Dad’s Sudden Collapse
“Dad, are you okay?” Mom asked, eyebrows knitting as he slumped into the recliner.
He opened his mouth, a wet sound escaping, “I… feel like I’m going to be sick.”
The kids stared, cheeks flushed, as his hand trembled over the remote.
“Just a little stomach bug,” he tried to joke, but his voice cracked.
Mom’s eyes flicked to the kitchen clock—half past nine—and she knew waiting wasn’t an option.
“We’re going to urgent care,” she said, grabbing my shoulder, the kids’ backpacks thudding onto the floor.
Dad tried to protest, “Maybe I should just rest—”
“No, we need to see a doctor now,” Mom cut in, her tone firm enough to drown his groan.
The car sputtered to life, the summer heat hanging heavy in the air as we sped down the street.
In the waiting room, the fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sterile glow over the worn magazines.
A nurse beckoned us forward. “Your dad’s vitals are a bit off. The doctor wants blood work—parasite panel.”
Mom swallowed, “Parasite? Like the bugs Mom found?”
The doctor, a middle‑aged man with tired eyes, nodded. “Assassin bug bites can transmit *Trypanosoma*; I’ll order the tests.”
He scribbled on the chart, “We’ll have results by tomorrow. In the meantime, keep him hydrated and rest.”
Dad’s hand found mine, squeezing briefly, “Thanks, kiddo.”
We left the clinic, the sky bruised with twilight, the house feeling colder than the night air.
Darkness Falls
Back inside, the humid summer breeze clung to the curtains as Mom plugged in the TV.
“Just a minute,” she muttered, fiddling with the remote, “let’s see if the power’s back.”
The lights flickered, sputtered, then died, plunging the kitchen into shadow.
A low hum rose from the basement, like distant insects humming in unison.
“Did the power go out again?” I asked, heart thudding.
Mom’s voice trembled, “I’m going to check.” She vanished toward the stairs, the wooden steps creaking under her weight.
The kids clutched each other, eyes wide, hiding under the dining table as the darkness thickened.
From the basement, a faint, wet rustle echoed—something scurrying, multiplying.
Mom’s flashlight flickered on, casting a thin beam that caught a narrow crack in the wall.
Through the fissure, a black river of insects surged, an endless tide spilling into the hallway.
“Oh my God!” Mom screamed, the sound ripped by the sudden surge of bugs.
The children huddled tighter, their small breaths audible over the chittering mass.
We were swallowed by darkness, the house’s power gone, the swarm pouring out, and the night closed in.
