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Authors: Richard Matheson
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spider was wobbling erratically over the cement, carried by the long black legs. He knew that it was only because one of those legs was missing that he had any hope of reaching the carton first.
He ran through viscid squares of light, sandals thudding, robe flapping about his body. Air scorched rawly down his throat, his legs pumped wildly. The fuel tank loomed over him.
He darted into the vast shadow of it, the spider skimming the floorless than five yards behind. With a grunt Scott leaped off the cement and, grabbing hold of a hanging string, dragged himself up, then swung in feet first through the opening in the side of the carton.
He landed in a limb-twisting heap on the soft pile of clothes. As he started up he heard the rasping of the spider’s legs up the carton’s side. He shoved to his feet but lost his balance on the yielding cloth and fell. Sprawling, he saw the black, leg-fluttering bulk of the spider appear in the V-shaped opening. It lunged through.
With a sob, Scott pushed up, then fell again on the uneven hill of clothes. The hill gave twice; once under his weight, again under the impact of the spider’s wriggling drop. It spurted through the shadows at him.
There was no time to struggle to his feet. He shoved desperately with his legs and sent himself flailing backward. He flopped heavily again, hands clawing for an opening between the clothes. There was none. The spider was almost on him now.
A high-pitched whining flooded in his throat. Scott flung himself back again as one of the spider’s legs fell heavily across his ankle. He grunted in shock as he fell into the open sewing box, hands still groping. The huge spider jumped down and clambered over his legs. He screamed.
Then his hand closed over cold metal. The pin! With a sucking gasp, he kicked back again, dragging up the pin with both hands. As the spider leaped, he drove the pin like a spear at its belly. He felt the pin shudder in his grip under the weight of the partially impaled creature.
The spider leaped back off the point. It landed yards away on the clothes, then, after a second’s hesitation, rushed at him again. Scott pushed up on his left knee, right leg back as a supporting brace, the pinhead cradled against his hip, his arms rigidly tensed for the second impact.
Again the spider hit the pinpoint. Again it sprang back, one of its flailing spiny legs raking skin off Scott’s left temple.
“Die!” he heard himself scream suddenly. “Die! Die!”
It did not die. It stirred restlessly on the clothes a few yards away as if it were trying to understand why it couldn’t reach its prey. Then suddenly it leaped at him again.
This time it had barely touched the pinpoint before it stopped andscuttled backward. Scott kept staring at it fixedly, his body remaining in its tense crouch, the heavy pin wavering a little in his grip, but always pointed at the spider. He could still feel the hideous clambering weight of it across his legs, the flesh-ripping slash of its leg. He squinted to distinguish its black form from the shadows.
He didn’t know how long he remained in that position. The transition was unnoticeable. Suddenly, magically, there were only the shadows.
A confused sound stirred in his throat. He stood up on palsied legs and looked around. Across the cellar the oil burner roared into life and, heart pounding jaggedly, he twisted around in a panic, thinking that the spider was going to leap on him from behind.
He kept circling there for a long time, the weight of the lancelike pin dragging down his arms. Finally it dawned on him that the spider had gone away.
A great wave of relief and exhaustion broke over him. The pin seemed made of lead, and it fell from his hands and clattered down on the wooden bottom of the box. His legs gave way and he slipped down into a twisted heap, head fallen back against the pin that had saved his life.
For a while he lay there in limp, contended depletion. The spider was gone. He’d
He ran through viscid squares of light, sandals thudding, robe flapping about his body. Air scorched rawly down his throat, his legs pumped wildly. The fuel tank loomed over him.
He darted into the vast shadow of it, the spider skimming the floorless than five yards behind. With a grunt Scott leaped off the cement and, grabbing hold of a hanging string, dragged himself up, then swung in feet first through the opening in the side of the carton.
He landed in a limb-twisting heap on the soft pile of clothes. As he started up he heard the rasping of the spider’s legs up the carton’s side. He shoved to his feet but lost his balance on the yielding cloth and fell. Sprawling, he saw the black, leg-fluttering bulk of the spider appear in the V-shaped opening. It lunged through.
With a sob, Scott pushed up, then fell again on the uneven hill of clothes. The hill gave twice; once under his weight, again under the impact of the spider’s wriggling drop. It spurted through the shadows at him.
There was no time to struggle to his feet. He shoved desperately with his legs and sent himself flailing backward. He flopped heavily again, hands clawing for an opening between the clothes. There was none. The spider was almost on him now.
A high-pitched whining flooded in his throat. Scott flung himself back again as one of the spider’s legs fell heavily across his ankle. He grunted in shock as he fell into the open sewing box, hands still groping. The huge spider jumped down and clambered over his legs. He screamed.
Then his hand closed over cold metal. The pin! With a sucking gasp, he kicked back again, dragging up the pin with both hands. As the spider leaped, he drove the pin like a spear at its belly. He felt the pin shudder in his grip under the weight of the partially impaled creature.
The spider leaped back off the point. It landed yards away on the clothes, then, after a second’s hesitation, rushed at him again. Scott pushed up on his left knee, right leg back as a supporting brace, the pinhead cradled against his hip, his arms rigidly tensed for the second impact.
Again the spider hit the pinpoint. Again it sprang back, one of its flailing spiny legs raking skin off Scott’s left temple.
“Die!” he heard himself scream suddenly. “Die! Die!”
It did not die. It stirred restlessly on the clothes a few yards away as if it were trying to understand why it couldn’t reach its prey. Then suddenly it leaped at him again.
This time it had barely touched the pinpoint before it stopped andscuttled backward. Scott kept staring at it fixedly, his body remaining in its tense crouch, the heavy pin wavering a little in his grip, but always pointed at the spider. He could still feel the hideous clambering weight of it across his legs, the flesh-ripping slash of its leg. He squinted to distinguish its black form from the shadows.
He didn’t know how long he remained in that position. The transition was unnoticeable. Suddenly, magically, there were only the shadows.
A confused sound stirred in his throat. He stood up on palsied legs and looked around. Across the cellar the oil burner roared into life and, heart pounding jaggedly, he twisted around in a panic, thinking that the spider was going to leap on him from behind.
He kept circling there for a long time, the weight of the lancelike pin dragging down his arms. Finally it dawned on him that the spider had gone away.
A great wave of relief and exhaustion broke over him. The pin seemed made of lead, and it fell from his hands and clattered down on the wooden bottom of the box. His legs gave way and he slipped down into a twisted heap, head fallen back against the pin that had saved his life.
For a while he lay there in limp, contended depletion. The spider was gone. He’d
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