Chapter 2: The Widower's Waltz

Chapter 2: The Widower's Waltz

Jack's mind, trained to categorize and neutralize threats, struggled to process the scene. The professional part of him identified the creature instantly: an American cockroach, Periplaneta americana, but of a size that belonged in a cheap horror movie, not a suburban kitchen. The human part of him was simply repulsed, watching Stephanie’s tender caress on the insect's glistening carapace. The jangly 60s love song from the living room suddenly sounded sinister, a mocking soundtrack for a breakdown.

“Travis?” Jack finally managed, the name feeling alien and absurd on his tongue.

“He was my husband,” Stephanie said, her voice soft and reverent, never taking her eyes off the creature. “He passed away last year. A heart attack, right there on the living room floor. So sudden.”

She gently nudged the half-eaten apple slice closer to the roach, an offering. The creature’s mandibles clicked softly as it began to feed.

“Stephanie,” Jack began, taking a careful step back, trying to inject a dose of sanity into the room. “Ma’am, I understand you’re going through a difficult time, but that… that is an insect. A very large one, yes, but it’s a pest. It’s not your husband.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing with a surprising fire. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”

This was the obstacle. He wasn’t dealing with a client; he was dealing with a zealot. Her entire reality was wrapped around this monstrous delusion.

“After he died,” she continued, her voice dropping back into a conspiratorial whisper, “the house was so quiet. Empty. I started playing his old records, just to feel… something. This was his favorite.” She gestured with her head towards the living room, where the upbeat music played on. “One night, I was sitting here, just crying, and this song was on. And then… he appeared. Right here on the counter. I knew it was him. A sign.”

Jack’s gut, that old familiar warning system, was screaming now. This went beyond strange. This was fundamentally wrong. He needed to control the situation, to re-establish some semblance of normalcy.

“It’s a coincidence, Stephanie,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “This is an old house. A large roach found its way in and was attracted to the food.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, a stubborn set to her jaw. “It’s the music. He only comes out for the music. Watch.”

Before Jack could protest, she walked into the living room. The needle screeched as she lifted it from the vinyl. The cheerful song cut out, plunging the house into a thick, expectant silence.

Back in the kitchen, the effect was immediate and horrifying. The giant cockroach, ‘Travis,’ stopped feeding. Its long, whip-like antennae twitched erratically. Then, with a speed that was unnatural for its size, it scurried off the countertop, disappearing into a dark gap between the cabinet and the wall. It was gone.

Jack stared at the empty space, his heart pounding. It could still be a coincidence. The sudden silence, the movement…

“See?” Stephanie said, a triumphant, fragile smile on her face. She walked back to the record player and, with a delicate touch, lowered the needle back onto the vinyl.

The crackle of static filled the air, followed by the same jangly guitar intro. The song started again, its cheerful rhythm filling the silent house.

They both stood there, waiting. Jack felt like an idiot, a paid professional standing in a stranger’s kitchen, waiting for a cockroach to respond to a musical cue. For a long moment, nothing happened. He let out a breath, ready to tell her this proved nothing.

And then, it happened.

Slowly, cautiously, the two long antennae emerged from the crack beside the cabinet, tasting the air. A moment later, the creature itself reappeared, crawling back onto the countertop and making its way deliberately towards the apple slice. It was undeniable. It was impossible. It was happening.

Jack felt a wave of cold dread wash over him. His uncle had told him stories—cryptic, rambling tales Jack had always dismissed as the beer talking. Stories of things that didn’t follow the rules, pests that weren’t just pests. "Sometimes, kid," Alistair had slurred one evening, "the poison you need ain't in the can."

“I’m not crazy,” Stephanie whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “He came back for me.”

Jack’s professional training warred with the primal instinct to get the hell out of that house. He had to say something. To do something.

“Stephanie,” he said, his voice strained. “That thing is a health hazard. It carries disease. It doesn't matter what you think it is, it can’t stay here. I have to get rid of it.”

Her fragile demeanor shattered. The grief and loneliness in her eyes were replaced by a venomous, protective rage. “Get out,” she hissed, her body trembling. “Get out of my house! You’re just like my sister, just like the doctors! You want to take him away from me! He’s all I have left!”

She grabbed a heavy crystal vase from the counter, her knuckles white. Jack raised his hands in a placating gesture. He’d pushed too hard. If he got kicked out now, he’d be leaving her alone with that… thing. And whatever else was lurking in the walls. His duty as an exterminator, the one drilled into him by his uncle, wasn't just to kill bugs; it was to protect people from what came with them. Even from themselves.

He had to make a choice. A terrible, compromising choice.

“Okay,” he said softly, lowering his hands. “Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t understand.”

Stephanie watched him, her breathing ragged, the vase still held like a weapon.

“Listen to me,” Jack said, choosing his words carefully. “I won’t touch… Travis.” The name felt like filth in his mouth. “I promise. But you called me because you have a roach problem. You said there were others. Let me just deal with the other ones. I’ll be discreet. I’ll spray the basement, the attic, check the crawlspace. Keep the… family… safe.”

Her anger seemed to drain away as quickly as it had appeared, the change so sudden it was dizzying. She lowered the vase, placing it carefully back on the counter. A look of profound relief washed over her face.

“Oh, thank you,” she breathed, her smile returning, though it didn’t reach her haunted eyes. “Yes. Travis has brought some… friends… with him. They can be a little overwhelming sometimes. Just… please be quiet. And don’t hurt him. He’s very sensitive.”

Jack nodded, his stomach churning with the lie. “I’ll start in the basement.”

She beamed at him, turning her attention back to the monstrous insect on her counter, cooing at it as if it were a puppy.

Jack grabbed his canister and flashlight, backing out of the kitchen. He found the basement door off the main hallway and pulled it open, the smell of damp earth and that same sickly-sweet undertone of decay rushing up to meet him.

He clicked on his flashlight and started down the wooden stairs, the cheerful, scratchy music from the living room following him into the oppressive darkness below. He swept the beam of light across the concrete floor.

And his blood ran cold.

The light caught movement. Not one or two roaches, but dozens. Scores of them, of all sizes, from tiny nymphs to full-grown adults. They swarmed over the damp concrete, a chittering, moving carpet of brown and black. As his light hit them, they didn’t scatter in a panic. They simply flowed back, retreating into the shadows with an unnatural, coordinated purpose. It was a tide of filth, pulling back from the light, all of them seeming to twitch their antennae in time with the faint, jangly beat of Travis’s favorite song.