I’ve heard that this is something that a lot of girls go through, but then they grow out of it. Once the teenage hormones settle down, the irresistible urge to climb the walls fades. Spiderwalking is forgotten when the demands of adult life drag us—perhaps unwillingly—from our ceilings. Only women who are especially disturbed or attention-seeking carry on this way after high school. Certainly, after college, they’ll be done with it. But I’ll be 30 soon, and I still spiderwalk most every night.
I lie awake in bed past midnight—I don’t want to check the time and learn how long I’ve failed to fall asleep—thinking about all the emails that are probably in my inbox right now. Surely there is spam. Discounts on liposuction treatments. Payday loans. I bet there are updates from the magazine that I paid to subscribe to, but never actually find the time to read. There’s probably an email from my boss. Exciting new client! She’s always calling things exciting, as if we work at a theme park rather than a moderately successful marketing firm. I wonder if my mom will send me a virtual birthday card this year.
I’m not going to manage to sleep like this. Maybe a short spiderwalk is just the thing I need. It doesn’t really hurt anything.
I shake off the dull gray blankets and stand. The cold of the scratched hardwood floors immediately bleeds into my bare feet. I stand in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. I reach up my left hand, the bristly little hairs on my fingertips clinging to the imperfections in the seemingly flat surface. My right hand goes up. Then one foot. Then the other. I climb above the window and tap the flimsy curtain rod with one toe. Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.” I smile to myself.
Nearly two years ago now—has it really been two years?—I was dating a man with wavy hair and an easy smile. I think he loved me. He always remembered our anniversary, and sometimes he bought me flowers just because. But he couldn’t stand the spiderwalking. My skittering would wake him in the middle of the night, and he would cry out please, come down from there!
But I couldn’t. Even his love wasn’t enough to keep both my feet on the ground. When he got his PhD, I missed his commencement ceremony; I was busy climbing from room to room. He eventually told me that he couldn’t stand by while I sabotaged myself. I watched him pack his bags from where I crouched next to the dusty ceiling fan. He took the TV with him and all the bathroom towels, which seemed more spiteful than anything else.
I like the way my hair hangs above my head when I’m on the ceiling. Dirty blonde. I always thought it was a mean descriptor, but it’s the best term for the locks that race and trip over each other towards the floor. I stand up straight—upside down—to see if my hair will actually brush the floor. Not quite, but it’s tantalizingly close. A couple more inches. I am a spiderwalking Rapunzel.
I climb across the room, over the lintel, and into the hall. I don’t need the lights on to know what it looks like. It’s the same landlord white as the day I moved in. I never hung any pictures.
In the cluttered living room, I look down at the furniture that the wavy-haired man helped me pick out years ago. From the ground in the light of day, the couch looks a little shabby and stained. From the ceiling at night, it looks plush and comforting, like if I dropped down I’d sink in and never have to leave. I remember the way the wavy-haired man used to collapse into it, smile on his face—as if smiling was the simplest thing in the world—with one arm outstretched for me to nestle into. The version of me that had obliged, resting my head on his shoulder, feels very far away.
In the corner, just above where the TV used to be, one of my kin is building her web. I creep closer on careful hands and feet. The way her little, black body moves, each step planned, is mesmerizing. Eight limbs working in perfect unison. How simple it would be to be a true spider. To spend my days only concerned with maintaining a web in the corner of a house that someone else pays for. When I was younger, I often hoped that I would gain the ability to spin webs. But I couldn’t even figure out how to knit.
Watching spiders makes my chest ache. I leave her behind and scurry into the dining room. My fingers are cramping from gripping the ceiling so firmly. I squat, feet clinging to the ceiling, so that I can massage my hands, one in the other.
On the table, in the spot where I eat dinner most nights, is a stack of mail. On top of the pile is a save-the-date for my cousin’s wedding. Twenty-one is too young to get married. What do they know about anything? But I met her fiancé at a family function a while ago—I can’t remember when—and she seemed like a perfectly nice girl. They held hands all night and giggled to each other in that private way that people do when they’re in love. I wonder if either of them spiderwalks.
The save-the-date is dominated by a picture of the two of them in summer dresses on a beach somewhere, their hands tangled together. From where I’m perched, they’re the ones who are upside down. Their feet are stuck in the sand above. The ocean and the wide, blue sky stretch below their heads forever. A whole world upside down. I laugh at the thought.
The blood is rushing to my head, but that’s good. It makes everything weird and warped. The man with the wavy hair didn’t like when this would happen. He would say Your face is turning beet red, with evident disapproval. Beet red. What a strange expression. Of all the red things in the world to compare me to! I wonder if my face really is as red as a beet. That would be interesting at least. Maybe later I’ll climb into the bathroom and check the mirror.
The clock on the oven reads 00:E. It’s three in the morning, but I don’t feel tired. This is the most awake I’ve felt all day. I wonder if I could dance on the ceiling? Maybe then my childhood tap classes would pay off. Although I don’t know that the upstairs neighbors would be thrilled. But while I may be reckless, I don’t actually want to fall from up here. A brain injury would in no way improve my life, so I stay on hands and knees.
The thing is that I’m fine. My life is perfectly fine. I got a good job right out of college. I talk to my parents every week. I’m in a book club! My mom was more upset than me that I let a doctor become the one who got away. It’s fine.
I scurry back to my bedroom, climb down the wall, and drop back into bed. The blood that has pooled in my head is rushing back to the rest of my body. I am an hourglass whose top is quickly draining. The blankets have grown cold from the lack of my body heat. I nestle back in. Perhaps tomorrow, I won’t feel the need to spiderwalk. Maybe I’ll wake up better than fine. I’ll enjoy a weekend lay-in and then I’ll go grocery shopping. I’ll meet for book club (though I’ll have to hurry and finish the book first). I’ll call my mom. Maybe I should call my cousin as well to congratulate her on her engagement. I’ll meal prep for the week, and it will make me feel accomplished and mature. It’ll be great.
Sure. Tomorrow.
Emilee Mae received an MA in Writing from Rowan University in May 2025. She writes primarily for middle grade readers, but she also enjoys writing more mature short fiction and personal essays. In her free time, she likes to read, crochet, and garden. She lives in South Jersey with her little brothers and her even littler cats.