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On Friday afternoon you see the spider for the first time. Next to the bathroom sink, it hangs suspended in midair, three feet above the ground. You freeze. When you’ve regained the power to breathe you inspect the beast from a safe distance. Long thin legs point in all directions from the needle-eye sized body. Don’t be afraid, you tell yourself, but to no avail. You shudder at the thought of touching the intruder. A hairy black threat with fast moving legs crawls up your spine, creeps into your mind and begins to spin a sticky web of horror. Eyes fixed on the preying critter, you back out of the room, water still dripping from your fingers. Maybe, you think, the threat will disappear and leave an empty web behind for you to swipe away with a long-shafted broom.

Later that evening, the door creaks when you pry it open. You muffle a gasp when you detect a shadow on the wall. Shock waves of terror expand from your core into your limbs, and your heart won’t stop racing, even when you realize the shadow moves parallel with your own timid gestures. The animal’s still hanging in the web, motionless like a weird Buddha. Before going to bed, you lock the door to your room and double check. Then you triple check. Still, the spider causes havoc in your dreams, and you wake the next morning steamrolled by dread and defeat.

Quiet as a ghost you sit at the kitchen table holding your empty coffee mug close to your chest. You sway from side to side trying to force yourself to act. Clearly a solution is needed. If you’re honest you know what to do. But courage is a foreign language in your universe, and at thirty-two you’re still terrified of the monster hiding under your bed.

So, your sister, Linda, must come to the rescue. Linda is fearless. From early childhood on she took the lead, crushing the natural hierarchy of siblings. If you call Linda now, she will race to the house in her speed devil of a car, burst into the bathroom, grab the spider and let it wiggle and twist inside her loosely closed fist, before letting it escape into the wilderness through an open window.

Calling Linda would solve the problem. But being saved always comes with a price tag. Linda is a collector of humiliating stories, and without a doubt she’ll use this one against you. At this moment, though, faced with imminent danger and a defunct bathroom, ridicule seems like a fair price.

“A giant spider?” she asks, mimicking the urgency in your voice.

“Please” I say. “I’ll host your next birthday party,” I say, regretting my offer as I speak.

“I want champagne” Linda says.

Within minutes she’s on the scene. Of course she isn’t alarmed.

“Let’s take a picture.” She drags you toward the bathroom, and you understand full well that she wants documentation of your cowardice.

Armed with her phone Linda gets closer than you thought humanly possible and kneels to get a good shot. She takes her time as she zooms in on the slender monster and you cover your eyes and wait. All is quiet. When you finally dare to look you see Linda eye to eye with the threat.

“That’s a weird fucker,” she says, and her voice has this weird ring you remember from those nights when your parents were out. Linda’d open the window, look outside and describe the lurking monsters until you could feel their dirty claws digging into your flesh. Even when your tried to escape, a zombie’d find you hiding in the closet, its hot, foul breath making you gag and gasp for air. When you could almost feel a long and slimy tongue licking your hair and gooey saliva running down your neck, you’d hide your head in your hands and know this was it. The living dead were here to bite your head off.

Then Linda would laugh, open the closet door and save you from sure death.

“Hmm. How can its head not be at the center?” Linda says. Despite yourself you take one step toward her.

“The head’s not even attached to the legs,” she squeals and pulls you toward her. Her laughter always sounds like a seal when she’s laughing at you.

You’re forced to kneel in front of the thin-legged creep and now you see it. You have a stone-dead spider in front of you. Thin legs, yes. But not the legs of a spider. No, this is not a monster. It’s the dry remains of a harmless bug, a daddy longlegs, a victim caught in the web of the long-gone spider.

Linda’s wearing that grin. It’s the one you fear the most. You know it from family gatherings when, with perfect timing, she humiliates you in front of a large audience. But an unprecedented surge of courage wells up from your gut, and you snag the insect with your bare hands and flush it, as if your shame could follow it down the drain. And, to your surprise, your heart soars like a paraglider under a rainbow umbrella on a clear August day. From up here Linda’s laughter shrinks to funny little snorts.

You watch Linda from the porch, as she walks to her race car. You still feel the cobweb on your skin. You rub your hands together, but it sticks to your fingers like threads of ridicule.

Linda stops and turns: “I’ll pick you up at ten,” she says, and you hold up your hands, not sure what she means.

“On Saturday,” she adds, knowing your heart will hit the floor like a concrete block dropped from a skyscraper. Your cousin’s wedding is next week; everyone will be there.

BIO: Sonja Holm is a certified translator of English and French, with Danish as her primary language. As an author she has written two novels, a book of poetry, and the text for the 2008 Linz Klangwolke (Sound Cloud) concert, "Herzfluss" (Heart Flow). Visit her website at https://www.sonjaholm.at/ for more info.