The Texas Spider

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A lump, lumpy with moving, hook-shaped, sharp protrusions, flew into the closed kitchen window with lightning speed, generously sprinkling the velvet carpet on the floor with splashes of glass. The gray, dried — up mass hit the china cabinet with a crash, so that Whitney Graham's black porcelain plates turned into a fine, coal-dark crumb. A light wave of cool, evening air slipped into the rooms. Trembling, Whitney stared tired into the impenetrable darkness of the evening street, trying to catch her eye on some landmark. She couldn't see anyone or anything.

Then she put her ear to the thin, plasterboard wall that separated her from the kitchen. The oppressive silence reigned inside, and outside the one-story house, the west wind, the herald of an impending hurricane, howled stronger. In this part of Texas, powerful trade winds were perceived as a pattern, replacing the heat of the day with the withering cold of the night. But, so far, it was far from the thundering, airy meat grinder tearing the tiled roofs from the walls.

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