Sitting up, I squinted toward the clock, trying to see if it was late enough to get up. Late enough — the quiet internal permission slip. If it’s before 3 a.m., it’s too early. 3 a.m. itself is borderline — only viable if I’d gone to bed early. But anything after 3… preferably closer to 4… means I’ve officially crossed into the “acceptable to rise” zone.

4:12 a.m. Glowing digits. That was late enough—time to begin.

I moved like a ghost, easing myself upright and reaching for my phone with slow, steady fingers. The strap hooks — those cursed, tiny clinks of metal — threatened to tap the glass nightstand. But I was careful. Every sound at this hour stretches out, echoing as if it’s trying to wake the house. Success. No clink.

Phone in hand, I padded the three steps to the bathroom door. The first hurdle: Don’t let the acrylic nails tap the resin door. Second: Turn the knob just right. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough so the door didn’t yawn open with a creak that would snap the peace in half.

Inside, I turned to the next challenge — closing the door silently behind me. I rotated the knob while pulling it shut, inch by inch, not daring to breathe. Almost… there— Pop!

Damn. Not quite silent. But done.

I didn’t turn on the light. I never do. My husband’s eyelids are basically tissue paper, and any sudden brightness sends his entire body lurching awake like he’s been shot. So instead, I thumbed the flashlight on my phone and crept to the toilet. The usual. Routine. Human.

After finishing, I reached into the closet and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt — easy, uncommitted choices. Something I learned in therapy: not every decision has to be made immediately. And choosing an outfit for the day was certainly not a decision I needed to make under the glare of a cell phone light at 4 a.m.

Now… slippers. Where did I leave them?

I only wear slippers with rubber soles. Just in case I have to go outside. I let myself go barefoot exactly once a week — right after the house cleaner comes. I love that soft slide across freshly mopped tile. But the rest of the time? Barriers. Always barriers.

Ah — there they were. Tucked by the sink. I must’ve slipped out of them last night with future-me in mind.

Left foot in. Then right. Bent the left knee, latched the ankle strap. Bent the right knee, latched—

And then I felt it.

Soft. Furry. A brush of cool movement, right across the top of my foot.

At first, I thought maybe it was just a bit of tissue or something loose, stuck between slipper and skin. I wiggled my foot.

It moved. It moved more than I did.

That wasn’t fuzz.

That wasn’t normal.

That wasn’t right.

A chill clawed its way up my spine as I shook my foot again — faster this time, harder — trying to convince myself it was just lint, just a trick of sensation. But no. No, it moved with intent. With awareness. And it was cool to the touch. Fuzz isn’t cool. Fuzz isn’t… alive.

I froze for a breath that was entirely too long. Then panic took over.

I jerked my leg. The strap held tight.

I stomped — once, twice — thinking maybe I could crush whatever was inside without having to see it.

It didn’t fall off. It clung.

I reached down, yanked the strap off, and kicked the slipper across the bathroom. It landed with a loud slap. I flicked the flashlight beam toward it, the light shaking in my hand—

And there it was.

Sprawled halfway out of the slipper. Brown. Furry. Legs twitching. About the size of a 50-cent piece, maybe more if you count the horribly mobile legs.

A spider.

I stood, breathing like I’d just run a mile uphill, heartbeat jackhammering. I didn’t care about waking anyone anymore. I flipped on the light.

I needed confirmation.

With trembling fingers, I took a photo. My only defense in the moment was identification — like naming a demon before it devours you.

AI said it was a wolf spider. A hunter. Not venomous to humans, but aggressive and fast. Curious. The kind that moves toward you, not away.

I stared at the picture while my body still buzzed with the memory of its legs across my skin.

Then I grabbed the slipper — the safe one — and with a single, hard thump, I ended it.

Afterward, I just stood there, breathing in the silence, surrounded by a sleeping house and shadows that felt just a little too aware. The flashlight still on. The image still open on my phone.

I thanked whatever silent force spared me a bite.

Because that spider had been on my foot. For too long.
Moving.
Thinking.

Waiting.