The Specimen

“I still hate it,” Hannah grumbled. She and her husband stood in their front room, admiring the thing on the mantlepiece. The horrible new addition to their home. The new source of One-Thousand Arguments and an Argument. “Can we maybe move it someplace else? Like into your office? Or the basement?” She paused, considering. “The trash?”

Travis laughed. “Come on, hon! It’s awesome! Look at how big it is! It doesn’t even look real!”

Hannah shook her head. “Yes, and that’s exactly what I hate the most about it. It looks like a tarantula under a magnifying glass. And you know how I feel about spiders.”

He did. Travis recalled frantic phone calls mid-morning and having to come home from the office during his lunch break to kill a spider that found its way into the bathtub. The more-than-one occasion that Hannah suddenly jerked the car to the side of the road—narrowly missing a royally pissed-off jogger in a blue track suit that one time, which was hilarious, but…—because she thought a spider had gotten into the car and crawled on her. The Misadventure at Lost River Campground and the Daddy Longlegs Shower Spectacular. And so on.

“I know, Hann. But seriously, what do you think it’s going to do? Eat you? It’s two-hundred years old.” Travis giggled, rubbed the small of his wife’s back. The antique specimen’s black eyes reflected light from the lamp behind them. They were too shiny. Fiery, almost. It was too well-preserved. Hannah could see the form of her head reflected in one cold burning eye. She hated it.

“It creeps me out. Can we just move the goddamn thing?”

“Jesus, Hann, give it a chance. It’s pinned in a shadowbox that was sealed in the nineteenth century.” At least, that was what the dealer at the antiques co-op told the couple before selling them the ghastly showpiece specimen for only $35—which was a steal, he assured. He told them it was an extinct species all the way from Brazil. Acanthoscurria daemonium, he called it, and he was probably pulling their leg. It was probably from the toy store down the street and made of rubber. Or, if they were really lucky, it was a prop from that movie, Arachnophobia, with John Goodman and poor Julian Sands, that Hannah refused to watch. No spider could be that big. Travis went on.

“Give it a week, Hannah. One week. I’ll bet you won’t even notice it’s there after two days. And if you still hate it at the end of the week, I’ll get rid of it. Ok?”

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

Hannah remained unconvinced, but she agreed. She would just have to avoid looking in the direction of the fireplace for a week. Simple.

And if he doesn’t get rid of it, she thought, eyeing the monstrous specimen with disdain, I will.

The thing was bigger than her hand. And the segments of its hairy legs splayed out and pinned to the edges of the shadowbox made it appear larger than both of her hands together. Travis turned out the light. Black eyes looked out at darkness.

The following morning, Travis woke up accompanied by the nagging feeling that he had left the front door unlocked or the faucet running or the refrigerator door open. As he slid into his moccasins and shuffled from the bedroom to the bathroom, still half asleep, the nagging deepened into something bordering on alarm; like, had he left the gas on the stove? Travis ignored it and brushed his teeth. Afterward, he shuffled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to make coffee. He filled the carafe from the sink, still groggy, still trying to put his finger on what was gnawing at him. Was it a dream? The final revenant trails of some forgotten nightmare?

Had someone broken in?

Travis scooped ground Starbucks into the filter and switched on the machine. The sound of percolating and the aroma of fresh brewed coffee began to fill the kitchen as he shuffled over to the cabinet for the Purina.

Hmm, come to think of it, where was the cat? Most mornings, Chester met Travis on his way to the bathroom. At the very least, the sound of the cabinet door opening usually sent the cat running for his breakfast from wherever he was hiding. Hannah screamed.

Ah, there it is, the answer to the mystery, Travis thought as he spun on his heels and burst from the kitchen.

He found his wife in the front room, frozen in front of the fireplace. Travis followed her wide-eyed gaze to the mantlepiece, where the empty shadowbox sat skew-wise amidst cracked and broken glass. Shards of glass glinted on the floor. The specimen, however, was gone, Acanthoscurria Daemonium. The extinct spider as big as two open hands. All the way from Brazil.

“Did you do that?” she cried, pointing. Her hand was shaking. Travis thought fast, but not before wondering how on Earth he had walked past that mess and not noticed. Geez, maybe Hannah was right when she said that men don’t pay attention to anything.

Christ Jesus where the hell is it?

“Yes, hon, yes, yes, I did it! Take it easy!” he said, his voice cracking like an adolescent’s. “It’s ok. I thought the shadowbox looked a little…off, so I nudged it, and…” Travis gestured toward the broken glass. He laughed to reassure Hannah. His laugh sounded like a rusty hinge.

Where is it?

“You’ll be happy to hear that the specimen was ruined and I had to throw it away. I thought I would spare you the sight of it loose on the floor.” Travis laughed again, his smile a grotesque rictus. “Watch yourself now! I think I got all the glass, but you know we’ll be finding shards of it for the next three weeks!” Another weak smile.

Hannah scrutinized her husband. He looked ill. “Oh,” she said, feeling a little better, but only a little. “Good,” she added, and padded off to the bathroom.

As soon as Hannah’s silver Ford Escort backed out of the driveway and turned down the street, Travis spun away from the window and looked frantically around the room. She would be at the Piggly Wiggly for at least forty-five minutes, maybe a little longer. It all depended on whether she had to hunt for good produce or not. Also, if she gets in the line with the lady who won’t shut up and can never seem to talk and ring up groceries at the same time. That should be enough time, right? Time for what exactly, Travis wasn’t quite sure; but he chose not to think about that. One thing at a time, right? First things first: find the goddamn specimen. It was as big as two outstretched hands—how the hell far could it have fallen? Because it did fall, right? Out of the shadowbox, onto the floor, and behind the recliner, right?

It wasn’t behind the recliner.

Nor was it anywhere near the fireplace, even under the sooty grate. It wasn’t beneath the rug, behind the couch or the T.V. set, by the lamp, behind the magazine rack, beneath the coffee table, behind the drapes, hidden amidst the bookshelves, or in the coat closet—but why on Earth would it be in there in the first place?

Maybe the cat ate it.

Of course! Chester! The little bastard probably got up on the mantlepiece, broke the shadowbox, and took off with the spider! Thought it was a toy. Or, better yet, prey. Thank Christ Almighty and all the Angels and Saints he didn’t drop it on Hannah to show off his prize! Travis let out a laugh, more of a raspy honk, really. He still sounded like a hinge, but this new realization and its accompanying relief added a squirt of WD-40.

“Chester!” Travis called, moving into the kitchen, his eyes darting to and fro like a cocaine fiend’s. The smell of burnt Pike Place permeated. Travis switched off the coffee maker. Chester’s food dish remained untouched.

Did he get outside? No, he probably got down in the basement. I told Hannah a million times to make sure the basement door is shut!

And sure enough, when he rounded the corner, Travis saw that the basement door was ajar. Just wide enough for a cat to slip through.

“Aha!” Travis pulled open the door, which creaked terribly. “Chester! Chester!” he hissed from the top of the stairs. Travis felt the change in temperature. The cool, damp, musty air. The quiet and still darkness. He flicked on the basement light and peered down the stairs into the gloom. Was that scuttling sound the cat’s paws as he moved over stacks of moldy boxes? His claws scratching ever-so-gently over the lids to the plastic storage bins? Travis started to move down the stairs.

“Chester!” That scuttling sound again. That shifting. Like water tinkling through cobweb-covered pipes. Travis reached the bottom of the stairs. “Chester? Kitty-kitty-kitty! Want a snacky-snack?”

Fuckin’ cat.

Travis moved along the stacks of boxes. “Chester!”

I never even wanted you, you know. I’ve always preferred dogs. Always, always, always. Who the hell wants a cat, anyway? They’re weird. They’re creepy. They jump. A cat would eat you. A dog would, too, I suppose, but I’ve always preferred dogs. Always, always, always….

“Chester, goddammit, she’s going to be home soon!” Jesus, now I’m pleading with him.

Was there movement over there just now, in the corner, over near the paint cans? A flourish darker than the surrounding darkness?

Travis hesitated, squinting, trying to see. For some reason, he thought back to his biology class in college. Tarantulas. “A bolus,” Professor MacKenzie explained in his charming southern drawl, “is what is generally referred to as the indigestible discarded remains of prey. You see, the spider will use its maxilla to crush the exoskeleton of their prey, and secrete digestive enzymes into it. These enzymes liquify the organs and soft tissues, which the spider then sucks out. And if there is anything that remains after this process, it is called the bolus.”

Thanks, Professor, Travis thought. He moved closer to the paint cans. There it was again! “Chester, for the love of God and the Glory of—”

Chester meowed from behind the rusty, paint-splattered cans where he crouched in the corner. Travis breathed a sigh of relief, and chastised himself for being so ridiculous as to entertain for even one second…

“Chester, what the hell is the matter with you?” Travis chided. He walked over to the corner and knelt down. Chester hissed. “Chester?”

Chester disappeared. With reflexes bordering on prescience, and instincts that had been passed down through feline genes for thousands of years, the gray tabby leapt high and away from the prehistoric, arachnoid monstrosity that moved with an unsettling speed and dexterity of its own over the tops of the nearby boxes—chik-chik-chik-chik. The scurrying sounded like the drumming of impatient fingers on a table. The scurrying was cut short as the thing launched itself into the air. And unfortunately for Travis, he had only been passed down the relatively weak reflexes of his woefully Homo sapiens parents, and so could not get out of the way.

He felt like he was punched square in the back by a gorilla, and sprawled face first into the paint cans. He tried to catch his breath and found that he could not. Travis rolled himself over onto his back, wheezing, kicking. He felt like he was laying on something hard, like one of the paint cans, but then it moved. Scurried, really, and suddenly, it was standing on his chest. Its eyes were blacker than the dark corner of the basement with the kicked over paint cans, and they burned. Even down in the damp basement, there was a fire and a cold intelligence in those eyes.

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, Hannah’s silver Ford Escort pulled into the driveway, with a thoroughly aggravated Hannah behind the wheel.

“Travis, could you help me?” Hannah called from the front door. She had two bags cradled in one arm, and fumbled with the door with her other hand. “Piggly Wiggly was an ordeal today. I got the lady who won’t shut up. Apparently, she has a very strong opinion regarding Pepsi products. Travis?”

Travis didn’t respond. The basement door was half open. The light was on.

Hannah entered the house, noticed that he had still not cleaned up the broken glass from the shadowbox, and marched into the kitchen with her two crushed bags. She rounded the corner and saw the basement door.

Oops. Pretty sure that was me who left the door open. He hates that.

“Travis?” she called from the top of the basement stairs. The light was on, so he must be down there. “What are you doing down there? I need help with the groceries! Travis?”

There was no response. Only a sound like water whispering in pipes.

“Jesus Christ, fine! I’ll get all the bags myself. Thanks!” And she tramped back out to the car.

Two back-and-forths later, Hannah was even more aggravated. “Can you at least come up and help me put this stuff away? Most of it’s yours, anyway,” she called. She pulled out a bag of Purina Cat Chow. “Well, not this,” Hannah added, and glanced over at Chester’s bowl on the floor. It was still full.

That’s weird.

“Honey, is Chester down there with you? He still hasn’t eaten. Oh, here he is. Hey, there, Chester Copperpot, how come you haven’t eaten? How come you’re hiding, buddy?”

Chester disappeared as the sound of water tinkling through pipes came flooding up the basement stairs.