Spiders, Rats, and an Old 1957 Chevy

In the center of the garage there is an older model car set up on cinder blocks. When it had stopped running years ago, the wheels along with their like-new tires had been sold off.

Now it’s a home for mice. Generations of them have lived comfortably in its upholstery.

In the rafters, black widow spiders have spun webs to capture the few insects that stray into the garage.

Rats have dominion over the garage floor, finding insects the spiders have missed and also venturing outside to scavenge in the neighborhood garbage cans.

The only time there is any drama is if a spider comes down to the floor looking for an insect meal or a rat climbs up one of the walls to see about making a meal of a spider.

“Now, the house itself is solid and in good shape, but you might want to consider just tearing down that old garage and putting up a new one,” said Andy Fuller, an agent with the only real estate agency in Scottsville, Illinois.

Andy saw the looks of disdain on the faces of his two clients as they stared at the garage. He’d seen that look before. He once again thought to himself that he’d be more likely to sell the old Harris house if he just burned that garage to the ground some night.

But Andy knew if he did burn the garage, just about everybody in Scottsville would know he’d done it. Often when he was having a few at The Silver Dollar he’d expressed that view to those seated near him.

Most of the windows of the garage had been broken and two-by-fours had been nailed over the openings to keep the kids out. The roof was sagging and what was left of what had once been white paint now was a dull grey.

Andy nodded sagely, though he’d definitely never heard “forlorn” used in a sentence before.

“It was never properly cleaned out,” said Andy. “There’s a workbench with some old tools, some ladders and gardening stuff, and a 1957 Chevy up on blocks in the middle of it.”

Andy thought back to a couple of years ago when he first was assigned the property by Bill Sutter, the owner of Sutter Realty. There was only the garage door for an entrance and there was no way to lock it. It had been built back when there hadn’t been a need to lock everything.

He’d opened it up and walked in a bit before stopping at the back of the Chevy. He felt an unnatural hush in the garage as if something was holding its breath. There was also the feeling that he was being watched. Watched very closely as if the watcher or watchers would “do something” — he didn’t know what — if he did something that offended them.

He'd turned to leave and found his way blocked by a large rat. A very large rat. It sat up on its haunches and stared into Andy’s eyes. Andy made to kick at it, but it didn’t flinch. An unpleasant scurrying sound had now replaced that creepy hush that he’d first encountered upon entering the garage.

He'd slowly walked around the rat and out of the garage, brought the door down, and had never gone into the garage again.

“Sure can,” said Andy. “I’ve got the keys right here to the front door. We can just go right up the walk — "

“My grandpa had a Chevy from around that time when I was a kid,” said Tom. “It might not have been a 1957, but it could’ve been.”

Andy felt trapped. If he said “no,” he might lose the sale. If he said “yes,” he could also lose the sale.

The three walked to the garage. Andy seemed to walk a little slower the closer they got to it.

Annie had walked right in and was standing next to the Chevy. “It looks in pretty good shape, considering,” she said. Then she peered into the driver’s side window. “Oh, but it looks like mice have ruined the upholstery.”

Andy looked around nervously. He really wanted to get out of there, but didn’t want to rush his clients. And Tom had said they’d be tearing it down, implying they might be buying.

“Well, there’s not much here,” said Annie. “Maybe an idea for a short story with the car up on blocks like it is —”

They turned to leave, but were stopped by the sight of a couple dozen rats that had aligned themselves in rows two and three deep across the garage door opening. They were all upright on their haunches like the one that had challenged Andy those years back.

Tom and Annie looked at each other with horror on their faces. Annie scrambled onto the hood of the car and made it onto the roof. “Tom! My phone’s in my purse in the car! You have to call 911!”

Tom decided he wasn’t going to let a bunch of nasty rats scare him off. He grabbed a garden hoe from against the wall and shook it at them. None of the rats moved.

In a panic, Andy took an old rotary mower and charged at the center of the line. Three or four rats were caught up in the mower’s blades and brought it to a stop. Andy was now stalled right in the middle of the line, and rats attacked him with a vengeance.

“911, Tom! 911!” screamed Annie. “Get up here on the car and call the police!”

Tom had been swinging the hoe at the rats that were attacking Andy, hitting Andy as often as the rats. He now threw down the hoe and pulled himself onto the roof of the Chevy.

Andy lay face down on the garage floor covered in rats, his body shaking convulsively.

Annie felt the first bite of a black widow spider on the back of her neck. She crushed it and another that had bit her on the arm. And then there were more.

“What the hell?” said Tom as two spiders landed from the ceiling onto his face, biting him before he could brush them off.

“Yup, I’d say it is,” said his partner Officer Jennifer Dobson. “Or was.”

Andy still lay face down on the garage floor, the bloody hoe next to him. Annie Carlson was spread out on the Chevy’s roof, but Tom Clancey had fallen off onto the floor. Blood had trickled from his nose and mouth. Three mice with blood on their little faces lay dead in twisted contortions next to Tom’s face.

“I suppose it coulda happened that way,” Dobson replied. “But then what killed them? And what’s with the rats caught in the lawn mower?”

“Forensics and the Coroner are on the way,” said Caldwell. “They can figure it out.”

“I’m lookin’ forward to the looks on their faces when they take in this scene, Bill,” said Dobson. “It’s a weird one.”

“Sure does. Kinda like an animal house at the zoo. Let’s go wait in the car.”

Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had flash fiction and poetry published in Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama, Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye Whiskey Review, Near To The Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun Honey, 50 Give or Take, Subject And Verb Agreement Press, and a number of other online and print journals. Unweaving a Tangled Web, recently published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.

If Charles Addams, Edgar Allan Poe, and Willy Wonka sired a bastard child it would be the fat asthmatic by the name of Michael D. Davis. He has been called warped by dear friends and a freak by passing strangers. Michael started drawing cartoons when he was ten, and his skill has improved with his humor, which isn’t saying much. He is for the most part self-taught, only ever crediting the help of one great high school art teacher. His art has been shown at his local library for multiple years only during October due to its macabre nature. If you want to see more of Michael’s strange, odd, weird, cartoons you can follow him on Instagram at mad_hatters_mania.