When my son, Jake, came home with a mysterious box from our creepy neighbor, Mr. Carson, I was uneasy. Nothing could have prepared me for the horror that emerged when Jake opened it.
“Mom! Look at the gift Mr. Carson gave me!” Jake held up a small wooden box, grinning. Mr. Carson was an elderly neighbor who always seemed to have a dark cloud hanging over him, making me instantly suspicious.
Jake pried open the lid, and a swarm of tiny insects spilled out, scattering everywhere. I screamed, swatting at the bugs crawling on Jake’s arms. Despite our efforts, they were everywhere. The situation worsened as the bugs started biting Jake, leaving red welts.
Driven by desperation, I confronted Mr. Carson. “What the hell did you give my son?” I snapped. He smiled sinisterly, saying, “Revenge. Your family is living on my land. I’m just taking back what’s mine.” Furious, I knew we had to leave.
Packing quickly, we fled to my sister Liz’s house. “Mom, are we ever going back home?” Jake asked. Fighting back tears, I promised, “I don’t know, Jake. But I promise we’ll find somewhere safe.”
Days later, our neighbor informed me that Mr. Carson’s house was now infested with the same bugs. “Karma,” she said. I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction.
We rebuilt our lives in a new apartment. One evening, Jake asked, “Mom, do you think we’re safe now?” I hugged him tightly, “Yes, Jake. We’re safe.” And together, we moved forward, stronger from our ordeal.
