"GET OVER HERE, PLEASE!" you continued shouting, armed with a tennis racket, standing on top of the dresser in your bedroom, eyes wide with pure fear.

The huge spider on the other side of the room stared you down with its dozens of eyes, as if mocking you. Such a tiny thing, barely the size of your palm, and yet a creature a hundred times it's size with multitudes the strength, —you— ran away screaming in your bathrobe, panic seizing you.

"I'm 'ere, I'm bloody 'ere. Where is it?" Ghost panted, having run from the backyard where he was busy tending to the tomato plants to get the necessary tools to take away the pest —a sheet of paper and a jar—, and now stood at your doorway, scouring your walls for any sign of the malicious little insect, rolling his eyes when he catches sight of you standing there in such an awkward place, petrified.