reach him.
He was in a spot where even our longest arms, plus stick and stepladder, came up short.
Any attempt to catch him would only send him running.
And a vanished Bart?

Now that’s terrifying.

So we did… nothing.
We lived with Bart. Slept with Bart. Had breakfast with Bart in the back of our minds.
We warned visitors: “Don’t be alarmed… we have, um… a houseguest.”

We tiptoed.
Stared upward.
Listened to every soft, unfamiliar sound.
But Bart stayed up there, unreachable, untouchable.

For days.

Until this morning.

There he was.
Right in the middle of the floor.
Just like that. As if he were waiting for something.

What followed was a rapid chain of events…
A jar. A piece of paper.
Shaking hands.
Heartbeat in stereo.
One wrong move and he would—

But no.

We got him.
We walked outside. Holding our breath.
Bart, inside a little see-through prison.
He didn’t move much.
As if he knew: this is the moment.

We let him go in the grass.
He vanished. Instantly.
No thank you. No glance back.

And now… the house feels empty.
Free, yes.
But also a bit like a chapter has closed.

Bart was a spider.
But also an experience.
A test.
A lesson in patience, in courage, in light exaggeration.

The end of the story?
Maybe.
Or is that something… wait, what’s that on the ceiling?

🕷️