That morning I had only gone into the garage to get an old toolbox. Normally, that was my husband’s domain. He kept everything tidy, or at least knew where everything was. I, on the other hand, rarely went in there. The garage always seemed dark and neglected, and its dim lightbulb flickered as if begging for a replacement.
But for some inexplicable reason, I felt drawn there that day. I went inside and walked along the wall, past stacked boxes and dusty shelves, when something caught my eye in the far corner. There, hidden behind an old cabinet where we had stored leftover paint cans and broken tools for years, was something extraordinary.
At first I couldn’t see it. It was large, strangely shaped, and covered with a thick, greyish-white layer that looked like dust. But then it moved. Not all of it, just tiny fragments, trembling so violently that the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I froze and stared. Then I moved closer, and the air temperature seemed to drop.
What I saw made my stomach churn. It was a nest, not just a cobweb in the corner, not something you could sweep away with a broom. It was enormous, like a living fortress deep inside a closet. It didn’t look real, at least not like anything I’d ever seen. The structure was thick, dense, and fibrous, woven from what looked like layers of cotton and cobwebs tangled together in a swirling cocoon.
Inside, it teemed with life. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny spiders crawled across it, wriggling like construction workers on scaffolding. Others lay still, waiting as if guarding something. And then I saw them: small clusters of white eggs, neatly tucked away inside, just waiting to hatch. The whole structure wasn’t an ordinary spiderweb. It was a city. A hidden ecosystem, thriving, growing, and expanding just a few meters from where we lived.
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