Something wicked this way comes.

Our flat's been overrun by a procession of spinsters: spiders, spiders in the living room, in the bathroom sink, on the exterior of the mosquito netting on my bed... a myriad of black, eight-legged creepy crawlies tiptoeing along the ceiling plaster, traipsing across the countertop, tapdancing through my dreams. I'm living in an Edward Gorey picturebook.

And because I live with one A. Livesay, whose parents perpetually kept a "No Spray" sign in their drainage ditch, and who has grown up stubbornly like-minded in the realm of pesticide useage, I can see that there'll be no Chemical Spider Death bombs allowed on my agenda. Instead we'll simply coexist with these spiders until they grow into Shelob proportions and, eventually, eat us alive with a side of relish (using our own cutlery, no less).

Fall is coming. At night you can feel its damp weight in the air.