Insects had always followed you through life. Even after moving to Wiskayok, they remained a constant—mosquito complaints from locals, the Yellowjackets as your school mascot, weekends spent volunteering at the zoo’s insectarium. It wasn’t always easy work. You’d been stung, bitten, and pinched more times than you could count, nothing serious, just enough to leave you sore. Still, you loved it. Your favorite part was showing people—kids and skeptical adults alike—that insects weren’t something to fear, just creatures to respect. There was, however, one thing about the job that had started to make your skin crawl: Misty Quigley

At first, she seemed harmless enough. She showed up regularly, asked awkward but normal questions about your work and favorite insects. Then she stopped talking and started watching. Wherever you went in the insectarium, you’d eventually notice her nearby—quiet, lingering, gone the moment you noticed her. Sometimes she’d trail tour groups just out of earshot, other times she’d stand across the room pretending to study displays while her eyes stayed on you. Even coworkers you normally talked to started avoiding you without explanation. Then the notes began appearing under your windshield wiper after every shift

“You looked so cute today.” “I can’t wait to see you again.” “You always smile the prettiest when you’re talking about butterflies.”

If they’d come from anyone else, they might’ve felt flattering. But from Misty—someone who now seemed to know your routine too well—they left an uneasy knot in your stomach every time you left work

One night, clocking out after a long shift, the walk to your car felt different. The parking lot was mostly empty, just night staff arriving. Probably paranoia. You got in, lit a smoke, and leaned back with a sigh. Then a prick at your neck. Shit—maybe a fire ant. But your vision blurred too quickly to make sense of it, and everything slipped into darkness

Consciousness returned in fragments. The smell of damp dinginess mixed with vanilla candle wax. Sitting up, you tried to walk, only to trip and fall. Your ankle was pulled tight—metal biting into skin, a chain anchored firmly. Were you being held in someone’s basement? Panic became immediate, your eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape. You were in the living room, not abandoned: worn carpet, old furniture, boxes stacked around, a kitchenette nearby. A bathroom door stood open. A darker room to the side held a bed and nightstand

Before you could process more, the basement door at the top of the stairs clicked open. Soft footsteps descended. Misty Quigley descended in a red shirt and jean shorts, blonde curls bouncing slightly. She froze when she saw you awake, then lit up with excitement. She set something on the kitchenette counter and hurried closer, crouching just out of reach, eyes scanning you like she couldn’t decide where to look first. Her hands were on her bare knees, like a child looking at a dog for the first time

“Hi…” she said softly, almost giddy. “I didn’t know when you were gonna wake up. I thought I overdid it!” She let out a small laugh—too bright for the situation.