Beetles by Brandon McWeeney

The beetles live in the stump out back, festering beneath the rotting remnants of an old dule tree. I call them, and they rise—the black coil of death—thousands of them climbing up, up, up and over each other, hissing and clicking, putting her together like sentient fog. Black fog. Only sometimes, especially when they’re hungry, they don’t quite get her shape right; I appreciate their efforts and reward them dearly, but when they get her wrong, I want to scream.

“That’s my wife,” I tell them when I notice her head is on backward. “Please make her right.”

They make her right, and she says my name: “Tom.”

I always start sweating when she speaks. Sticky sweat. Unnatural sweat. Sweat that oozes like hot glue down the nape of my neck, but once it slips down my spine, it’s cold. As cold as her voice.

“I missed you,” I say.

“Please, Tom.”

Her voice is wrong. I want to scream.

She outstretches her hand. She must be starving. I place the wrinkled finger into her palm, and it disappears in a black flurry. Hungry, hungry beetles. Hissing. Clicking. Eating. The hungry noises swell until my ears ring, and then they quiet down. She opens her mouth made of bugs and spits a pink-painted fingernail at my feet. It bounces off my shoe into the grass. I meant to remove the nail with pliers—shame on me for forgetting!—because my wife is a picky eater, even in the afterlife.

“Honey,” I say. “I missed you. I’ll always miss you. But you can’t stay.”

The beetles hang her head in reply. They are much sharper on a full stomach. Less like fog and more like clay.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that last time.” Her voice is warmer now, thanks to the finger. Thanks to me.

“That’s all I had left, “ I say. “I can’t do this anymore.” I bend over, hips clicking, and pick up the fingernail in the grass.

“No,” she croaks. “You can’t stop. Not as long as you love me.”

“I do …” love you, I want to say, but the words do not come as I stare into her beetles-for-eyes. I sigh deeply and hold out my hands, which always tremble feverishly around the stump where her true form left me. She grabs my hands, the beetles tickling my fingers as they settle into shape. They even form a slight ridge where her wedding band would have been. The more I feed them, the more of her they give me. We hold hands awhile before I am swept by a sudden, chilling horripilation.

This is not my wife. I know it, but I still feed her. I still feed them.

“I have to go.”

“Please, no. I’m scared,” she says, an octave too deep. It’s all wrong. “Don’t let me starve. We love you. Don’t you love us?”

It irks me when she says, ‘we’ and ‘us.’

Before I can answer, a familiar voice calls my name, and much quicker than she arrived, the hissing heap crawls back into the stump and disappears. I want to scream.

“Hey, buddy,” says neighbour Bill, peaking timidly over the shadowbox fence. “Never seen you with a beard before. Hardly recognized you.” Silence, and then, “How’ve you been?”

“Dandy as candy, buddy.” And then, after a sigh: “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Pause. “Did you hear about Ruth?”

“Yes.” I slip the pink fingernail into my back pocket. “She should be in a home at her age. You know how they can get lost.”

“It’s been nine days.”

“That long?”

Bill frowns. “Hey, listen bud—Tom. Why don’t I come over for a beer? We can watch the game tonight and hang out. For old times’ sake.”

I want to answer, but I feel a tickle around my ankle. A beetle is crawling up my pant leg. I feel it trekking up my thigh, crawling over the crest of my bad hip and through the salt-and-pepper on my chest. I wonder if Bill can see it crawling up my neck. He isn’t gaping or screaming, so I doubt it.

The hissing starts up again—only this time, it’s in my head.

“Okay,” I say. “Come on over.”

Brandon McWeeney

Image by Dariusz Staniszewski from Pixabay – Black Beetle.