That morning felt like any other. I went into the garage just to grab an old toolbox. Normally, that’s my husband’s space — neat, organized, and filled with tools I barely know the names of. I rarely had a reason to go in there. But that day, for some reason, I decided to.
The light above flickered weakly, one of those bulbs that’s been dying for months but never quite gives out. Dust floated through the air, catching what little light there was. The smell of old paint and motor oil hung heavy — the familiar scent of things long stored away and forgotten.As I walked toward the back wall, something caught my eye. It was in the far corner, behind the cabinet where we kept paint cans and leftover odds and ends. At first, I thought it was just clutter — maybe an old tarp that had fallen. But then, it shifted slightly.
A strange chill ran through me. I took a cautious step forward. The light flickered again, casting long, shaky shadows across the floor. I leaned in, and that’s when I saw it.
It wasn’t a tarp. It was a web — a massive, tangled structure of silk that stretched from the wall to the cabinet. Layers upon layers of thick, gray-white threads covered the corner, like a ghostly cocoon that had become part of the room itself.
And it was alive with movement.
Tiny shapes scurried over the surface — dozens of small spiders, weaving and darting through the strands. In the deeper parts of the web were small white clusters, like tiny eggs. The whole thing seemed to pulse faintly with motion, a quiet rhythm of life that made my skin crawl.
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