I went into the garage just to grab an old toolbox!
The webs stretched farther than I had noticed, fine silk strands lacing across the walls and shelves. The cabinet had become a sanctuary, a breeding ground. The eggs clung in clusters like little pearls of dread, evidence of just how long this hidden world had been building. Every cobweb I had ignored over the months now made sense—they had been part of something much bigger, something I hadn’t wanted to see.
I turned to my husband and whispered, “How did we even live here all this time?” The words sounded surreal, like I was describing someone else’s house. But it was ours. And we had been sharing it, unknowingly, with a thriving metropolis of spiders.
We called an exterminator immediately. Watching the professionals work was both a relief and another reminder of how much had been hidden. They stripped down the webs, sprayed chemicals, and methodically dismantled the nest. Still, even after it was gone, the memory lingered. For days, I avoided stepping foot into that garage.
The experience shifted something in me. The garage, once just a mundane storage space, now carried a strange weight. Each time I passed it, I thought about what I hadn’t seen, what I had ignored for so long. It wasn’t just about spiders anymore—it was about the reminder that nature thrives in the shadows, in the places we don’t look, and sometimes right under our noses.
Even now, months later, I still hesitate before opening the garage door. The exterminator assured us the infestation was gone, but my mind plays tricks. I imagine those tiny legs crawling just out of sight, another nest building in silence. The thought is enough to make me shiver.
