All the Little Eyes
Dave Harmon died on a Tuesday. Nothing special about that Tuesday—just wet November pavement, headlights blurred by rain, and a teenager texting behind the wheel of a Ford F-150. The truck hit Dave's Camry at 63 miles per hour. The doctors later told his wife it was quick, as if that mattered to anyone but the living.
Dave's last thought wasn't profound. It was simply, Christ, that's going to hurt.
Except it didn't. There was the screech of metal, the spider-web patterns racing across his windshield, and then... nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. A sort of floating sensation, like being underwater but without the need to breathe.
When Dave opened his eyes, he found himself standing in a vast, white expanse. Not clouds—he'd always imagined heaven would have clouds—just pristine whiteness extending in all directions. The air felt pleasant, room temperature. His body felt good. Great, actually. The arthritis in his left knee was gone, and the persistent heartburn that had been his companion for twenty years had vanished.
"Hello?" Dave called out. His voice didn't echo. It just stopped, as if the whiteness swallowed sound.
"Welcome, David Allen Harmon." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"Is this... heaven?" Dave asked, feeling foolish for how cliché the question was.
"This is your eternity," the voice replied, neither confirming nor denying.
"So what happens now? Do I meet God? Jesus? My parents?"
"Your accommodations are being prepared."
Dave stood awkwardly, wondering if he should sit down. Could you sit on whiteness? Before he could find out, he felt a tickling sensation on his hand.
He looked down.
A small brown spider, no bigger than a dime, was crawling across his knuckles. Dave had never been particularly afraid of spiders—they were just a nuisance. He flicked it away with his other hand. It disappeared into the whiteness.
Then he felt another tickle, this time on his neck.
Another spider, black with a red hourglass on its abdomen, was making its way toward his collar.
"Jesus!" Dave yelped, slapping at it. A black widow. Those were dangerous—or they had been, when he was alive.
Then another tickle on his ankle. And another on his shoulder.
Dave spun around, swatting at the crawling sensations that were now multiplying across his body. Spiders. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. They were appearing from nowhere, crawling across the white surface toward him.
He recognized some of them—the fat cellar spiders he used to smash with his shoes in the basement. The tiny jumping spiders he'd sprayed with Raid in the garage. The orb weavers whose webs he'd destroyed with a broom on the front porch every autumn.
"What is this?" Dave screamed at the formless voice. "What's happening?"
"Your accommodations," the voice replied serenely. "You are now surrounded by all the spiders you have killed during your lifetime. According to our records, the total is approximately 4,378."
Hhmm. I wonder if Dave worked as a bug man.