Chapter 1: The Collector's Pet

Chapter 1: The Collector's Pet

The van rumbled to a stop in front of a house that was aggressively normal. Manicured lawn, a cheerfully painted blue door, and a row of pristine rose bushes standing guard along the porch. It was the kind of suburban perfection that Jack Carter usually associated with ant problems or the occasional spider scare from a homeowner who’d just watched a nature documentary. But the work order clipped to his sun visor said ‘significant roach infestation,’ which didn’t quite fit the picture.

He cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the weary buzz in his own head. Another Friday, another nest. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scratching his palm, and caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. Faded grey uniform, a slight scar bisecting his left eyebrow—a souvenir from a particularly nasty job in an old warehouse—and eyes that had seen too many things scuttling in the dark. He looked every bit the part of the man you called when the world’s crawling, unwanted things decided to move in.

Grabbing his heavy-duty flashlight and a clipboard, Jack swung himself out of the van. The air in Blinkville always had a peculiar quality to it, a hint of damp earth and something else he could never quite name. His Uncle Alistair called it the smell of ‘potential.’ Jack just thought it smelled like overtime.

He rang the doorbell, and the cheerful chimes were immediately followed by the sound of locks being turned. The door cracked open, and a woman peered out. Stephanie Miller. Late forties, he guessed, with blonde hair that might have once been glamorous but now looked tired and hastily pulled back. She wore a plush velvet robe, the color of old wine, with a prominent dark stain near the hem.

“Mr. Carter?” she asked, her voice a fragile, breathy thing.

“That’s me,” Jack said, offering a practiced, reassuring smile that never quite reached his eyes. “You’re Mrs. Miller? Called about a roach problem?”

“Stephanie, please.” She opened the door wider, clutching the robe at her throat. “Yes, come in. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”

The moment he stepped inside, he was hit by it. A wall of floral-scented air freshener, so thick and cloying it was like breathing in potpourri. It was the smell of desperation, a chemical attempt to mask something deeper, something foul. Beneath the fake lavender and rose, a faint, sickly-sweet undertone of decay tickled the back of his throat. His gut, that old, reliable feeling he’d inherited from his uncle along with the business, gave a low thrum of warning.

“Nice place,” he said, his eyes scanning the entryway. Everything was neat, almost obsessively so. Polished hardwood floors, family photos in silver frames on a side table, a grand piano in the living room gleaming under a layer of dust. But it was all too still, like a museum exhibit.

“Thank you,” Stephanie said, her smile a brittle-looking thing. “The… the problem is mostly in the kitchen. I think.”

As she led him through the house, Jack noticed the music. A scratchy vinyl record was playing softly from the living room—some old 60s rock song, all jangly guitars and lovesick vocals. It seemed out of place in the crushing silence of the home.

The kitchen was as immaculate as the rest of the house, all stainless steel and granite countertops. Jack set down his gear. “Alright, Stephanie, can you tell me where you’ve been seeing them?”

“Oh, just… around,” she said, waving a vague hand. She drifted over to the kitchen island and poured herself a glass of lemonade from a crystal pitcher, her movements slow and deliberate. “They seem to come out mostly at night.”

“Classic,” Jack muttered. He clicked on his flashlight, its powerful beam cutting through the gloom under the sink. He checked the pipes, the corners, the seal behind the dishwasher. Nothing. No droppings, no egg casings, no tell-tale greasy smear of a major roach highway. He pulled out the fridge, the hum of the compressor filling the room. Again, nothing but dust bunnies.

This was the obstacle. A frantic client reporting a major infestation, but the physical evidence was missing. It made the hair on his arms stand up.

“I’m not seeing much sign of a nest back here,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the sterile space. “Are you sure—”

“They’re here,” Stephanie insisted, her voice sharp. She was staring at a spot on the wall, a strange, fond look in her eyes. “He’s just shy.”

He?

Jack straightened up, his back cracking in protest. “He?”

Stephanie blinked, as if waking from a dream. “They,” she corrected quickly. “They are shy. Of course.”

The record in the other room ended, and the silence that descended felt heavier than before. Stephanie’s face fell, a look of profound disappointment crossing her features. She glanced towards the living room, a hopeful, waiting expression on her face. Jack followed her gaze. Nothing.

“Look, Mrs. Miller… Stephanie,” he began, trying to keep his tone professional. “I can put down some traps, spray the perimeter. But if there’s no central nest, it’s just a temporary fix. I need to find the source.”

She didn’t seem to be listening. She was humming the tune from the song that had just ended, her fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on her lemonade glass. She walked over to the record player in the living room, her velvet robe trailing behind her. Jack watched, a sense of deep unease settling in his stomach. This wasn't a normal job. Uncle Alistair always said to trust that feeling. “The bugs are the symptom, kid,” he’d say, “never the disease.”

With a soft click and a crackle of static, the music started again. The same song.

Stephanie sighed, a sound of pure contentment, and drifted back into the kitchen. Her whole demeanor had changed. The tension in her shoulders was gone, replaced by a soft, almost serene calm.

“He loves this one,” she murmured, more to herself than to Jack.

Jack had had enough. This was Friday afternoon, and he wanted a beer and a quiet evening, not a psychological evaluation. “Stephanie, I need you to focus. Where. Did. You. See. The. Roaches?”

She turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading. “You’ll frighten him.”

“Frighten who?” he asked, his patience frayed to a thread.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to the gleaming granite countertop beside the sink. A half-eaten slice of apple, browning at the edges, sat on a small porcelain plate. Her posture was one of absolute adoration, like a mother gazing at her newborn.

“There you are, my love,” she cooed, her voice dripping with affection. “Did the noise scare you? Don’t worry. Mommy’s here.”

Jack’s blood ran cold. He took a hesitant step forward, peering over her shoulder. His professional mind expected to see a small German cockroach, maybe an American one if he was unlucky.

What he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Crawling slowly from behind the apple slice was a cockroach of impossible size. It was a good five inches long, its carapace a glistening, oily black-brown that seemed to drink the light. Its whip-like antennae, longer than its body, twitched and tasted the air with an alien intelligence. It moved not with the frantic skittering of a normal pest, but with a slow, deliberate confidence. It was a king in its domain.

The sight was jarring, a violation of nature. But it was what Stephanie did next that tipped the scene from merely grotesque into the realm of true horror.

She reached out a trembling finger, not to squash it, but to stroke it. She gently caressed its armored back, her touch impossibly tender. The creature didn’t flinch. It seemed to lean into her touch, its multiple, chittering mandibles working silently.

Jack stood frozen, the flashlight suddenly feeling flimsy and useless in his hand. The sweet, rotten smell in the house seemed to intensify, coalescing around this monstrous tableau. The jangly love song from the record player filled the silence, a sickeningly cheerful soundtrack to the madness unfolding in front of him.

“Isn’t he beautiful, Mr. Carter?” Stephanie whispered, her eyes shining with a disturbing, tearful light. “He came back to me. Just like he promised.”

She smiled, a wide, broken thing.

“Say hello to Travis.”