The Shovel and the Spider

“It’s absurd, really—how I can face worlds beyond comprehension, yet a spider in the shed still sends me running like a child.”

The moment I stepped into the laundry room, the air shifted, as if the narrow space itself understood the weight I carried.

It smelled faintly of washing powder and damp cotton, the scent of everyday life clinging to the tiled floor and the pile of clothes waiting for attention. But I wasn't here for routine. My movements felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, as though I had entered the room with a mission dressed in domestic disguise, yet fraught with its own peculiar urgency.

I opened the cupboard, hinges groaning softly, and reached into the dim hollow.

My fingers brushed the neat stack of toilet rolls, their paper wrapping cool and papery beneath my touch. Closing around them, I drew out several, the white cylinders oddly weighty in my hands. Mundane objects, yes, but in my mind they already belonged to a world of intention far beyond their ordinary use. Each roll seemed to hold a quiet promise, whispering of plans that had little to do with bathrooms and everything to do with survival, concealment, and the strange web I was trying so desperately to hold together.

As I turned back towards the kitchen, Duke appeared as if conjured from my thoughts, his small frame a blur of fur and impatience.

He leapt up at me, eyes alight with expectation, convinced that anything I held was destined for him. His tiny claws scrabbled against my shin, eager, insistent, as though he might claim a prize if only he asked hard enough with his body.

"They're not for you," I informed him, my voice laced with amusement and mild reproach.

The words carried a softness I didn't entirely feel, but Duke's ears flattened slightly in response, his expression slipping into something so close to human disappointment it made my chest ache.

A beat later, I relented.

"Come and help me find the shovel."

If he understood or not was immaterial—he reacted as though he had been waiting all day for that command. In an instant, his body snapped back to joy. The moment I finished speaking, Duke spun and bolted, a streak of determination on stubby legs. His paws struck the floor in a staccato rhythm, nails clicking against tiles, each sound brimming with energy that defied his size.

With the zeal of a creature who had never known hesitation, he shot through the dog door, the flap slapping shut behind him with a hollow clatter. The sound echoed in the quiet, an oddly triumphant note. Duke was gone ahead, as always—faithful, fearless, certain that wherever I was going must be worth the chase.

For a second, I stood still, holding the toilet rolls against my chest, listening to the quiet house resettle around me.

The distant scuffle of Duke's paws against the deck drifted back, carrying with it the reminder of his unwavering readiness to follow me—wherever the next step might lead. Into the garden. Into lies. Into worlds that neither of us fully understood.

Lagging behind, I drifted up the hallway at a slower pace, leaving the toilet rolls behind on the kitchen bench.

"You coming, Henri?" My voice rolled lazily down the hall, more ritual than request.

I already knew the answer.

From the lounge room came the faint rustle of fur against fabric, followed by a long pause. Henri's lids lifted just enough to sliver two unimpressed eyes in my direction. He regarded me for a moment, calculating whether any effort might be worth the reward.

Then, with a sigh heavy enough to belong to a much larger creature, his head sank back onto the cushion.

"I guess that's a no," I muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. The snigger escaped before I could stop it—half amusement, half affection. Henri never pretended to be anything but himself: indifferent, comfortable, impervious to calls for adventure.

There was wisdom in that, perhaps. A lesson I kept failing to learn.

Stepping out the back door, the contrast hit me immediately.

Inside, the house had been cloaked in its habitual warmth. Outside, I was met with something far rougher, more untamed. The afternoon air settled around me, cool and damp, carrying with it the earthy tang of soil and the faint, sweet rot of fallen leaves lodged in corners.

Duke trotted at my side, triumphant in his sense of purpose, his short legs parting the grass with each brisk step. The weeds, long neglected, brushed against my calves and whispered secrets in the stillness. Their blades rasped together like hushed conspirators, and I felt a pang of guilt at the state of the yard—another thing Jamie would have nagged me about, had he been here to nag.

Our destination loomed ahead.

The small shed crouched at the back corner of the yard like something half-forgotten. Its corrugated iron roof was streaked with rust, and ivy crept possessively up one side, clawing at its frame as though trying to pull it back into the earth. Even from a distance, the sight of it tugged at something primal in me.

Approaching it never failed to set my pulse quickening.

The unease came not from the shed itself, but from what lurked inside. The darkness within, thick and waiting. The silent company of creatures I preferred never to meet.

Spiders.

The thought alone was enough to send a chill threading down my spine. My chest tightened at the image of their legs—spindly, deliberate, each movement imbued with quiet menace. I tried to project nonchalance, but the bravado was paper-thin. Every step closer peeled away the pretence, exposing the boyish dread that still lived in me.

The knowledge that they were in there—motionless, patient, perhaps watching already—made my skin prickle as though unseen threads were tugging at it.

Duke, of course, pressed on without hesitation.

His tail bobbed cheerfully, utterly immune to the notion of shadowy corners and hidden watchers. For him, the shed was simply another place to explore, another adventure waiting to be sniffed out.

For me, it was a threshold I entered with every muscle taut, braced against the inevitability of eight-legged company.

The door to the shed groaned open with a reluctant, almost theatrical creak, as though it wanted the whole street to know I was trespassing into its stale interior.

Duke, fearless as ever, darted inside at once, nails scrabbling on the concrete floor as though this dark cave were a playground designed just for him. His tail vanished into shadow, wagging like a banner of victory.

I, by contrast, lingered at the threshold, neck craning forward, every sense sharpened to the possibility of what might drop, crawl, or scuttle.

My gaze locked first on the upper corner of the doorframe.

The patch of peeling paint there seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the light, and for a moment I was certain a spider was crouched just out of sight, poised for an ambush. My stomach gave a small, traitorous lurch. I shifted my weight back, hesitating, then tilted my head to inspect it further.

Nothing moved. No legs unfurled.

Still, I hovered, irrationally convinced that the instant I relaxed it would launch itself straight at my face like some airborne assassin.

"Alright," I muttered under my breath, though my body was already stooping, shoulders curling in as if making myself smaller might render me less appetising.

After one last wary scan, I ducked through the doorway.

Inside, the air hit me with the heavy scent of dust and rusted metal, tinged faintly with the sweet tang of rotting wood. The shed was its own small universe, a forgotten realm of shadows and cobwebs, a place where time had slowed to a lazy crawl. The only light filtered weakly through the grimy pane of a window, its glass filmed over with years of neglect, so that the beam fell across the floor in muted, smoky streaks.

Duke, undeterred by gloom or ghosts, was already sniffing industriously at a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner. His nose pushed against them so hard that the boxes trembled against each other. He sneezed sharply at the dust, then pressed his nose back in as though determined to root out some treasure only he could smell.

My eyes strained against the dimness, gradually teasing shapes from the dark.

Stacks of half-empty paint tins slumped against a wall, their lids rusted shut like time capsules from Jamie's abandoned ambitions. A tangle of old garden hoses coiled like sleeping snakes. And there, upright against the shelving, stood the shovel.

Its handle bore the softened sheen of use, polished by palms over the years until the plastic gleamed faintly even in the gloom. It promised something solid, purposeful—comforting, almost, in its simplicity. Beside it, the pickaxe and pitchfork loomed like grim companions, their shadows thrown long and sharp against the wall, a reminder that the business of soil and stone is never gentle work.

Just as my relief began to unfurl, a thread of movement snagged at the edge of my vision.

I froze.

On the wall above the shelving, a spider the size of my palm edged calmly from the shadows, legs stretching delicately as though testing each foothold before settling. Its body gleamed faintly in the light, a mottled armour of brown and black, and though it moved slowly, its presence pressed against me like something physical.

My skin prickled. My throat constricted. Every instinct urged retreat.

Duke, oblivious to my paralysis, barked once—sharp and triumphant—as though cheering the intruder on.

"Not funny," I hissed at him, the words swallowed by the shed's musty air.

The spider stilled, as if my voice had reached it too.

My chest tightened. For an absurd moment, I thought I could feel its consideration—the calm patience of something ancient and utterly unmoved by my fear. I shuffled sideways, eyes locked on its poised body, each step a negotiation with dread. My hand reached out, slow and trembling, until my fingertips finally brushed the shovel's handle.

The wood felt reassuringly solid, an anchor in the gloom. I curled my hand around it, breath shallow, shoulders taut, praying that I could ease it free without incident.

But as I pulled, the shovel's blade caught the edge of a leaning paint tin.

The near-empty tin toppled with a clatter that seemed deafening in the confined space.

In that instant, the spider moved.

Not away, not calmly—but with a sudden burst of speed, legs flaring wide as it scurried across the wall.

A strangled sound ripped from my throat, somewhere between a curse and a yelp, as instinct took over. I jerked backwards so fast my shoulder slammed into the doorframe. The shovel clanged against the floor, but I hardly registered it. Duke barked furiously, as though joining the fray, his tiny body quivering with delight at my undignified panic.

I didn't wait to see where the spider had gone.

My feet carried me out in a blind scramble, half stumbling, half leaping, until I burst into the daylight like a man escaping a burning building. The cool air hit my face and I sucked it in greedily, chest heaving.

Behind me, Duke bounded out through the shed door, tail high, clearly convinced the entire episode had been staged for his amusement.

"Never again," I muttered, shaking my head, though my heart still pounded in my ears.

The shovel, clutched like a weapon now, was my only consolation. The shed had won the battle—but at least I had what I came for.

I lingered just beyond the threshold, letting the sunlight wash over me, as though the warmth itself could banish the crawling memory of that eight-legged charge.

My grip on the shovel was too tight, the wood pressing into my palm until it left faint ridges, but I wasn't ready to relax it. Duke circled at my feet, tail wagging furiously, proud as though he'd helped me wrestle the thing from some dark dragon's hoard.

I paused, catching my breath. The question of logistics presented itself with almost comic timing.

My eyes flicked back towards the dim interior of the shed where the pitchfork and pickaxe still loomed against the wall, their silhouettes sharp and expectant in the murk. For a fleeting second, I imagined myself staggering back through the yard with the entire arsenal balanced awkwardly in my arms, like a child who'd greedily grabbed too many toys and now couldn't carry them all.

The image of the toilet paper rolls—innocuous, white, waiting neatly on the kitchen bench—slid into my thoughts, absurd in its contrast. They sat there as if mocking me, the mundane heart of this elaborate plan, reminding me how much I already had in motion.

Realising the folly of it, I exhaled through my nose and shook my head.

"The shovel will have to do for now," I muttered to myself.

Speaking the words aloud felt like drawing a line under my own ridiculousness. The other tools could wait. There would be time enough—on another day, in another mood—to brave the gloom again, to face the silent sentinels and their patient, webbed companions.

For now, I had survived. Shovel in hand. Duke at my side.