Panic by Realist101 |
"Cleanliness, is next to Godliness." Gwyneth Gates pursed her lips, determined that not one dust mote would remain in her house. She took to cleaning and dusting from basement to gables, constantly humming the mantra over and over again.
"Yes'siree, we'll not have dirt accumulate here today." She spoke aloud to herself and the walls of the old house seemed to listen. It seemed to be soaking up the woman's aura, saving it, storing it away. "DRAT! There's another one!" Gwyneth slammed the dust rag down and dashed to the kitchen. But she was too late. By the time she'd returned with the bug spray and fly swat, the huge wolf spider had disappeared beneath the wallboard. She stood, stiff with fear and loathing. The things repulsed her. Hideous creatures they were. Not normal, not necessary either, for that matter. She chastised herself for being so frightened. But why eight legs? What was that all about? Most bugs had six. Nothing needed more than six. She resumed the cleaning with less zeal. The shadows were growing long across the walls, and besides, it was time for dinner. "Well, Pusskin, we really must get an exterminator tomorrow. Just too many spiders this year and we don't have to live with them, what do you say? Are you hungry? Let's call it a day, love." The gleaming white Persian wound around the stockinged legs, closing amber eyes in ecstasy at his mistress' touch. A bowl of foul smelling cat-chow would soon be forthcoming. The cat perched in the middle of the kitchen floor, tail sweeping behind him, waiting expectantly. "Hmmm, let's see, Puss, shall it be chicken, liver or ocean flavor this time? I think chicken? Here you are, my sweet." Contented slurping sounds quickly ensued, forcing Gwyneth from the room. For all the love she had for her Pusskin, his way of eating drove her to distraction. She dearly loved the old cat, he'd been with her now, going on fourteen years, but she still couldn't bring herself to stay and listen to the poor dear eat. "OHh!" This time, one of the dark spiders, its leg span close to three inches, clung to the wall in the dining room. Miss Gates froze once again. The thing was so big the fly-swat wouldn't kill it. "God, help me ... " And she couldn't remember where she'd put the can of spray. She could see its shiny eyes, she could feel its gaze upon her. And she couldn't move. The grandfather clock chimed in the foyer. Its musical notes told her the time was five o'clock, it would be dark soon. Fall was here already; early this year. Thus the nightmarish invasion. She broke out in a cold sweat and tried to think. Yes! The dining room table. She had left the spray and swat both, lying on one of the chair seats. Slowly, with her eyes glued to the creature as if this would actually keep it there, she inched backward toward the other room. The spider stayed put, obviously it wasn't afraid. Well, it had better be. Taking her eyes off it just long enough to grab the needed weapons, Miss Gates moved with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer. She darted back to the shadows in the living area to do battle, but once again as before, this one too, had disappeared from sight. Skin crawling, she picked Pusskin up and cradled him in her arms. "Well, my darling, there will be no sleep for me tonight. Let's you and I have some warm milk, hmm?" Pusskin melted with resignation, he knew he'd have to babysit his mistress, and keep her from a panic attack. The pair sat for hours in the dimly lit kitchen, watching ... waiting. Finally the sun came up again, and Miss Gates took off for a gallon of poison. Spider killer that would get results or else. She'd had enough already. After exhausting every nook and cranny she could reach with the small sprayer, it was time to rest. She dozed in the arm chair, forgetting poor Pusskin, who, still locked safely away; smelled the odor of danger and spat at the unseen, as he raked desperately at the door of his locked cage. The old clock ticked, the sound echoing and blending with the faint scratchings of dozens of legs as the horde of spiders accumulated and advanced up the basement stairs. They had slowly, but surely, become immune to the insecticides over the years. And over a million strong, they would soon be masters of the house. Masters of their domain.
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