A Buzzing

Something is in that bug…

That sound had always gotten on my nerves. It gets on most people’s nerves. It is that buzzing of that moth flying around my bedroom light. Somehow it gets under my skin so much. On this particularly Saturday evening, as I was reclining and catching up on the latest game in the NCAA tournament, it was as annoying as if the whole stadium had been filled with people spitting out of vuvuzelas.

I switched on the light and went into the kitchen to fetch the fly swatter. My housekeeper, Helen, a short, old, white-haired woman always left it there. But before I could grab my good blue plastic old weapon of mass fly destruction, I heard it.

The buzzing had changed. It had grown deeper and repetitive. It had gone from a monotonous drone to a steady, pulsing beat, almost like African drums of war.

Being a musician, my perfectly toned ear easily picked up to sounds like these, so I shrugged off the change. After all, what does it matter how a fly sounds, as long as I swat it? I grabbed the fly swatter and marched back into the living room. I turned on the lights and looked around for the little devil.

It was there, on the armchair.

Stealthily, I snuck to the side of the chair. I readied my arm, and SMACK!

The fly was dead.

I went back to watching the game. My favorite team was winning, so I was feeling good.

Soon it was half time. I went into the kitchen to refill my bowl of chips. Then, the buzzing returned.

The fly had brought its cousins.

This time, the droning note emanating from the nuisance’s mouth was higher. It landed on the rim of my bowl. Annoyed, I raised the swatter, but in the reflection across the bowl’s surface my eye caught something that sent a strange chill down my spine.

The fly’s eyes were a dark black, as if they were only hollow sockets.

Nevertheless, I brought the swatter down, refilled my chips, and went back to watch the game.

By the middle of the second half, my team was winning so much that I began to get a little bored. Most of all, however, I needed to take a bathroom break. That was when I heard the third fly.

I heard a buzzing downstairs in the basement. Now, my basement isn’t the cleanest place. A few summers ago, I had had a rat colony and, unfortunately, since then, I think I had probably left a few survivors. But it turned out that I wouldn’t have to worry about the rats…

I began to take a few steps down the stairs all the while hearing the buzzing of that annoying fly. The air around me began to grow cold. A nasty smell reached my nose. Then something brushed my leg. Suddenly, the buzzing grew louder and multiplied.

“Stop it!” I screamed.

Then it suddenly cut off.

I tripped and fell down the remaining 5 stairs.

There was a long silence. I recovered myself and began to walk back towards the stairs. Then, the fly landed on my shoulder.

I love you, it said. I don’t want you to die.

At this point, I was about to call the mental helpline. I was being talked to by a fly. But you have to.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed.

I wish I could, it said. But then, the buzzing began to grow again.

It was compelling me. My mind began to wander. I stumbled about the basement in extreme annoyance and finally came upon the washing machine. I opened the lid.

The body of Helen was stuffed inside. Her white hair fell over a wrinkled face. In her left hand, she still clenched a bottle of detergent. She had the same black eyes as the flies. A rancid smell filled the room, and I was overtaken by a feeling of light swiftness.

I fainted.

I awoke to the sound of a detention cell door being opened.

“Mr. Jamison, you have been convicted of the first degree murder of Helen Kernes.

Anything you say can and will be used against you.” The police officer walked away.

The fly landed on my shoulder.

I’m not done with you, It said.

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Originally posted on Crappypasta.com

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