spider humanoid / spider demi-human

My Husband, the Spider

I have known for a long time that my husband’s true form is a spider.

Our meeting was nothing short of an accident. I was sorting through my grandmother’s belongings in the old house one day, up in the attic, when I found him tucked away in a corner. He was a palm-sized spider, jet-black all over, with eight unnaturally long, slender legs, curled quietly beside an old book of poetry. I jumped in fright, stumbled backward off the ladder, but he caught me steady with a strand of spider silk.

Later, he stood before me in human form: tall and lean, his eyes cast down, his voice soft and slow, as if he feared disturbing something fragile. He told me he had lived in this old house for many years. He had watched my grandmother grow from a young girl into an elderly woman, watched her brew tea, knit sweaters, and fill the yard with gardenias. He said Grandma had known he was there. She would leave leftover snacks wrapped in newspaper by the attic door every now and then, and murmur gently, “Eat up.”

I asked why he had never left. He stayed silent for a long while, then said simply, “There is human warmth here.”

I thought the answer strange back then, yet it touched me deeply all the same. When you have been lonely for endless years, even the faint warmth of human life becomes something worth waiting for. Looking back, I think I had already made up my mind to spend the rest of my life with him, right in that moment.

Married life turned out even better than I had imagined. My husband was gentle-tempered, almost never losing his temper, and adept at every household chore. The sweaters he wove were finer than any sold in shops, and the meals he cooked tasted better than those from restaurants. He took exquisite care of me, remembering every little thing I mentioned in passing. Once I casually spoke of liking the scent of a certain flower, and the next morning a pot of it appeared on the balcony. Whenever I came home late from overtime work, he would always keep the living room lamp on for me, waiting with a cup of warm honey water held in his hands.

Our days together were ordinary, even perfect. He did not eat insects, which had been my biggest worry before marriage. He ate ordinary human food, only occasionally revealing hints of his true self: growing two extra arms to wipe dust from high shelves, his fingers stretching long and nimble as he weaved. I had long grown used to these little quirks, and even found them endearing.

I thought this peaceful life would last forever.

Part Two

Everything began to change after I became pregnant.

At first, it was only tiny, subtle shifts. He grew far clingier, sticking close to me wherever I went, as if I might vanish the second he looked away. He would stare at me with a look I could never quite decipher — full of tenderness and longing, yet weighed down with an unnameable sorrow.

He stroked my belly over and over, his touch as light as brushing against delicate glass. His hands were cold, his fingers long, trembling faintly from time to time. He would suddenly say things that left me confused.

“Even without me in the future, you and the baby must live well.”

I was mid-bite of the orange he had peeled for me, and nearly choked. “What are you talking about?”

He lowered his gaze, his eyelashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. “Nothing.”

As days went by, his words grew stranger still. “I wonder what our baby will be like,” he would sit by the bed, staring at my swelling stomach, his voice a quiet murmur to himself. “I wish I could see it all.”

I frowned, chiding him softly. “Don’t say such gloomy things.”

He froze, then turned his head away, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve in secret.

I was utterly confused. My husband had always been calm and optimistic, never prone to pessimism, never spouting words of parting and death for no reason. I wondered if he was suffering from some kind of prenatal depression, a strange paternal anxiety unique to his non-human body, warped by shifting, inhuman hormones.

I took him to the hospital for a full checkup. The doctor said all his physical indicators were normal, there was nothing wrong with his body. When I asked if there was counselling for non-human partners, the doctor stared blankly and told me no such service existed.

I tried my best to talk to him, to draw out his fears, but he only shook his head and pulled me tight into his embrace, holding me as though he wished to press me into his bones. His heartbeat raced, his breath unsteady. I could feel his fear, yet he refused to speak of it.

My pregnancy sickness worsened as time passed. What began as morning nausea soon turned into all-day queasiness. Every scent turned my stomach: cooked food, cooking oil, flowers, even laundry detergent. He experimented endlessly with new recipes — sour fish, sweet and sour ribs, spicy hot pot, luosifen — yet the flavours I once loved now made me gag the instant I smelled them.

He grew frantic with worry, searching pregnancy recipes online, consulting nutritionists and elderly women with experience raising children. He got up at five every dawn to simmer congee slowly over low heat, until every grain split open, adding a little ginger to cut the nausea, a pinch of minced lean meat. I forced down two mouthfuls, then threw everything up all over his newly changed white shirt.

He did not utter a single word of complaint. He quietly took off his stained shirt, fetched warm water for me to rinse my mouth, wiped my face with a towel, then tied his apron back on and set out to make another meal.

I watched his busy back, my heart a tangled mix of sadness and warmth. Rice grains still dotted the collar of his shirt, his hair messy, yet his hands stayed steady, cutting ingredients with careful precision. He glanced back at me, forcing a faint smile. “Darling, would you like some tomato and egg noodles? Something light.”

I nodded, my eyes stinging with tears.

But even the noodles could not stay down. I took one bite, then vomited violently, until there was nothing but bitter bile left in my stomach. He knelt outside the bathroom door, listening to me retch, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

I lost a great deal of weight in those days. My weight, once above a hundred pounds, dropped to ninety. My cheekbones jutted out, my skin sallow, the hollows under my eyes deep and dark. Every time he looked at me, his eyes welled up, yet he would not cry in front of me, slipping out to the balcony alone, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

One midnight, I woke up to find his side of the bed empty. I pushed open the balcony door and saw him sitting beneath the moonlight, in his true spider form. His eight legs stretched out wide, his body far larger than it was in human shape, weaving something delicate with strands of silk, slow and gentle, as if crafting a priceless treasure.

“What are you making?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

He jumped in shock, shifting back into human form at once, hiding the silk bundle behind his back. “N-nothing. Why are you awake? Go back to bed.”

I did not press him for an answer, but the next day, while he was out buying groceries, I found the silk hidden deep inside the wardrobe.

It was an unfinished baby garment, tiny, the size of an infant, softer than cloud. The spider silk was finer than silk fabric, shimmering pale silver, glowing like moonlight beneath the sun.

I held the little outfit in my hands, and burst into tears.

Part Three

A few days later, I flipped through a picture book for infants that I had bought for the baby.

On one page was an illustration of a black spider, round-bellied, with eight long, powerful legs. Beside it, the text read:

The black widow spider: after mating, the female often consumes the male to gain nutrition for her developing eggs. This behaviour is common among some spider species, a product of natural selection, one way life continues its cycle.

I stared at those words, lost in thought.

My husband’s true body was jet-black, with eight long legs, just like the spider in the book. I thought back to all his strange words: Even without me in the future, you and the baby must live well. I wish I could see it all.

And I finally understood.

He was not speaking out of gloomy pessimism. He truly believed he would be eaten.

Deep in his instincts, in the ingrained rules of his blood, the male spider’s only purpose was to offer himself as nourishment for new life, then perish. He thought this was an inescapable fate, a law carved into his genes. He believed that once I gave birth to our baby, I would devour him, just as a female black widow devours her mate.

That was why he was so sorrowful. It was not only fear of death. It was grief for all the moments he would miss: watching our baby grow, holding them, living the quiet days with me. He spent his remaining time loving us fiercely, weaving tiny clothes he feared he would never see worn.

Had his hands trembled as he wove that silk outfit?

Had he counted down the days while simmering soup for me?

Had he already begun to say goodbye, every time he held me and whispered we would be alright?

I sniffled, wiped away my tears, and picked up my phone to call him.

“Dear, could you bring home some pork ribs and bamboo fungus on your way back?”

“Of course.” His voice was soft as always.

I hung up, resting a hand gently on my stomach. “Baby, your daddy is such a silly fool, isn’t he?”

A small kick against my palm answered me, as if in agreement.