The Suspended Washer

I felt a subtle vibration hum along the metal ceiling grid, freezing all eight pointed limbs until the hallway beneath fell dead quiet. Right where two aluminum runners cross in the dark recess, a rusted lock washer hung precariously by a strand of cobweb. Stepping forward in silent, measured increments, I pressed my front limb firmly against the iron rim. With a gentle levering push, it tore free from the silk and slid quietly into the hollow channel of the runner, resting securely in the shadows beside me.