Whispers from Elsewhere #2

I'd heard it most when on the cusp of sleep:
A whisper, unlike a voice, that scurried
From one ear to the next 
Murmuring something light and breathless
Before slipping into the grey-black hum
Of a room bent on rest.

Usually I'd turn, pull the sheets to my nose
And breathe the scent of yesterday’s warmth
(something of lotion and laundry and skin)
Which was all the henchman needed
To drag me by a dreamy foot
Into the realm where scampering whispers
Made sense.

But tonight I thought, why not?
And shot wide, searching eyes
To the ceiling I could not see and said,
"You know, 

I can hear you,
And I don’t speak whisper 
So if you have something to say
I'll need you to say it in English, 
Thank you very much."

The light came from somewhere
—I don't know where—
And only enough to glimmer hazy moons
Across eight black eyes descending
From the air above me.

"You’re the whisper," I said.
And the spider said, I am.