The Brown’s Wedding Photos – Beetlemania part 2

The sad old man knocked on the door.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, this was my sister’s house. I know it’s your place now, but I was hoping you might be able to help me. My name is Jeremiah Brown.”

“Mr Brown, I’m so sorry for your loss. Of course, I’ll try and help you, come on in.”

So now I have to go back down to the basement.

Why did I have to open my big mouth? “Of course, Mr Brown, I’d be happy to help you. I’m sure I’ll be able to find your sister’s old photo albums. Give me your number and I’ll call you when I have something.”

Dammit, the nightmares about those hideous Christmas beetles have only just started to back off; now I have to go down there again.

Standing in front of the basement door, I’m starting to regret agreeing to help the old man. But he was so sad. His rheumy eyes had filled with tears when he’d talked of his sister, Josephine. I’d felt so sorry for him and look where it’s got me- heading down into that hellhole again.

The key is still in the bits and bobs bowl where I dumped it a few weeks ago, after I escaped from the nightmare swarm of Christmas Beetles.

Who cares that it was just in my head? It felt real enough.

The hairs spring up on my arms as a shiver of repulsion runs down my spine. Deep breath.

I rummage around the bottom of the bowl until I find the key. Carefully pushing it into the lock and turning it, I hear a loud click and the door opens onto the landing.

It’s dark. Stuffy dry air washes over me and I’m back in the forest being attacked by Christmas beetles again. I shake my head and flick on the lights.

The staircase sits before me and the basement opens up below in the dim light. Another deep breath.

Come on you cowardly custard. It wasn’t even real, there’s nothing down there except a bunch of boxes and a bit of dust.

I step onto the staircase. One step, two, three. The boards creak as my foot lands and I nearly jump out of my skin. A sweat breaks on my forehead and my skin is clammy. My breath is coming fast and I’m starting to feel dizzy. The prickling hairs on my arms feel like beetles crawling on me. In a panic, I plop down onto the stairs and huge sobs start to wrack my body.

This is crazy. I’ve never been like this before. It was a bump on the head. I passed out and hallucinated. It wasn’t real. There were NO Christmas beetles in the basement.

Time passes, ten minutes, twenty. I scrub at my face and make a decision.

Standing abruptly, I step forward and quickly walk down the stairs. I flick on the light switch at the bottom and the shadows recede to the corners of the room. Looking over to the pile of boxes that caused me so much grief, I see the words “Photos” scrawled on the sides of the bottom box.

Dammit, that’s the one I need. If any of those boxes will have Mr Brown’s parents’ wedding photos in it, of course it’ll be the one that says “Photos”. My thoughts drip with sarcasm.

Deep breath. Here we go. Shoulders lifted for courage, I stomp over to the boxes and pull off the top one. It crashes to the floor, spilling treasures from the last century in a scattered mess. The careless destruction boosts my bravado and I start to rummage through the “Photos” box.

I spy a wedding photo and reach down to grab it when a wave of dizziness passes over me again- can’t do that much head down bum up anymore. I reach for the wall and feel the uneven carving of flowers and leaves. No, no.

I look up to see that the wall has become a door, with the chiselled carvings from my hallucination. It’s happening again. Even though I’m not touching the doorknob this time, the door is pulling me through. I scream NOOOO, and the same scratchy prickly sensation engulfs my whole body as I’m pulled through the door again.

Crunch. I land on a massive swarm of Christmas beetles, and their prickly little feet scratch at my skin and catch in my hair.

The bloodcurdling scream that escapes my throat cuts off abruptly when beetles start to crawl on my face. My hands scrub them off and I shake my head, gagging in horror. I struggle to my feet, spinning around and pushing the beetles away.

Get off you creepy bastards.

They don’t of course- their little clawed beetle feet don’t let go. Not ever.

Screaming at the top of my lungs, I run towards the forest. Beetles crunch under my feet, and I gag as the smell of squashed beetles invades my nostrils.

I run and run toward the trees and I don’t stop. The barbs from thorn bushes rip the skin from my arms, but I feel nothing. The beetle phobia has me in its prickly clasp and I can’t get away.

Finally, I collapse to the ground, sobbing and panting, eyes scrunched tight, hands over my ears. The sobbing eases to a pathetic whimper as I rock on my side, knees to chest in a tight ball.

Enough.