Secrets, Waiting

Paintings wrapped in brown paper lean against each other, feeling familiar to me. I push them aside and find myself standing at the bottom of a staircase with equally familiar chipped white paint on the railing. I already seem to know what's at the top of the stairs. I'm filled with dread, but am propelled upwards by something ancient in my chest.

The room is small, dark, and full of spiders. Taking only a moment to hesitate, I step over, under, and around them, careful not to disturb their webs. But the deeper I go, the less I can see. They are everywhere and they are acutely aware of my presence. They've been here for a very long time, almost like they've been waiting for me. They belonged to my grandmother who I never knew and I have no permission to be here, but I can't help myself. Like a train wreck, I watch my own steps as if I'm a camera lens, disembodied and voiceless.

I glance over my shoulder at the door, where the spiders now seem cartoonish. Again I squint ahead of me, toward the back of the room. My heart beats between my ears. The ones back here are different--blacker than the shadows they inhabit--with sleek, polished exoskeletons that promise suffering. And like the shadows, like truth, like the secrets of my bloodline, they remain hidden in my peripherals, waiting for me to step into the unknown.