"You've got to
come over here," Justin said over the phone.
"What is it
now?" his brother answered. "If you're going to tell me you think
your kidneys are failing or something, they'd better be."
"No, I'm
okay," said Justin. "But I can't leave. Help me, please. They've got
me trapped. They're in the walls, on the floor, crawling up the side of the
bed."
"Roaches again?
Spiders? Just step on them."
"Roaches! I tried stomping
on them. They're too quick for me. Please. Come over. Bring bug spray. Please.
I can't sleep knowing they'll crawl into my mouth."
Harold released a heavy
sigh.
"If I didn't live
down the street from you, I'd say you're out of luck."
"Hurry,"
Justin pleaded. "God, they're on the bed. They're coming towards me."
Harold hung the phone
up. He slowly walked to the kitchen to find the black can of insect killer
before walking up the block to his hypochondriac brother's house. The last time
he had complained about bugs (and once again, it had been roaches) all Harold
had been able to find was a trail of ants marching in a row on the tile floor,
going after breadcrumbs that hadn't been swept up from the night before. On the
occasion when Justin had insisted his appendix was about to rupture, it was
merely a case of bad gas. Countless times he had come to his brother's rescue,
to go after his paranoid fears, chasing away his current ailment. He grew sick
of it.
This is the last time,
he thought. No more. Justin's a man. He needs to act like a man. I can't be his
crutch forever.
Resting on the ground
near the front door was a lit jack-o'-lantern. The face was unusual, and Harold
had to bend down to see it better. The detail was amazing when he finally
realized what the image was. It was the face of an insect, possibly a roach or
beetle.
He reached to ring the
doorbell, but remembered that his brother had said he was trapped in the bed.
The porch was dark except for the pumpkin, and he had trouble finding the
keyhole. Finally, Harold managed to fit the key and unlock the door. He
expected to hear screaming at first but there was nothing, Justin didn't call
out, wasn't crying — nothing.
"I'm here,"
Harold shouted. He walked towards the bedroom, and before stepping through the
doorway, he heard something crunch beneath his foot. Looking down, he saw a
squashed cockroach. He entered the room and saw dozens and dozens of dead
roaches splattered on the floor. Laying on the bed, shaking in convulsions, was
his brother. "Oh, my god!"
He ran forward and
grabbed Justin. When he touched his brother, he pulled back. Looking at
Justin's arms and legs, he could see bulges beneath the skin in the shapes of
roaches, crawling back and forth. Justin stopped shaking. Blood dripped from
his eyes, nose, and mouth. Two of his nose hairs appeared to grow longer as the
antennae from a roach extended. The insect poked its head out. Instead of being
brown like a normal cockroach, this one was deep red, the blood shining and
shimmering off its head and body as it crawled out from the nostril.
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