And then—something moves on my shoulder.
Something large.
I freeze.
A slow, horrible tickling sensation skitters along my upper arm.
I glance down.
It’s a spider. A big one. A horrifyingly large one.
For half a second, I am paralysed, my brain short-circuiting as I process the actual nightmare scenario happening in real-time.
And then—pure, unfiltered panic.
I yelp, flailing so violently that I nearly fall off the bench, my biscuit packet flying out of my hand. I swipe frantically at my shoulder, sending the spider somewhere (I do not care where as long as it’s not on me). My heart is hammering, my breathing rapid, my entire body doing that horrible, involuntary full-body shudder that comes from the deep, primal part of the brain that really, really hates spiders.
I stand there for a second, arms still half-raised, heart racing.
Then comes the wave of deep, burning shame.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, brushing aggressively at my jacket, just in case. “It was just a spider, you absolute wimp.”
I take a steadying breath, shake out my arms, and attempt to reclaim some dignity. No one saw that. It didn’t happen.
…Still.
I thoroughly inspect the shed wall, scanning every single crevice, crack, and shadow for any other unwelcome eight-legged visitors. I do not find any, which should be reassuring, but instead just makes me wonder where the first one actually went.
I glance at the rafters.
Nope.
I absolutely do not check the rafters. Because I know there are probably about fifty spiders up there, lurking,waiting, watching. I am not emotionally prepared for that reality.
With a final glance around, I cautiously settle back onto the bench, hugging my arms around myself. My biscuits are somewhere out in the soggy grass, and I’m not about to get soaked chasing after them. The wind’s howling, the rain hasn’t let up, and I’ve come to a firm conclusion: camping is not for me. Absolutely not.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be in a warm, dry room with zero spiders, and this entire evening will just be a ridiculous story to tell later.
The thunder may have passed, but the rain is relentless. The damp clings to my skin, settling deep in my bones. I shift on the bench, pulling my extra jumper tighter around my legs in a sad attempt at warmth. My sleeping bag is still too wet to use, and my body aches from the cold.This is fine. Just a few more hours, and then I am finding the nearest B&B and reclaiming my humanity.
Then—headlights.
Bright, cutting through the rain, bouncing off the puddles, lighting up the gravel path leading to the shed. A car rolls slowly towards me, its tires crunching over the wet stones before coming to a stop just outside.
I sit up, my heart immediately hammering.
Who the hell—
I grab my torch and flick it on, pointing the beam at the car. The light bounces off the wet windscreen, turning it into a useless, glowing blur. I can’t see anything inside.
My stomach clenches.
The driver’s door opens.
The interior light flicks on, and in an instant, I see her—Lucy, her small face squashed against the back window, eyes wide.
Theo.
