Stomach Spiders

Mrs. Katherine tucked her son in properly for the last time. His forehead radiated noon-like warmth, the onset of something. She knew Ritchy had been in the woods with his cousins. The young boys in town thought it was a secret, but word had gotten out about their special “clubhouse.” She knew what went on there, what nasty magazines and photographs the boys hid among the bushes and logs. It embarrassed her to think of Ritchy getting sick out there, catching a cold or succumbing to an infection. 

Ritchy, thirteen, growing like an elm, snow-blond hair getting dimmer and darker by the day... was it inevitable? Would he someday suffer some dark corruption? Or was she just a paranoid mother? She checked his forehead again and then warned him, gently as she could, to stay out of those woods. He could end up infested with stomach spiders.

Ritchy didn’t sleep that night. He knew he was wrong going out with his cousins, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he might get stomach spiders. People almost never talked about them. His mother had nearly choked on the words, avoiding his eyes. But he wasn’t stupid.

First, they nest in your bellybutton. One or two only, the size of fleas. Once comfortable, they start burrowing, eventually piercing the skin, breaking through to your insides. From there, they get cozy. Your stomach becomes a whole cavern they call home, spinning webs and having babies.

Whenever Ritchy closed his eyes, his skin tingled. He swatted at his arms and legs, knotting his sheets between his ankles, tossing, turning. He could feel the spiders all over him.

At school, he pretended to forget. He wondered if his cousins were as worried as he was. What if all of them had gotten stomach spiders? Would they tell each other? Was it even okay to mention them at school? Why was he so ashamed? 

It was a turning point in his worldview. Ritchy and the other young boys could joke about anything they wanted—car wrecks, mutilations, abortions, suicide—but being serious was taboo. Sadness and fear were things exclusive to the weirdos, the idiots, the babies. No complaining, no vulnerabilities. Maybe, Ritchy thought, he and his three cousins all had stomach spiders. Maybe every boy at school did. But it wouldn’t matter. No one would say a word.

Mrs. Katherine had two daughters and one son. Ritchy was her youngest by ten years. He was practically an only child, both of his sisters already off enjoying college and jobs and robust love lives. Her oldest had been the biggest parenting hurdle. At age sixteen, she fell in love with a much older man. Every time she hiccuped, a spray of butterfly wings would crumble onto her shirt. In comparison, Ritchy wasn’t hard to manage. Still, she found herself second-guessing everything she did and said with the boy. Maybe warning him not to go into the woods was a bad call. Maybe it’d just push him away. She asked her husband for advice, but he only shrugged, tired from a long day. He was of the sensibility that if Ritchy was sick, he’d say so. “And if even if he doesn’t say so,” her husband said, “well, that’s what being a young boy is like.” She hated that excuse.

Ritchy found himself going to the woods more and more. Alone. His bellybutton itched. Something had to be done about it, but not in public. Never in public. Somehow it made sense to go back to where it all began.

He sat on the “clubhouse” log, inspecting his bellybutton with his pinky finger. It was impossible to deny. He had stomach spiders. And they had gone deep. He felt the push of an ice-cold rod in his guts, sliding along the backside of his stomach lining, stretching the opening of his intestines. It pulsed and ached. He managed to fish out a chunk of webbing on his finger nail, then sniffed it. It smelled like chemicals and compost. He dug deeper, until he couldn’t see his second knuckle, then scooped out a finger-full of wet cotton.

He grimaced. There was something tight inside him, as if the spider’s silk had been wound around a rusted poll. Slowly, tenderly, he pulled it out, in one long, clumpy thread. Millimeter by millimeter, inch by inch. As he did so, the knot loosened, the tension ebbed. The wad came free in one final yank. His head dripped with sweat. He was out of breath.

After regaining composure, Ritchy carefully scraped the damp clump off his skin with an oak twig, the bark scratching the space between his fingers. He patted his hands against dried leaves. He felt better, but knew he hadn’t gotten rid of the stomach spiders. They were already hard at work rebuilding what he had torn down.

Mrs. Katherine took her husband’s advice and stayed distant. Weeks passed. She had to give Ritchy space, despite her maternal inclinations. After two daughters, that’s one thing you learn for certain: let your teens have their space. You forget that at your own peril. 

But there were signs she couldn’t avoid seeing. Things unusual to Ritchy. Coming home late. Extra showers. Keeping his bedroom door shut whether he was home or not. His skin looked dry and moist atthe same time. His clothes took on a musty smell of bleach and banana peels. It wasn’t until she saw the holes in his t-shirts that she knew—little pinpricks near the bellybutton area, the size of a seed, with tea-like stains around them. Ritchy was sick.

She started the laundry and called Ritchy’s name. He didn’t answer. Locked in his room again. Hot chocolate! She could bring him one, like she used to, with a half a cap of rum that no one but God knew about, to settle him. She heated the milk, stirred in the cocoa powder, added the cap. A whole cap this time, and a couple for herself. “Ritchy?” No answer.

She knocked lightly, pressed her ear to the door. There was only rustling. Her worst fears sat in the back of her skull like a hot ember. Was he infected? How far had it gone? She turned the handle, inched the door open.

She was too late.

Ritchy lay caught in a web, strung wall to wall. He was stiff, his eyes pale, rolling upward into his skull. His jaw dangled. Saliva coated his lips. Sticky webbing cocooned his legs and abdomen. His stomach had been infested with spiders, and they were already planning their next meal.

She shut the door before he noticed.

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Sources:

• Image: Lannie "Merlandese" Neely III