I share many animal communication stories, which are usually feel-good stories. I’m warning you that this is not a feel-good story and that a spider was harmed. So, if that is upsetting to read, you may want to skip this saga. I wish I could have skipped this experience on my honeymoon, but here we are.
My wife Rachel and I took an early honeymoon last summer, traveling from London to Edinburgh over two weeks' time. We stopped for a few days in the Peak District, renting a charming stone cottage built in the early 1700s. There was a cozy kitchen with an ice box and electric kettle, two small bedrooms upstairs, and the bathroom had the antique-looking clawfoot tub of my dreams. The windows had no screens but were covered with cloth sliding curtains looking out into a private terrace garden where birds would gather and sing to us. We felt like Snow White and Cinderella.
We exhausted ourselves during the day following the maps our hosts left us and completing some grueling hikes that rewarded us with friendly sheep and views that brought tears to my eyes. We stopped at the local tea shop and ate the most delicious scones with homemade jam and clotted cream.
It was all quite idyllic.
Now I need to pause this fairytale and give you some backstory regarding my history with spiders. Twenty years ago, when my ex-husband was discharged from The Marine Corps, I drove south to help him move. We rented a cabin in the woods on the base of Camp Lejune, North Carolina.
A few days after checking out, I developed a small red welt on my torso that grew into a golf ball size sore, gradually becoming black around the edges and eventually causing neurological effects. I learned this much later when I met the only practicing physician in a small town in Ohio where we were staying. He treated my spider bite on a library table and prescribed an aggressive course of antibiotics.
According to him, I was bitten by a brown recluse spider indigenous to that area. What has always bothered me the most about this experience is that this spider crawled on me in my sleep, but I never saw it.
I have shared this story with Rachel explaining the scar I now have on my torso—to her horror. I remember being surprised by her reaction because fearless as she is, she is deathly afraid of spiders. When we find a spider in our home, Rachel points to it from a safe distance, and I run to grab a cup and piece of paper for catch and release. This is a fair trade because if a moth gets in our house, I close my eyes and squeak while Rachel gently catches them in her hands and swoops them through the door. I’m sorry, moth-lovers, they creep me out.
Upon checking into the cottage, we checked every nook and cranny for any creatures that may be lurking. I swept some smaller spiders outside hanging around the back pantry, and we found several daddy-long legs high up in the rafters. We both agree they are entirely harmless, so they can stay.
On our first night sleeping in the cottage, I startle awake at 1:00 am, and Rachel is fast asleep. I’m not sure why I’ve awoken in a near panic, but I find myself lying there with my heart racing. I decide to use the bathroom and try to go back to sleep. I tiptoe down the hall over creaking boards and turn on all the lights in the bathroom before entering it. The coast looks clear, but a few seconds later, I realize I am not alone in the bathroom.
On the floor by the edge of the tub, the is an enormous spider staring back at me. After some research, I now believe this to be a giant house spider (there should be a scarier name for it) because it is approximately softball sized. Its legs exceed two inches long, and the body is about an inch long, making it the most enormous, menacing spider I’ve ever seen.
The spider and I stare at one another as my heart pounds and I try to decide what to do. I mentally run through my options.
Option one: I can try and capture this spider and put it outside. This option has all kinds of complications because there is no cup this spider would fit under (imagine covering a softball with a cup), and I don't want to leave the bathroom unattended if the spider decides to flee. I can not risk the possibility of Rachel encountering him.
Option two: I could call for help. This is not an attractive option because Rachel is the only one who could help me, and I would have to wake her up and drag her into my nightmare to panic with me. This seems like a bad option because I only have the energy to manage my own horror.
Then there is option three—I kill the spider.
I decide to go with option three. I grab a facecloth and soak it in water, and with as little movement as possible, throw it onto the spider and quickly stomp on it in my slippers as much and as hard as I can. Then I roll up the body (yes, body) and throw it into the trash so Rachel will never see it. Then I return to bed and try to pretend as if nothing happened.
I lay there mentally apologizing to the spider and try to steady my breath. It doesn’t work, and Rachel wakes a minute after I get into bed and asks, “What's wrong.”
“Nothing,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, but I’m still shocked at what I’ve seen and done. My face is sweating, and I’m out of breath, so I have no choice but to tell her what happened. “How big was it?” she asks as I hold my palm and try to explain. We try to calm each other down and rationalize that it was the right thing to do.
“Remember that spider bit you while you were sleeping,” Rachel says.
Oh, I most definitely do.
I create an energetic bubble around us, over our bed. I tell Rachel to imagine white light around the edges and set an intention that no spiders can enter.
When I try to sleep and close my eyes, all I can see are black spindly legs and I imagine spider eyes looking at me in fear. I feel terrible guilt about what’s occurred. I’m also still feeling afraid and anxious. Eventually, I drift off into an uneasy sleep.
A few hours later, I startle awake to a voice that says, “Stupid murderer.”
I lay in the silence of the room, stunned. My immediate thought was that this was my conscious or some lucid dream that manifested over my guilt.
But then Rachel wakes up and says, “Did you say something?”
“No,” I say. But then ask her, “What did you hear?”
She tells me that she heard a woman crying.
We try to rationalize what’s happening. We theorize that perhaps we are somehow connected and communicating in our sleep. Perhaps my consciousness has manifested into a sound over my guilt around taking a spider's life.
Or, we think there is another spider in the house, and this other spider is upset because I’ve killed her friend or spider relation. This theory makes the most sense to both of us, and we further theorize that we picked up the energy in varying forms. I heard angry words, and she heard crying, but it could come from the same spider creature still living in the cottage.
We enjoy the next few days exploring, and after another thorough, energetic cleansing of the cottage, we sleep pretty well the next few nights.
All is well until checkout.
We find what we now think is the lady spider. She’s slightly smaller than the first but still the largest I’ve ever seen. So Rachel and I agree to take turns watching her as we pack our belongings and leave spider-cottage forever.
This could be the end of the story. However, I shared it with my Instagram community, and I received some fascinating theories on what happened.
Approximately 100 people participated in this poll, with 5% believing it was my conscience.
20% believed it was a second spider in the house.
75% believed it was spirits in the house.
I was feeling quite settled in my belief that it was a second spider and got a lot of messages from other mediums that felt the same.
But then I got this message from an Irish medium friend that I respect immensely, and it gave me chills:
To clarify, phenomena means the physical sound that spirit would create. This would be able to be heard by anyone—you don’t have to be a medium.
Things like tapping on the walls or footsteps in the hall can be heard by those who don’t consider themselves to have mediumship abilities.
This makes sense to me because Rachel heard it, and she doesn't hear animals speaking as I do.
During the spider-gate night, I was anxious and afraid and that sometimes triggers phenomena. It's typical for lights to flicker or go out when I get upset.
So, what is the point of all this? Another medium shared this thoughtful reflection that focused more on my life path and the lesson of it all.
So I leave you in the excellent company of many mystical open-minded folks who can not agree on a theory. After having almost nine months of distance from this experience, I’m still not entirely sure about what happened, but I am forever energized by the unknown and open to surprises.
Thanks for allowing me a spookier share behind the electric curtain.
Much love,
Sheryl
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