The Spider Moon

The bar was nearly empty, only the dedicated drinkers remained. A few broken men, a few depleted women. All of us too lonely to go home, too weary to hit on each other.

Then the old Indian in the corner started speaking. We hadn't even noticed him there. He spoke of his childhood on the banks of Black Rock Creek and everyone ignored him. Then he spoke of the Spider Moon and it made our blood run cold.

According to legend, the Spider Moon comes in the last wanes of what was the Harvest Moon. All the crops are in, the first snow is still a few weeks away. The buck deer battle in the browning forest and brother squirrel guards his nut house. And (and this is the chilling part by the way) it doesn't matter where you go, it doesn't matter how you sleep. Before the night is over, a spider is going to crawl on your genitals.

"Oh god." We involuntarily groaned. Somehow... somehow we'd always suspected. Those mornings that just don't feel right--when something hangs in the air like an interrupted omen. The feeling you're forgetting something but if you remember it'll drive you insane. So we lock that unease away with all the other things we'd rather not consider--like: has my face ever been cross-haired in a sniper's scope? Do healthy cells scream when the cancer cells invade them?

It took hearing it out loud to match the dread with its cause. There is a Spider Moon. It's the night a spider crawls on your genitals.

"You aren't suggesting that..." The quaver in Gus the Bartender's voice was unmistakable. The old Indian met his stare with a terrible look in his eyes.
"I mean, okay." Gus continued. "M-maybe it happens every once in a while--law of averages says it's gonna I guess. But not for sure tonight right? There’s no such thing as a Spider Moon… is there?"

And in the half-light of a neon sign that proclaimed Budweiser the King of Beers, the old Indian finished his drink and set the empty glass on the bar. We hadn't noticed he was carrying a pistol, but we sure couldn't miss it when he raised it to his temple.

"No more Spider Moons for me." He whispered. "Eighty-two is plenty."

***

And then later that night the spiders came and they crawled up our legs as we slept. And you can't help but scream once you know what the memory of a tickle means.

And I wish like hell I'd never heard of the Spider Moon. I could have very happily lived out the rest of my days not once considering the fact that there have and will come nights when a spider crawls on my genitals.

But try as I might I can't forget it. And I scream every morning out of habit now.

So add it to the list of things that haunt me. Somewhere below the thought of dying alone. And somewhere above a fancy restaurant sneezing fit with a bloody nose.