Stories are born in that waking space between dreams and reality.
I dreamed we were back in our previous home the other night. Everyone had gathered downstairs to look at something on our son's computer. I slipped out to the laundry room and found a large spider, two feet across at least, clinging to the wall. It's face had huge black eyes surrounded by neon yellow fur.
Surprisingly, I wasn't particularly scared, but I didn't want the spider there, so I asked my husband to make it go outside. He slowly pulled sheets and blankets from the bed, more sheets, more blankets, more and more, presumably to wrap the creature, so he could carry it away. Meanwhile time ticked away.
I wanted to tell my husband to hurry but couldn't because he was planning to do exactly what I'd asked, so I shouldn't complain. I wanted to check the spider hadn't moved, but I couldn't because I might panic if it had. So I waited, while everyone else played on the computer, while they ignored me.
At last my husband set off on his mission but, true to my suspicion, the arachnid was gone. My husband left an empty pile of bedding on the floor for me, but I didn't dare remake the bed in case long legs and neon yellow head were hiding there.
My dream haunts me. I close my eyes and see bright fur again and lingering legs; they're spider-writing words, and I can't read them.