Ben’s small voice trembled as he spoke, his wide eyes filled with the innocent certainty only a child could have. “I crawled under the table, and I saw the lady’s shoes first. Then I looked up and saw her dress moving. It wasn’t the wind, Mommy. It was spiders—lots of them, crawling all over.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. The image was too strange, too unsettling to process. Spiders? At a funeral? I tried to dismiss it as imagination, a momentary flight of fancy from a tired little boy. Yet, an icy shiver slid down my spine.
I glanced around the crowded reception hall. Guests were chatting quietly, plates clinking, soft music playing. Nothing seemed out of place—no one acting startled or alarmed.
“Are you sure, Ben?” I asked gently, though my tone wavered. “It might have just been the light, sweetheart.”
Ben shook his head with conviction. “No, Mommy. I saw them. Big, hairy ones.”
Arthur, sensing my unease, approached. “What’s going on?” he asked, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“Ben thinks he saw something strange under one of the tables,” I replied, trying to sound casual.
Arthur crouched beside Ben. “What did you see, champ?”
“Spiders,” Ben said again, more firmly this time.
Arthur and I exchanged a wary glance. “Probably nothing,” he murmured, though the doubt in his eyes betrayed him.
We tried to move on, but the word spiders clung to my thoughts. That night, as we drove home in silence, Ben slept soundly in the backseat—peaceful, unaware of the quiet unease his story had stirred.
