Night on a Web

Day 2

You sit in your car for some time, wondering what the hell you're doing. Should you really be trying to befriend this creature? Shouldn't you tell someone about his existence? (Your cryptid obsessed friends would love to hear about this.) Is he really friendly, or is he trying to trick you?

Sighing, you start the engine and make your way back to the house.

Two hours later...

You arrive at dusk. After some research, you found out that spiders are more active at night, figuring Poet must be nocturnal.

As you pass by the flowers you notice water dripping from them, like yesterday. You enter the house again, ready to see your new friend.

You're still not sure about this.

The door creaks open, and no one's there. Yesterday that would have been a no-brainer, but now you know the house is still occupied.

"Poet!" you cry out. "Where are you?"

No answer. Not that you think he's able to give much of an answer.

Since he must water the flowers, you head to the garden.

As you go through the dining room and kitchen you hear a faint humming coming from outside. Or what's supposed to be humming, anyway.

You open the door and sure enough, Poet is there tending to the flowers. He's wearing a straw hat, which barely fits his head. (It's impossibly adorable.) His carapace shines in the evening light.

You shout at him to get his attention, waving when his head turns to face you. The straw hat bobs as he comes over to greet you.

"Busy with the garden?" you ask him. No wonder the plants looked so healthy, he was taking care of them.

His reply is a soft chirp. (You guess that means yes?) He wipes one of his hands on his brow, dirt and sweat mixing together on his fuzzy face. He pauses, then points to your bag.

"Oh, this?" You lift it up. "I keep my stuff in here."

He snatches your bag from your hands and rummages through it. The first item he takes out is your camera. He tilts his head like a curious puppy as he examines the strange object.

"It takes pictures," you explain. He still doesn't seem to understand. You grab the camera back from him (you have to jump up to reach it) and show him the photos you took yesterday. "Look, here's the living room. And this is the dining room..." An excited chirp comes from him as he recognizes the rooms in the photos.

He pokes into your bag again, this time taking out your notepad. "You use that to write." You take out the pen. "Like this."

You scribble a small doodle of a spider onto one of the pages. He seems to like it, judging from the trill he makes. He takes the pen from you and draws a stick figure next to your spider.

"They're friends!"

"Friends!"

No way. Did he just–?

"You can write?!"

He gives you the same head tilt that he gave the camera, as if he expected you to know his miraculous talent. The pen returns to the paper.

"Grandma taught me."

Lovely handwriting, for a spider. At least the two of you can communicate now.

"Did she teach you how to garden too?"

His fangs slide down his face in what looks like a frown. His eyes turn to the ground as he reminisces.

"She taught me many things."

He attempts to give back the notepad and pen with a timid shove.

"You can keep it."

His mouth curls up into a wide grin. It's cute, if you ignore his fangs.

"Thank you!

Let's talk inside."

Well, "talk" might be a stretch. You nod. It's getting colder out here.

He disappears into the kitchen.

As you walk into the kitchen you peer into the dining room and see Poet waiting for you. You can't blame him for not wanting to talk in here, considering the rancid stench. He is standing near the table, where his hat sits. He waves three of his arms when he sees you come in.

You take a chair and face him. Now that the two of you are here, the pen graces paper again.

"Why did you come here?"

You were intending to ask him questions, but you suppose you'll comply. He has your notepad anyway, so it's not like you can write your findings down. You cup your chin, wondering how you're going to explain your blog to your arachnid friend.

"Uh... I wanted to show off your house?"

He does The Tilt again. That quizzical look is so cute on him.

"People can see it if I put it online."

He doesn't seem to like that idea, judging from the sour look on his face. He scribbles his words frantically.

"Don't show anyone!"

"Okay, okay! I won't show anyone."

Can't blame him for not wanting anyone to know about this place. Most people wouldn't be as accepting of him as you are. His following words are written much more calmly.

"Thank you."

"I take it you're a loner?"

He recoils. That question might have hurt him.

"I don't want to be."

"Hey, don't worry about it." You grasp the closest hand and hold on tight.

"You have me."

You don't know what's driving you to befriend him. Your first instinct after meeting him was to run away screaming, after all. But you feel as if there's a kind soul buried underneath his horrifying exterior.

One of his upper hands comes down and pets your head. His touch is gentle, comforting. You're sure he appreciates your company.

You choose to ask some more questions, to lighten the mood. "So what do you do for fun?"

"Read."

"Really!" You never would have thought he was a bookworm. Well, bookspider. Maybe that's how he got his name? You'd ask, but you don't want to sadden him again. "What genres do you like?"

"Adventure, horror and fantasy."

He hesitates, then adds one more thing.

"And romance."

His face looks redder now. Is he blushing?!

"You have good taste!" He still looks bashful, but writes down a 'thank you.' "I don't read much myself, but I like fantasy."

The two of you talk about books for what seems like hours. After one especially excited discussion about your favorite authors, you peer out the window and see it has gotten much darker.

"Ah shoot, I should get going."

He lets out a sad chirp.

"Don't worry, I'll come back tomorrow. I'll bring some books for you!"

He perks up at this. He waves a multi-armed goodbye as you walk out the door.

You'll have to remember to pick out some books before you leave tomorrow.