The Harvestman

My grandfather recently passed away and, as the only able bodied grandson in the area, it became my responsibility to help my parents clean out his farm.  I say “help”, but what I really mean is “do most if not all of the work”, of course.  My folks are in their mid-sixties and can’t do much lifting so it’s not that I minded so much as I really didn’t care for the amount of nature he had crawling around inside his house.

 

Personally, I wondered how he survived so long with all the spiders that infested his house.  I killed no less than twenty during my time inspecting the single-story building.  However, this number would hold no candle to the amount I saw when I opened the barn.

 

I would just like to say he had to be feeding these things.  Raising them.  Something that wasn’t just letting nature take its course inside that barn.

 

I opened the doors to that place and I saw hundreds of daddy-long-legs just scurrying about, same as had been in the house.

 

Well, I closed it back up and took my truck back into town.  It took the clerk some convincing, but I managed to purchase a few bug bombs.  He kept trying to tell me I needed to pursue a more natural solution, but I wanted this barn emptied of spiders tonight.  I told him plainly I had a serious bug problem and I needed it taken care of now.  It was the middle of summer, after all, and it would be months before the weather would be cold enough to do the job for me.  I had my own job, in all fairness, and that was to clear out the barn and house and I couldn’t do anything with that many legs shuffling about.

 

Don’t get me wrong, though.  I knew they were harmless.  I just couldn’t deal with the sheer volume of them.  I hurried back to the barn and set off a few of the bombs.  In a few hours I returned and there were piles of dead spiders everywhere.  There were so many more than I had seen moving about.

 

I then set about my task of sweeping them all out into the yard and, along with many piles of old newspapers and hay, lit them on fire.  Good riddance, I told them.  I kept my father in charge of making sure it didn’t get out of hand while I finished emptying what little else was inside the barn.

 

By the time I was done fumigating the house and the final round of spider pyre had burned itself out, I was way past tired and well beyond nighttime.  I was staying in the house alone; my parents lived the next town over, but I had driven down from the city.  They didn’t have room for me but there was plenty here now that I had evicted the previous tenants.

 

It was quiet, too.  Rather pleasant without the sounds of spiders falling off walls.  That wouldn’t last, though.  I was awoken at some point in the night by the sounds of loud rustling from outside.  The room I was in faced the barn, so I was able to catch a glimpse of what was outside—for better or for worse.

 

Some large shape was bent forward at the spot where I had burned all those spiders.  It must have heard the old, creaking floorboards as I approached the window because it stood up. It was tall.  Too tall.

 

If I had to guess, I would say it was about eight feet tall with long arms that reached to where I’d guess its knees would be.  It was wearing a buttoned-up overcoat that was well-fitted to such a lanky frame.  Though the moonlight did a poor job of illuminating things, I could see its face was long and pale with what appeared to be multiple dark red, iris-less eyes that gleamed in the faint light.

 

It stared at me for a moment and then ran off into the woods surrounding the area.  I didn’t sleep.

 

The next morning, I went back into town and started to ask around about the weird creature I had seen.  I was sure the locals there would have thought I was a raving lunatic had they not all nodded and simply replied with the same name: The Harvestman.

 

From what I gathered, The Harvestman was supposedly someone who lived in the woods, raising spiders for whatever reason, and died of natural causes.  When the townspeople found him, his body had been consumed and infested with spiders.  They had eaten their former keeper.

 

It was further said, then, that after they buried him, he rose from the grave.  They claim he’s either controlled by the spiders or had been reborn as a mutated collective of spiders.  Either way, I knew I was in trouble.

 

The people I talked to additionally told me it was forbidden in this town to harm spiders.  They believed that, if you did so, The Harvestman would come and get you.

 

I didn't buy any of it. I'm not a believer in all that supernatural mumbo jumbo. I was sure it was one of the townsfolk, playing a prank on me. Most likely it was someone from the store that sold me those bug bombs. 

 

The only thing that clung in the back of my mind like an itch you can't quite reach was the absolute consistency and passion with which these people told the same story. It was almost rehearsed. They should have put up a statue, maybe turn it into the next Point Pleasant. 

 

At any rate, my investigation complete and my day’s labor avidly avoided, I returned home to finish boxing the rest of my grandfather’s stuff. I opened the door and froze. 

 

Spiders. Everywhere. 

 

There were so many I hesitated to enter. Fortunately, I had kept the spare bug bombs on the kitchen counter nearest the door, just in case I needed to run back inside for more. 

 

I lobbed one into the center of the room and rushed out. Through the break in the curtains I could see the toxic smoke filling the house. 

 

I decided to bide my time clearing out the rest of the barn’s contents. By the time I had finished, I could see the smoke had settled. I entered the house, all the while choking on those awful fumes. 

 

I repeated the process I had used for the barn. Sweep and burn. I may never forget the smell of burning spiders as long as I live. 

 

Not wanting to waste further time, I quickly packed up what I could for the evening and loaded it into the car. I'd need to take it to my parents’ place tomorrow so they can sort through it. Then, my task complete, I headed off to bed. 

 

I hadn't eaten anything since heading into town and stopping at some nondescript diner, I realized as I shook the curtains to make sure the house was rid of arachnids. It didn't matter much to me, though. The stench of cooked spider legs exterminated my appetite as though it were a spider and the smoke was toxic. 

 

At any rate, sleep managed to find me easily, a combination of physical exertion, dietary insufficiencies, and mental exhaustion. Not that it would last for long. 

 

Fortunately for me, the same combination of bodily conditions that afforded me sleep couldn't write a check large enough to purchase deep sleep. 

 

I awoke suddenly to the sound of feet shuffling across the carpet. There, hovering over me, was that thing from the front lawn. It extended its long arms toward me and pulled at my shoulder blades. It was trying to lift me out of bed, I reckoned, flailing wildly. 

 

Then I remembered my pants. 

 

My ex-girlfriend used to make fun of me for wearing pants to bed. I always told her you never know when you need pants in the middle of the night. Take right then, for instance. 

 

I dug my left hand into my pocket and found my prize at the bottom of the proverbial cereal box. 

 

A bug bomb. My last one. 

 

Whatever this creature was, it clearly had never seen one before. If it had, it would have stopped me then and there. I pulled the pin the moment I was close enough to its face. Even with the sun rising outside bringing in a sliver of light, I couldn't see much of its face. Just what I needed to, which was its mouth.  Maybe it's for the best. I was panicking and not really trying to process any information about the nightmare before me. 

 

It never really registered at the time what I was doing, honestly. My body just moved on its own, out of survival instinct. I never thought about the hairy spider-like mouthparts it had, or about how inhuman what I saw was. I just plunged my fist into its open maw and let go. 

 

It dropped me almost instantly and began to screech and flail its arms in pain. Wisely, I dropped to the floor and scrambled for the exit while it was still confused. 

 

I jumped into my truck and slammed on the gas. Screw the rest of the stuff, I said as I peeled out of the driveway. The spiders can have that. 

 

I sped the whole way down the highway to my parents’ place. I knocked on the door, but they didn't answer. Their car was in the driveway, so I went around back to get the spare key out. That's when I noticed my first spider. It wasn't anything like those hideous daddy-long-legs, but I killed it just the same. Its body made a sickening crunch that gave me chills for some reason. I didn't have any particular fear of spiders, per se. I just wasn't their biggest fan that week. 

 

I opened the back door and called out to my parents. There was no answer. I cautiously made my way to their bedroom and knocked on the door. I heard shuffling sounds as though someone was getting dressed or something. 

“Mom? Dad?” I said, my face pressed against the door in an attempt to hear anything that would impart knowledge of the situation onto me. “It's your favorite son. Can I come in?”

 

No answer. Just more shuffling noises. 

 

“Hello? I'm coming in now. Say something if you object.” I waited a few moments before turning the knob. It wouldn't budge; it was locked from the inside. 

 

Cursing and panicking, I took a five foot step back. I readied myself and charged at the door. My shoulder connected and the door splintered, opening. I, meanwhile, bounced off and fell backwards. 

 

Picking myself up I pushed my way into their room. “Damn it,” I said not of conscious effort but of reflex. 

 

There, on their bed, were the partially skeletonized remains of my parents. Crawling in and out of various holes and from between exposed bones were dozens of spiders. 

 

The Harvestman had gotten to them first, I figured, now abandoning my snobbery for the paranormal. I briefly wondered just what exactly the top speed of a spider would be before steeling my nerves and calling the police from the landline. 

 

I was busy staying on the line—as though it would have done anything to help those involved—when I heard the back door creak open. I muttered to myself about how I had told them to oil it ages ago.

 

“I'm sorry. Someone's followed me inside,” I whispered to the operator, though she just entreated me to remain on the phone until the officers arrived. I couldn't. I dropped the phone and it slammed against the wall, its tight tether bungee-cording it louder than I would have liked. 

 

I hear the footsteps stop and then they start again, rapidly. I wasn't waiting around to see that monster again and I ran to the front door. I threw a nearby decorative side table through the pane of glass on the door and jumped out and toward freedom. There wasn't time to unbolt the latch and the other apparatuses anyway. 

 

Bleeding from a small gash on my arm and leg, I hobbled into the truck. I passed the ambulance and police on my way out of town. I didn't know where I was going or what I was going to do with my life, but I kept traveling northward until I hit the first town with snow on the ground. 

 

I was never really a fan of cold weather, but Wisconsin is a decent enough place to stay. They have the best cheese. 

 

I'd been staying in a hotel for a few days, dreading any sounds I heard. I don't think the Harvestman has given up on me yet, either. 

 

These days, I keep plenty of bug spray on hand, just in case. I never was afraid of spiders. I know most of them are harmless. These days, though, people have noticed that I go out of my way to kill any ones I see. 

 

One day, though, I'll either kill my last or be killed at last. I look forward to the day when I can finally stop worrying. Watching the windows and living on edge constantly. 

 

I'm just about ready to meditate when I hear a knock at the door. Delivery for me, the man says. It's from an address in that damned town. I recognized the name as one of the owners of a bar, it's named after him so it was easy to remember. 

 

I shook the package and put it to my ear. Rapid, muffled shuffling noises came from within. I chuckled to myself, almost madly, as I took it into my living room and tossed it into the already-roaring fireplace. 

​

“Not today,” I say with a sigh. “Perhaps try again tomorrow.”