“You can’t skulk in caves forever, Grumpylegs,” she’d insisted, shedding wing scales all over my pristine workspace like the world’s most irritating snow globe. “The Great Unveiling was years ago. Humans actually want to buy things from monsters now. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
So here I am, a reluctant master of the digital age, having just completed what Celeste deemed a “milestone achievement” on something called Shop&Ship.
I successfully purchased four pairs of premium-grade, faux-fur-lined slippers, which many an online reviewer claimed were “blissfully soft and perfect for any foot size.”
Not that I require foot comfort, of course. My eight chitinous legs are evolved for navigating any terrain from glass-smooth cave floors to vertical granite faces. But the concept of elevating one’s living environment through luxurious appointments had struck me as worthy anthropological investigation.
If I’m going to understand human behavior, I need to comprehend human obsessions, like their desire for excessive comfort.
I have learned much from this Internet, and the irony of a spider mastering the art of “web browsing” provides a certain dry amusement that never quite grows old, even if Celeste stopped laughing at that joke about two weeks ago.
My home itself represents the culmination of this careful study in human domestic preferences. The main living space soars upward with cathedral timber ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed panorama of Montana wilderness. The furniture is sleek, modern, arranged with mathematical precision, every angle calculated for maximum aesthetic impact and functional efficiency.
It’s a dramatic departure from my original dwelling: the silk-lined cave system extending deep into the granite cliff that serves as this structure’s foundation.
That’s where I retreat for rest, suspended in hammocks of my own weaving, surrounded by the complex geometric patterns that satisfy my predatory instincts.
But this cabin—constructed after the Great Unveiling liberated me from a lifetime of hiding—represents something more ambitious. A translation between my wild nature and the human world I’ve spent eight decades observing from the shadows.
My thoughts are interrupted as the low rumble of an approaching engine vibrates through the stone foundation, transmitting up through the hardwood floors and into my legs with crystalline clarity.
Precisely on schedule. My delivery has arrived, and my silk glands actually tighten with anticipation. Pathetic, really. Eightyyears of solitude, and I’m reduced to excitement over glorified footwear.
I close the laptop and flow toward the entryway, my gait silent despite my considerable mass. The acoustic signature of the vehicle matches the mid-sized delivery trucks I’ve catalogued on the main roads. They’re heavier than civilian vehicles but lighter than the industrial haulers that service the lumber operations to the north.
Through my network of sensor webs spanning the property, I monitor the truck’s progress up my graded drive. The vibrations paint a clear picture: single occupant, maintaining steady speed, following the designated route without deviation. Professional driver, then. Excellent. I expect no less for the price I paid.
The engine dies at the end of the driveway, followed by the metallic thunk of a closing door. Footsteps on gravel, lighter than anticipated. Female, most likely, with a confident stride suggesting familiarity with challenging terrain. She’s advancing directly toward the entrance, but stops halfway.
“Hartwell Delivery!” she calls out, though I don’t move to answer yet.
I’d positioned a simple detention web across the covered porch this morning. Nothing lethal—I’m a craftsman, not a barbarian—but sufficient to restrain uninvited visitors until I can evaluate their intentions.
Her continued approach suggests either she doesn’t follow the expected safety protocols or is deliberately testing boundaries.
The footsteps continue, growing closer. Soon she’ll encounter practical education in respecting established boundaries.
Then comes the impact, a sudden, frantic thrashing that sends vibrations racing through every strand of silk across my domain. Contact. The web has performed exactly as engineered, creating a secure but harmless restraint. She’s caught, and judging by the percussion of her struggles, thoroughly so.
“What the hell—” Her voice cuts off as she realizes the magnitude of her predicament.
I permit myself a moment of professional satisfaction. After eight decades perfecting my craft, it’s gratifying when a design executes flawlessly.
“Hello?” she calls out, attempting to maintain professionalism despite her circumstances. “Package delivery! I could use a little help!”
Almost instantly, I open the massive door and approach my unexpected catch.
But then something extraordinary occurs. As I emerge from the shadows and she gets her first clear look at me, the web floods with sensory data that defies all logic.
Terror, certainly; that’s expected and entirely rational. But beneath that perfectly normal physiological response runs something else entirely. Something that makes every nerve cluster in my exoskeleton snap to razor-sharp attention.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, the words barely audible.
Ah. There it is. The moment of recognition. But the web tells me something is wrong—or rather, something is wonderfully, unexpectedly right.
The high-frequency vibrations of terror are present, yes, a familiar song. But beneath them, a deeper, slower thrum has begun. A bass note I haven’t detected in a sentient creature before. Never in my own webs, at least.
I step fully into the light, allowing her to process my form. I am a living contradiction to a human’s understanding of the world, and I savor the moment her mind grapples with my existence. But just as she’s processing my appearance, I am processing hers.
