My Phobia

This is not a story: this actually happens to me.

It’s been raining today. My wipers were going on the way to work, and at some point I noticed a streak on the windshield as if something were sticking to the wiper. So when I got to work I lifted up my wiper, expecting a bit of leaf or clump of dirt.

Instead, I saw the long twig-like legs of a soaking wet dead spider.

Now you, like any sane person, are thinking Well at least it wasn’t alive.

No, I would prefer it had been alive.

I have a severe phobia of dead spiders.

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My take on the Wendigo story.

Short Story: Horror

“Nene!” Mabel cried, running to her grandmother. No one had ever instructed her to call her grandmother Nene. It had just come about in the way spring follows winter, in the way she had grown to walk and talk. When she had first called her grandmother Nene it had stuck. So she ran to her Nene now and was gathered up in strong arms and hugged tight.

“Oh it’s been an age,” Nene exclaimed.

“We were only gone four weeks,” Mabel laughed.

Nene kissed Brad on the cheek and hugged him as best she could with child in her arms. Mabel was pressed between them for a moment and giggled at the warmth.

“How was Alaska?” Nene asked.

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