I’m going on sabbatical. Time frame is to be determined, but I’m done getting the mail from the mailbox.

You see, there’s not just mail in my mailbox. There’s black creatures lurking in the mailbox, building their sticky sacks where their thousands of children live. And the worst part of these creatures? They jump.

I should have known better. The signs were there: random webs along the black mail box, hot metal, cool shade inside, random mail and package to hide within.

I thought twice about opening the box. I peered down on the lid making sure no one was lurking inside, hiding in the dark.  I even gave the package a good WHACK against the box before pulling the mail into the car.  If there were occupants in the mail, they needed to vacate now.

I felt safe as I drove up the driveway and took the mail in the house. I’d say I even felt confident. I put the mail on the kitchen counter. Maybe the webs I saw were just random babies traveling the wind, looking for a new home. Far away from me, if they are smart about it.

When I was younger, I didn’t get much mail, so getting packages (not just bills) is like getting a Christmas present every day. You can’t wait to open it, even if you know what’s inside. I started to open the brown paper package and felt something pop onto my hand.

Something unholy escaped my mouth. Not a scream of terror, but rather disgust and guttural darkness The worst was the feeling that something touched me. On my hand. I could still feel where its black, hairy legs pressed against my skin.

I walked like a stiff person away from the counter, babbling something incomprehensible, praying, cursing, swearing. I have never dropped the “f” bomb that much in 10 seconds.

A breath later, I realized the spider was in the house. IT was in the house.

I looked under the bag, and the black spider crouched, waiting. I started to record the encounter with my phone because I was certain I would die. Someone needed to know what killed me.

My son called. I ordered him to come home now. I was his mom, and he should do what I say.

 “How do you know it’s on the bag?” he asked.

“I can see it,” I half-whispered, half-hissed.

“I’m not coming home.”

Mental note: take the only child out of the will.

“I think you should come home,” I repeated.

“Mom, take the tongs and throw it outside.”

This sounded like a horrible idea. It still required me to touch the package and walk the package to the door. The door was about five feet away. Entirely too many steps and I still had to open the door and slide it shut. All while hoping the spider didn’t jump off the package and onto me again.

I kept my son on speaker phone in case this all went wrong and he needed to call 911.

I took the spotlight out of the garage. I had to make sure the spider wasn’t anywhere else and cursed myself for picking dark granite countertops—a mix of black and orange and gold. All spidery colors.

Maybe the light that illuminates a half mile away would blind the spider momentarily. Just long enough for me to toss the package outside.

“You still there?” I asked.

“Yes Mom.”

“Don’t give me attitude son.”

The spotlight illuminated the counter. No spider. Just the package and the rest of the mail. I opened the deck door, grabbed the tongs and hurled the bag outside and slid the door shut.

My heart hammered in my chest, and I took deep yoga breaths. The last thing I needed was a heart attack which might lead me to passing out on the floor and potentially that little spider might retaliate against me, if it was still in the house.

“Are you sure it’s outside?” my son asked.

Super helpful son. “Yes, I’m sure,” I said. I grabbed the spotlight to check the countertops, under the cabinets, everywhere. I took in a deep cleansing breath. My next breath caught in my chest.

Something black crawled around the base of the deck door outside.

“He’s outside!” I whooped, hollered and jumped up and down like an idiot. My son hung up. Crisis averted.

The spider clicked its legs, feeling the heat of the outside and likely wanting to come back into the air conditioning. “Not today you little f#&@#@*!” I cried victoriously.

It clicked its legs, fangs rubbing together. Emerald markings glinted in the sun; its eyes fixed upon me on the other side of the glass. It began climbing up the door toward the door handle.

I locked the door.

***

Two days later, another brown Amazon package arrived, and it looked eerily similar to the previous package. Brown paper, lots of folds and creases.

I looked at my husband. Wariness slid over my skin, and my lip curled up a little. “Did you shake the package?”

“Yes, there’s nothing in there,” he assured me, while flipping through the envelopes.

Confident in his assessment because he loves me and knows my fear of spiders, I lift the bag and began to rip it open. And there along the fold was a black object curled up in a ball.

I screamed.

The package went flying out the door onto the deck.

And this is why I will be officially going on sabbatical from getting the mail until after the first frost.

Wait.

Make that the second frost. Just in case the first frost doesn’t kill all those f&*%&@s!