I ascend the stairs with military caution— keeping my head on a swivel for the rogue huntsman that terrorized my balcony only days earlier. It’s the second of its kind to lurk by my door.

I must look like a deranged, absentee father rifling through discount presents trying to find anything to salvage a meager relationship with their neglected child. Wild eyes and a fear of being challenged head on. The huntsman holds the psychological advantage, that eight-legged fuck.

The summer heat is a brutal, watery heat. Sweat droplets gather on my arm as I debate turning the AC back on. I open the sliding door and ponder just using the breeze. It’s not much help, but it’s something. And then I see them— I rarely look down into the door tracks, except to ensure the rickety screen door doesn’t fall off again. But I see those brown legs stretching out from the sides of the metal.

I had been looking in the wrong place every time I looked up.

The monster lived below.