A New Year’s Spider

I was inspired by this essay by Amal El-Mohtar, who is building a tradition of finding A New Year’s Bird. I like it, it seems like a lovely way to start the year, but I’m not much of a bird person — that’s my wife’s thing. By the way, Mary is right next to me, staring out the window at the visitors to our bird feeders as part of her participation in FeederWatch. But you know me, I’m more of a spider person. Sorry. Not sorry.

It was clear, though, that I need a New Year’s Spider. I began my quest.

One easy possibility was that, this morning, as I showered and reached into the soap dish, I startled a small cellar spider, which scurried frantically away. I girded myself with my camera and walked the few feet to our bathroom to search for the little fellow.

I failed. It was not there any longer. That was OK, though, because that is how all quests must begin, with failure and frustration, and we then find redemption through struggle. I will find the beast.

The bathroom had to be explored. The lights above the bathtub are separated by a grid, a hot spot for spider webs, and there was plenty of spoor. The space was dusty and full of cobwebs, and I searched everywhere, finding diaphanous fluff everywhere, but not a hint of the spider. They are cunning and cautious, and are good at finding small cracks in the walls and hiding in the space between the drywall and siding, inaccessible to giants like me.

Where must I go? There’s no doubt. At some point in a quest, we must descend into the underworld. Our basement, that is — a dark, cold place, neglected and unfrequented by people, where we never dust or clean, where spider-kind can flourish. But again, this is mid-winter, and even spiders struggle when the cold obliterates their prey, and survival is a matter of patience and stillness and long waiting. I lit a torch, opened the creaking, little-used door, and descended the narrow stairs into the cavern.

The space is mostly empty, containing a few dusty relics from a time when it was inhabited by boisterous teenagers, but now barren of anything that might attract a human visitation, except, in my case, billowing cobwebs. Those cobwebs were all empty of life, unfortunately. Not even spiders find this basement an oasis in the depths of winter — too cool, too empty of food, too gloomy. I searched the main room and found a few traces of previous occupation, mainly molted skeletons lying about like the carcasses of facehuggers. Where are they now, I wondered? What victims were drained of blood after they shed their cuticle?

Further. I went deeper, and found the basement ogre: a large sheet web, a meter across, with scraps of cuticle scattered about, and imbedded in the area the skeletons of large prey, houseflies and bumblebees, that had stumbled into this cursed place and found their doom. There was movement on the sheet! I briefly glimpsed a large funnel weaver, horrified by the bright light I’d brought into their domain. It immediately scuttled back into it’s lair, refusing to face me. I could not count this as my New Year’s Spider. I needed a bold creature that would face me, stare into my eyes, and not retreat like a coward. There was no honor in this spider.

Deeper still, I went into the small twisty rooms in the back, where the furnace burned. What I immediately found was…death. The spiders had retreated into the faint warmth as cold seeped into the underworld, finding final refuge where the hot heart of the house dwelt, and many had died in the process. So many spider corpses! So many large carcasses dead in their webs, on the wall, on the ceiling.

I knew I was close. How else would a quest go? First the barren land, then the monster in the dark, then death, then finally, the grail and revelation. There she was, queen of the dark world, my New Year’s Spider, resting on the underside of a shelf, gazing unafraid and unmoving at me.
Returning to the land of light, I can now rest with a sense of accomplishment, perhaps ready for a new year. As one who has returned, I can now give you a quest, to find your own New Year’s Spider.

Or bird, I guess, if you prefer.

(I know way too many people here are Bird Persons who don’t much care for spiders, so I only posted the text here, with none of the photos of horrifying spider webs, dead spiders, and the Queen of Darkness. You could see all the grisly photos if you’re subscribed to my Patreon, or you can see the spider queen on Instagram.)


  1. Big Boppa says

    I know they’re not native to this continent but my nomination for spider of the new year is the Goliath Birdeater.

  2. birgerjohansson says

    Can you feed the spider with non-living food? The need to liquify the stuff must make feeding “feral” spiders non-trivial.
    There are plenty of bugs this time of year, but they are too big to fit. You can identify them by calls that sound like “cuck” and “maga”.

  3. birgerjohansson says

    Creepy-crawlies: Mussolini officially became dictator 97 years ago, January 3rd 1925, after murdering Mattotti.

  4. says

    A vision comes to mind of PZ Myers lathered up in the shower when he spies his quarry. Eureka!, he shouts as he bolts Archimedes-like from the shower to grab his camera. Too late his quarry has fled. Undeterred a naked, soapy PZ stalks the house in search of his prey. Finally in a dusty dingy cellar a by now grimy cobweb-covered hunter finds his New Years Spider. ‘Tis the stuff of nightmares. Either that or a good plot for a comedy.

  5. chrislawson says

    Minor correction: it’s Matteotti (the most famous Mattotti is an illustrator and comics artist).

  6. azpaul3 says

    Damn, Doc, you write real good! Serious. I don’t like your spiders but I liked your storytelling. Thank you.

  7. Rich Woods says

    I was half expecting the phrase “The horror… The horror…” to make an appearance.

  8. davidc1 says

    @5 Well if the Doc came after me nekid from the shower I would flee as well.
    In other news I see that nice mr blair is going to be made a sir.
    Won’t it look nice alongside his Nobel Peace Prize.

  9. birgerjohansson says

    Davidc1 @ 9

    And a torturer from UAE is now formally the chief of Interpol (following a tradition from Reynhard Heydrich) .
    I need to go hug a spider to regain my composure.

  10. birgerjohansson says

    Chrislawson @ 6
    I read one of his albums in the 1990s!
    What has happened to that generation of artists since? Heavy Metal/Metal Hurlant and similar magazines have gone the way of paper newspapers so I assume they have been forced to other professions.