Blogger’s note: Hello, dear friends. I find myself at a lull in the book project, so here is a new post. Happy reading!

In our younger days, my husband and I would set up our front porch in an elaborate tableau, complete with a good jump scare, every Halloween. For many years this included suddenly lowering a giant homemade spider from the upstairs window into the middle of the crowd on the porch. One young mother screamed and ran, leaving her toddler princess alone to face the monster.

One year, we wound up with a store-bought spider with a body about the size of a coconut, red glowing eyes, and proportionately long legs. These legs were made of wire and could therefore articulate to any position. Now, I was fine with the homemade spider. Anything made of pillows, tinfoil, pipe insulation, and a big garbage bag has to be somewhat benign. But this new creature. . .

After Halloween, I considered just throwing the thing in the garbage, but it was actually rather a work of art, so I decided to hex it instead. By this I mean I gingerly placed it in a spot where I would always know where it was, not too high as to seem to be about to spring on me, and not too low as to seem to be about to go for my feet. Then, I found an old straw hat, which I placed on its head. I figured that if I made it ridiculous it would be less likely to spontaneously animate itself and come after me.

Every morning when I came downstairs I triangulated the spider’s location and went about my day. All was well until one weekend I was alone in the house and decided to do some dusting. In the vicinity of said spider. As I progressed dusting the shelves in the mudroom, I became overly confident, passed too close to the spider, and knocked it, and its hat, to the floor. When it landed, it rolled a bit, its fearsome legs tangled with the straw hat. My amygdala went insane, and I retreated halfway up the stairs to consider my options.

Obviously, I couldn’t leave it where it was, because it blocked my access to the kitchen. What to do? I made the tacit decision to neutralize it once and for all, but first I had to rescue the hat, which has sentimental value. I did a few rounds of box breathing, picked up a yardstick, and tried to extricate the hat from the spider’s embrace. To this end, I carefully picked up the hat with the end of the stick, but the spider came with it. With a squeal of primal anguish, I dropped everything, scuttled back up the staircase, and waited for my animal brain to get a grip on itself.

What I did next was, I put on gloves, went downstairs, all the while breathing through my nose, and carefully extricated the loathsome limbs one at a time from the precious hat. If I moved too quickly and let one of the legs slip back into its position around the hat, I would scream gutturally but keep moving. Eventually, I was able to extricate hat from spider. I placed the hat up on a high shelf and, still wearing my gloves, I folded the spiders legs tightly around its body and wrapped it up in duct tape until there was nothing visible to suggest what was inside. Finally, I took the bundle outside and buried it deep, deep in the outdoor garbage can.

I feel obliged to remind you that, in almost every imaginable scenario, I am a fully functioning, rational adult. So what gives here? I may never fully understand this phenomenon of spider-terror, but I never get tired of exploring it.