Cavern Of The Spiders

A terrible heat had begun to smother the vast landscape of the semi-arid desert in Sonora, Mexico, as I travelled south in the year 1928. I had reached an estate near the town of Álamos, beyond the Sierra Madre, to shelter myself from the brunt of the rising temperature.

The state of Sonora was located in the north-western part of Mexico. I managed to find an adjacent estate several miles outside the town’s perimeter. There, I stepped out from my automobile and was greeted by a servant, who escorted me inside the home, where I met the enigmatic proprietor and widow, Señora Anabel de Montebello.

She was wearing an antiquated black bustle dress, with coat sleeves at the sides. The skirt and cuffs were trimmed with silk velvet, and the bodice opening was edged in cotton. Her hair was set in a noticeable coiffure, and I could not see her eyes, as she wore dark spectacles shading them.

“My name is Julius Bourdain, and I have been on the road since I left Northern Arizona, Señora de Montebello, a day ago. Pardon me for the unannounced intrusion upon your property. As you can imagine, the desert heat was frankly too unbearable to continue!”

“There is no need for explanation, señor; I understand. If I may enquire, what has brought you to Mexico? It is not often that visitors come this way, particularly Americans, since the mines ceased operation.”

“If you must know, I am a doctor and am on my way to Álamos to treat a sudden outbreak of an unidentified contagion. I am to meet a local doctor there by the name of Don Patricio González. Do you happen to know him?”

“I am afraid not. I don’t travel much outside the estate, nor to the town. Unfortunately, my eyes are extremely sensitive to light."

“I was unaware of that unfortunate revelation; although I had assumed the dark spectacles served a specific purpose.”

“There is no need to pity me, for I am quite adaptable. If you wish, you may stay the night as my invited guest.”

“I am much obliged, señora, and I hope I do not impose upon your daily affairs.”

“Not at all, doctor. If you will excuse me, I must go now. I shall have Raul escort you to your room.”

The Colonial mansion boasted numerous bedrooms, fireplaces, patios, a garden, artisanal furniture, mosaic tiles, six-foot walls, and an underground cistern. The entire circumference spanned approximately 5,000 square feet of the ample estate. The heat had begun to descend to a bearable degree, allowing me to enjoy the natural breeze of the summer at leisure.

At first, my immediate concern was focused on reaching Álamos, but the unique composition of the estate gradually began to intrigue me. Soon, I would notice the particular attachment Señora Anabel de Montebello had to the mansion’s history. I was told the mansion had belonged to her family for decades. The de Montebellos were among the original settlers of Álamos.

I took dinner in the dining hall as a guest, but I dined alone. One of the servants informed me that Señora Anabel de Montebello had already dined and retired to her room for the night. I thought nothing unusual of this, realising she was a widow. Her dreary attire was typical in her time of profound mourning and commiseration. Thus, I saw no sign of irregularity in that detail.

Once I had finished my meal, I decided to step outside and admire the magnificent sunset over the Sierra Madre. I had seen the town of Álamos from afar as I passed, and I was curious to reach it and offer my assistance to the afflicted inhabitants. I thought I would depart in the morning and consult with Dr Fernández at once.

That night, the whistling wind of the desert could be heard from outside my room. I was aware of the unusual effects of my surroundings, but I was not prepared for the apparition I was about to confront. I was seated at the table near the bed when I heard a scratching noise, distinctly audible. I suspected it was perhaps an insect or rodent in the corridor.

The eerie sound was enough to prompt an investigation. I opened the door and saw what appeared to be a giant tarantula feeding on a helpless rat on the ground. After a moment, more tarantulas emerged on the scene. I quickly remembered that I was in their natural habitat. Instead of them encroaching upon humankind, it was we who were inhabiting their domain. For a moment, I was uncertain whether they would enter my room.

As I stood observing the predation of the arachnids, I heard another peculiar noise that diverted my attention. It came from farther down the corridor. Slowly, I walked towards the staircase. When I reached it, I saw Señora Anabel de Montebello standing before me, her countenance adorned with a placid smile.

Her presence startled me, as it was late in the night. She was still dressed in the familiar black and melancholic attire, which I found strange. When she spoke, her words were equally peculiar.

“Dr Bourdain, I hope I did not startle you.”

“I must admit, señora, I was not expecting to see you standing by the staircase at this hour! May I ask, what brings you here?”

“The same question could be asked of you.”

“Indeed. I was in my room when I heard a strange noise outside.”

“A strange noise, you say? Such as?”

“A scratching noise. I stepped into the corridor and saw giant tarantulas.”

“Tarantulas, doctor. They are common in this part of the desert.”

“Yes, you are right. Perhaps I am overreacting in my description.”

“Did you know that spiders spin the most exquisite webs? The webs, for example, of the Latrodectus?”

“You mean the deadly Black Widow?”

“Precisely.”

“To answer your question, I enjoy the night and its fantastic wonders. It is a common whim of mine to breathe in and absorb the beauty of the night. Do you not share that belief, doctor?”

“I suppose I can interpret that as a philosophical argument.”

“Sometimes, it is better to rely on instinct than pure thought. That is why spiders have always remained elusive to man.”

“I see. But to what extent can a spider remain instinctive?”

“They are adaptable to any circumstance.”

"Perhaps, but I would dread to rely solely on instinct rather than my intellectual ingenuity as a man. Then again, spiders are as complicated as we are, I reckon!"

I brought our fascinating conversation to a close and excused myself, knowing I needed rest before my journey to Álamos. I returned to my room, and Señora Anabel de Montebello to hers. I could not so easily dismiss her incisive words or the bizarre incident we had witnessed. Fatigued from my travels, however, I slept through the remainder of the night without further disturbance.

When I awoke the next morning, my eagerness to reach Álamos and witness the extent of the contagion was overwhelming. Señora Anabel had kindly offered one of her dutiful servants to escort me, but I declined, stating I would take my automobile instead.

A haunting sense of foreboding settled over me as I departed the estate. In fact, her parting words lingered with eerie weight:

"I hope you return soon, doctor. I hope what you find in Álamos does not terrify you. You are always welcome here, señor."

Driving along the solitary dirt road, I soon came upon a chilling sight: dead cattle scattered across the fields. I stopped the car immediately to investigate. To my shock, each carcass was swathed in giant cobwebs, like ancient mummies wrapped tightly in silk. As a man of medicine and science, I questioned the true origin of this disturbing abnormality. Clearly, something immense had caused their deaths.

At first glance, it appeared the cobwebs were the work of spiders—but had the cattle died from their bites, or from the mysterious contagion plaguing Álamos? I knew enough biology to recognize that something unnatural had transpired here. Perplexed and uneasy, I returned to my vehicle.

Upon arriving at the town, a ghastly panorama awaited me: vast cobwebs cloaked the buildings and adobe homes, which seemed utterly deserted. There was no sign of life in the surrounding streets—until I passed the old 17th-century church by the square.

Inside, I was struck by a horrifying vision: countless townspeople cocooned in thick webs, with dozens of tarantulas scuttling about. Frozen in disbelief at first, I could only stare at the unbelievable scene. When I regained my senses, I stepped cautiously into the priest’s office—and there found his lifeless body, covered entirely in viscous webs and crawling with monstrous tarantulas. Their huge, hairy fangs had pierced the bodies of their human prey.

Terrified, I fled the church. Desperate to find a living soul, I scoured the town, but Álamos was silent and lifeless. The spiders had claimed every corner, lurking atop arched verandas and behind shuttered windows. I searched the hospital, hoping to find Dr. González, but found only more webs and creeping death.

Miraculously, I discovered his journal in the disheveled wreck of his office and seized it. I knew it would hold answers—perhaps the key to understanding the terrifying events that had unfolded.

Escaping the nightmare of Álamos, I sped away, still reeling with disbelief. The nearest towns—La Aduana, Minas Nuevas, and San Bernardo—seemed impossibly far. Hermosillo was 34 miles away. I stopped along the road and began to read the journal, its revelations as riveting as they were horrifying.

Dr. González described the contagion as the result of an invasion of enormous tarantulas emerging from the desert. In the journal’s final entries, he recounted the mounting desperation of the town. The townspeople first dismissed the spiders as mere pests—until the bites began. By then, it was too late; the venom was lethal.

The tarantulas preyed first on the weakest—the children and elderly—then on the remaining townsfolk. It remained a mystery how the spiders’ venom could kill humans so efficiently. Something inexplicable had occurred, something beyond mere biology. Dr. González noted a sinister link between the origin of the tarantulas, the ancient mines of Álamos, and the de Montebello family.

At once, my thoughts turned to Señora Anabel. I knew I had to warn her of the horror I’d witnessed—and confront her with what I’d learned. Urgency drove me back to her estate, though an increasing sense of dread clawed at my nerves. I struggled to compose my thoughts, but the vivid terror of Álamos refused to fade.

On the way, I encountered a few survivors. Their faces were masks of terror, and at the mere mention of tarantulas, they shivered and crossed themselves in fear. Though none spoke much English, their desperation was unmistakable. I later learned their names: Carmen Fábregas, Gonzalo Almeda, Humberto Medrano, and Ramón Ocampo.

Spiders lurked in every shadow. Quickly, we crowded into my automobile and sped off toward the estate.

Upon arrival, Señora Anabel greeted me with her customary warmth, but her eyes betrayed concern.

"Dr. Bourdain, you have returned—but something troubles you!"

"Señora Anabel, you wouldn’t believe what I saw. Álamos...it’s a ghost town—worse. The buildings are covered in webs. Hairy tarantulas are everywhere!"

"I know, Dr. Bourdain."

"You knew? Why didn’t you warn me? Have you no regard for what happened to the people of Álamos? More importantly—why didn’t you tell me about these deadly tarantulas?"

"I do care," she replied calmly. "But I thought it better for you to witness the tragedy yourself."

"This contagion isn’t a sickness—it’s an invasion! We must destroy the tarantulas before they spread further. How did this begin? And why has your estate remained untouched?"

Her eyes darkened. "It won’t be easy, doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"There is much you do not understand. The tarantulas...they are bound to the history of this land—and of my family."

"I wasn’t aware of that. But surely, you agree—they must be destroyed. According to Dr. González’s journal, the old mines hold the key to solving this disturbing mystery."

"The mines. They have been abandoned for decades!"

"Is it true the mines belonged to your family?"

"Yes, that is correct! The mines have been part of the de Montebello lineage for over a century, since Mexico gained independence. My family originally came to this area from Spain in the 17th century."

"Where are the mines located?"

"They are near the mountains of the Sierra Madre."

"Then that is where we must go—immediately!"

I was far from fully understanding what was unfolding—the mysterious phenomenon of the tarantulas and their connection to Anabel de Montebello’s family. Yet the enigma compelled me to uncover its truth. Time was of the essence, though I did not yet grasp the full scale of the danger we faced.

We drove toward the isolated mines in my automobile. Upon arrival, we found the mine entrances sealed off—except for one cavern, ominously open. If the dreaded tarantulas' lair lay within, we had no choice but to destroy it.

The others who had come with us hesitated to enter the caverns and their labyrinthine chambers. They waited outside, while Señora Anabel de Montebello and I proceeded alone. The only other townsman who dared to join us was Mr. Ocampo.

Cautiously, we stepped through the entrance. My nerves were taut, expecting at any moment to face the living nightmare of the tarantulas. I gripped a pistol in one hand, and torches flickered along the walls. I dreaded we might soon be surrounded by countless spiders. I could already sense the faint, unmistakable tremors of their movements.

Perhaps it was foolish to enter knowing the imminent danger, but the tarantulas had to be eradicated. The cavern was dim and damp, but the torchlight offered some relief. Clearly, someone had been active here—the torches could not have ignited themselves. As we ventured deeper, I began to discern the lurking presence of the hairy tarantulas.

Soon, we reached a dusty chamber where the air grew hotter, and oxygen seemed scarce. There, we discovered the gruesome lair: hundreds of tarantulas crawling across the ground, and human bodies wrapped tightly in cocoon-like webs.

The sight was horrifying, reminding me of the tragedy that befell the town of Álamos. There was nothing we could do for the victims. I urged we leave immediately, and Señora Anabel de Montebello agreed. We exited swiftly.

Outside, we gathered with the others, who anxiously demanded to know what we had seen. Our discovery forced us to consider: how could we destroy the tarantulas? I suggested using dynamite, but Señora Anabel de Montebello opposed the idea, citing the historical significance of the mines to her family and the town. I understood her point, but the pressing need to stop the tarantulas seemed paramount.

One of the townsmen, a former miner familiar with the caverns, revealed he had dynamite. Meanwhile, the tarantulas began creeping from the darkened caverns, sensing our presence. Were they targeting us alone—or something beyond?

We had no real choice. Reluctantly, we set aside thoughts of preserving the mines and went to retrieve the dynamite. Señora Anabel de Montebello, visibly distraught, suggested instead that we block the cavern entrance with massive boulders.

After some deliberation, I agreed. But fate had other plans.

When we returned, the tarantulas were more numerous and aggressive. They poured into the arid desert, searching for prey.

Dusk was fast approaching, and we knew darkness would soon make our task nearly impossible. Only Mr. Ocampo and Mr. Alameda were still determined to help. We could not let the terror spread to nearby towns.

Our plan was to use ropes and my automobile to pull the huge boulders over the cavern entrance. I was skeptical it would work, especially with the tarantulas lurking. I proposed we use torches as a defense, noticing earlier that the spiders avoided the flames—perhaps the torches were left deliberately by past miners. Mr. Ocampo and Mr. Alameda brought additional torches just in case.

As we tried to block the cavern, the tarantulas swarmed, multiplying rapidly. We were overwhelmed. Poor Mr. Alameda was attacked but managed to scramble back to the vehicle, narrowly escaping death.

Then Señora Anabel remembered a narrow passage near the steep mountains where the tarantulas might be fewer. Since we failed to seal the main entrance, we had no choice but to return to the dynamite plan. Señora Anabel, who had earlier rejected this idea, finally agreed.

We hurried to the mountain passage and entered a tight, remote corridor lined with endless webs. The sight was chilling, almost unbelievable—but undeniably real.

I could not tell how long the tarantulas had occupied the caverns, or how long those webs had been there. So many questions remained unanswered. But time was running out, and we had to act quickly.

We placed the dynamite along the cavern walls, choosing spots where the webs were thinnest so the charges would hold. Just as we finished, we heard a sinister hissing—the unmistakable sound of approaching tarantulas.

Tension spiked as we sensed their nearness. Once the dynamite was set, we tore through the cobwebs, scrambling to the exit. Outside, swarms of tarantulas were fast approaching. We lit the fuse—but something went wrong. The fuse stalled.

Confused and alarmed, I looked around for Señora Anabel, expecting to find her at the automobile. But she was gone.

I called her name. No answer.

The desert and the steep mountains were now infested with tarantulas; it was impossible to search for her. I rushed back to the passage where Mr. Alameda and Mr. Ocampo were stationed—only to find them cocooned, lifeless, as a giant spider fed on them.

But it was no ordinary tarantula. Before me stood a monstrous black widow—taller than a man.

What happened next was beyond belief. As the creature sensed my presence, it began to transform—half human, half spider. Horrified, I realized: Señora Anabel de Montebello was the black widow.

Her eyes glowed red, and her fangs clicked together as she morphed back into her human form, towering over me.

I fired my pistol in terror. The bullets struck, seemed to wound her—but she did not fall.

"Do not kill me!" She cried out.

"My God…what are you?" I demanded.

"You don’t understand, Doctor! My kind has lived on this earth for centuries."

"You are not human!"

"I am half human, half spider. We came from the center of the earth, driven from our lairs by mankind. We have survived in this inhospitable desert—long before you humans arrived."

"The spectacles, the black dress, your late-night walks—they weren’t mere coincidence."

"No, they were not."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"You could return home… and let us live."

“No, I cannot permit you and your tarantulas to murder more people!”

“Do you not hear them coming? Do not be foolish!”

Her voice was almost otherworldly now, echoing through the cavern, as though the stone walls themselves were complicit in her dark schemes. I stood my ground, clutching the detonator in my trembling hands. Around us, the skittering of countless legs grew louder, a whispering tide of dread that crept ever closer.

Anabel’s eyes glinted, reflecting the torchlight like shards of obsidian. “You cannot fight nature. You cannot fight me.”

She stepped forward, her shawl slipping slightly to reveal a terrible sight—her skin, once smooth and human, now bore strange patterns, faint but unmistakable: the mottled, coarse textures of an arachnid’s carapace. I reeled back, horror rising in my throat.

“I am their queen,” she hissed. “And they are hungry.”

Suddenly, the ground vibrated as hundreds of tarantulas poured into the chamber, their hairy bodies writhing over one another like a living flood. I could feel their presence in my bones, as though each step they took reverberated through my very soul. My breath came in ragged gasps, my mind teetering on the edge of madness.

“You must choose,” Anabel said, her voice calm amid the chaos. “Join me, or die beneath their feet.”

I looked around, desperate, heart hammering. There was no escape. The labyrinth of tunnels I had navigated seemed to collapse inward, as though funneling me to my doom. The tarantulas were now within arm’s reach, their black eyes gleaming with primal hunger.

“I choose—” I shouted, pressing the detonator with all my strength, “—to end this!”

The explosion erupted with deafening force, the dynamite tearing through stone and flesh alike. Dust and debris filled the air, and Anabel’s final, unearthly scream was drowned by the roar of destruction.

When the dust settled, I realized I was still alive—bruised, bloodied, but breathing. Anabel de Montebello was gone, her reign of terror crushed beneath the rubble. The lair was no more.

I knew I could not kill the rest of the tarantulas scattered across the desert, but I was confident that once I informed the authorities in Hermosillo, they would finish the task. The desert around me stretched vast and empty, the only sound the soft scrape of my boots on the gravel. I managed to return to my automobile and escape the immutable horror that was the labyrinth of the spiders.

I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, a constant prickling on the back of my neck, even after I had left the site of the explosion behind. The sense of doom—of something unfinished—stayed with me. I tried to reassure myself that the nightmare was over. The dynamite had done its job, after all. Yet a knot in my stomach told me otherwise.

The further I got from the blasted ruins of the tarantula lair, the more certain I became that something was wrong, something I had missed in my frantic escape. The town of Álamos was far behind, and I still hadn’t encountered anyone else on the road. It was strange—a kind of eerie stillness in the air. No animals, no signs of life beyond the dry bushes and rocks scattered along the barren path. Not even the usual nocturnal cries of coyotes or the rustle of the wind through the brush.

Suddenly, a strange noise cut through the silence, breaking my train of thought—a distant thud, followed by another. It wasn’t the sound of something falling; it was something alive, something moving with purpose. My pulse quickened, the hairs on my arms standing up. I stopped in my tracks, staring into the desert night.

It was coming from the direction of the explosion.

No. I had just left that cursed place behind. I couldn’t go back. Yet my feet had already started moving toward it, each step drawing me closer to the ruins I thought I had escaped. There was something drawing me back, some part of my mind, some instinct that knew the nightmare wasn’t over. But it was more than that—something was waiting for me.

As I neared the blasted remains of the lair, the first thing that struck me was the stench—a nauseating mix of burnt flesh and decay that almost made me choke. The earth had been scorched, and the air felt thick with the weight of something malignant still clinging to the ground. I could see the outlines of jagged rocks and displaced earth where the explosion had torn apart the entrance to the tarantula’s den. There were more cracks, more holes now, far more than I had seen before.

But what caught my attention wasn’t the ruin; it was the flickering light from within one of the deeper cracks. It was weak at first, as if struggling to stay alive, but unmistakable—something was glowing down there.

I approached cautiously, my heart pounding in my chest. The further I went, the more the air seemed to hum with an unnatural energy. It felt as though the ground itself was alive, vibrating underfoot with a pulse that thrummed in my bones. The light grew brighter, more intense, until I could see that it was emanating from an object buried within the earth. It wasn’t just a simple light. It seemed...otherworldly, shifting in hues that shouldn’t exist in nature—pale blues, sickly greens, and flashes of violet, like a dying star flickering in the dark.

I knelt by the crack, pushing aside chunks of rock and earth. There, buried beneath the rubble, was an artifact—no, not an artifact, but something older, something unexplainable. It was a stone tablet, its surface covered in the same strange symbols I had seen etched into the walls of the lair. But this was different. This was a relic of ancient and forbidden power, carved from some substance that shimmered unnaturally under the moonlight.

Before I could touch it, a cold, unnatural wind swept over the desert, lifting the hairs on my neck and sending a chill through my veins. I froze, sensing movement, a shift in the air as though something was approaching. The ground trembled slightly beneath me, and I heard it—a soft skittering sound, faint but growing louder with each passing second. It wasn’t the sound of the wind or shifting rocks; it was the unmistakable noise of legs, of hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny feet, moving with a unified purpose.

A sickening realization spread through me like ice. The tarantulas were still here. Even after the explosion, after the fire and destruction, they were still alive—moving, gathering.

I took a step back, but the noise grew louder. The air grew thick with an oppressive weight, and I could hear the rapid scratching of their legs on the rocks, the frenzied scuttling beneath the earth. It was as though they were closing in, drawn toward the very spot I stood. I tried to swallow the bile rising in my throat, but the fear choked me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t leave. I was trapped.

And then, out of the darkness, I saw it—a single, monstrous tarantula emerging from one of the fissures in the earth. Its body was black and glossy, the legs too long, the fangs too sharp. Its eyes gleamed a sickly yellow as it crawled toward me, its movements deliberate, calculated. But it wasn’t just one. As I looked around, I saw more. Dozens, no—hundreds—crawling out of the cracks, filling the air with the eerie sound of their skittering. They moved as though they were part of a singular, vast intelligence, all working in concert toward something I could not yet understand.

The desert air grew heavier still, and the stench of their oily bodies filled my nose. My stomach churned, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from them. The tarantulas had always been a threat, but now they were something more—a manifestation of something unnatural, something older than the desert itself.

They began to circle around me, their movements synchronized, an army of spiders whose sole purpose seemed to be my destruction. My breath came in shallow gasps, panic rising in my chest, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t escape. They were everywhere—closing in, crawling across the rocks, their legs brushing against my skin, their bodies crawling over the earth with a sinister rhythm.

I knew that if I tried to run, they would be on me in an instant, their venomous bites a certainty. The explosion had only been a temporary solution, a feeble attempt to destroy something that should never have been disturbed in the first place. The tarantulas were not just creatures of the earth; they were part of something darker, something I couldn’t comprehend.

And the light from the artifact—the glow that had drawn me here—began to pulse faster, as though it were responding to the presence of the spiders, reacting to their very existence. The ground beneath me trembled again, and I realized that the spiders weren’t just drawn to the light. They were drawn to the tablet itself, to its strange power, its connection to whatever forces had created them.

I had stumbled into something much bigger than I had imagined—something I could never have understood. And as the tarantulas continued to circle, drawing ever closer, I understood the terrible truth: this was only the beginning. I threw the tablet down, as the tarantulas were drawn by the light. I was able to escape somehow, and reach my automobile. I left the area. The drive to Hermosillo was a blur, each mile heavy with exhaustion and dread. The sun had already risen by the time I stumbled into the municipal building, covered in grime, my eyes wild with desperation.

“I need to speak to someone—immediately,” I demanded, slamming my hands on the front desk.

The receptionist blinked, clearly taken aback. “Sir, are you hurt? Should I call a doctor—?”

“No! Authorities—police—whoever you have.” My voice cracked, ragged with urgency. “There’s been...a catastrophe in Álamos.”

Within minutes, I was ushered into a room where a stoic police captain and two officers waited. I recounted everything—my infiltration of Anabel’s lair, the monstrous tarantulas, the explosion, her horrifying transformation.

Their faces remained inscrutable.

The captain finally spoke, his tone clipped. “You’re saying giant tarantulas—led by a woman—destroyed the town?”

“Yes!” I nearly shouted. “I saw it all. Anabel de Montebello was...not human. You have to believe me.”

The captain exchanged glances with his officers. “We’ve received reports of unusual deaths in Álamos,” he admitted cautiously, “but nothing like this. Do you have proof?”

“I—no.” I sagged, realizing how insane it all sounded without the lair to show them. “But you must investigate. The town is... was... overrun.”

The captain sighed, leaning back. “We’ll send a team to Álamos. In the meantime, you should rest.”

I wanted to argue, but exhaustion weighed me down like heavy chains. I was escorted to a small room with a cot, where I collapsed into a fitful sleep. I sensed they did not fully believe my account.

Perhaps it was better that way—that they believed only what seemed more feasible to them: the invasion of tarantulas, rather than the far more terrifying truth that Señora Anabel de Montebello had not been human as we understand it. But I knew what I had seen, and I was certain of the inevitable sequence of events that had unfolded.

That night, I was awoken by a faint scratching at the window.

At first, I thought it was the wind, rustling weak branches against the glass. But then came the rhythmic tapping—delicate, insistent, unnatural. My heart pounded in my chest. I sat up slowly, eyes narrowing to pierce the dark, and peered across the small, dim room.

Something moved.

A dark, bulbous shape pressed against the windowpane, its spindly legs testing the edges with unnerving precision. My breath hitched. It was a tarantula—large, even by the monstrous standards I had seen. Its body shimmered slightly under the moonlight, and behind it, a horrifying mass of others began to emerge from the shadows, their furry bodies piling atop one another like a dreadful tide rising at the shore.

I stumbled out of bed, backing away until I hit the opposite wall. My eyes were locked on the window as more tarantulas scuttled forward, their legs scraping eerily against the glass, their black eyes reflecting cold, empty hunger. Soon, the entire window was a living, writhing curtain of spiders, their hairy forms pressed tightly together, clawing and clicking in some silent, horrifying rhythm.

Suddenly, a crack appeared in the glass.

I gasped, heart hammering in my ears. Another crack. Then another. The pressure of the swarm was immense, the glass bowing inward under their relentless weight. I scanned the room desperately for something—anything—to defend myself, but all I had were the flimsy trappings of a government-issued cot and a wooden chair.

The window shattered.

Tarantulas poured into the room like water from a broken dam, spilling onto the floor, the walls, the ceiling. They moved fast—faster than I remembered—racing toward me with terrifying coordination. Their hairy legs brushed against my ankles, crawled up my shins. I kicked and stomped wildly, crushing some beneath my heels, but for every one I killed, five more seemed to take its place.

I grabbed the chair and swung it in wide arcs, knocking dozens away, but it was futile. The swarm was endless. They were everywhere, skittering across my skin, tangling in my clothes, their mandibles clicking, their bodies vibrating with awful purpose.

And then—a voice.

Low, guttural, yet unmistakably familiar. It echoed in my ears, though no one else was in the room.

“You thought it was over?” The voice whispered. “You thought you could destroy me?”

My blood turned to ice. “Anabel?” I gasped, choking on terror and disbelief.

A dark shape loomed in the doorway—a figure draped in shadow, but unmistakable in its grace and menace. Her eyes gleamed red in the darkness, and I saw, with a sinking, numbing horror, that her transformation was now complete: her body grotesquely fused with the monstrous, her limbs segmented and sharp, her voice the hiss of something ancient and inhuman.

“You cannot stop what has begun,” she intoned. “We are many. We are eternal.”

I swung the chair again, but she merely raised one spindly arm—and the swarm surged forward, engulfing me. I fell to the floor, struggling, gasping for breath, as the spiders closed in from all sides, their bodies suffocating, their weight unbearable.

Suddenly—the door burst open.

Bright lights flooded the room. Shouts filled the air. The police captain and several officers stormed in, firing their weapons and hurling smoke grenades. The tarantulas scattered, hissing and shrieking in rage, vanishing back into the shadows as quickly as they had come.

I lay there, panting, tears streaming down my face, my body shaking uncontrollably.

The captain knelt beside me. “My God,” he whispered, staring at the remaining crushed bodies of the tarantulas on the floor. “What the hell happened here?”

I couldn’t answer. I could only stare at the empty doorway, where Anabel’s form had disappeared like a phantom, leaving nothing but the echo of her promise:

“We are many. We are eternal.”

Recommend Write a ReviewReport