Dear Creepypasta [#Wattys2016]

Bugs

"Crazy old man. Can you believe it? Fifteen years without ever leaving the house? Surprised he lived this long. Oh well, even the crazies go sooner or later. I don't envy you, Jimbo. You got the tough job."

This was Tom, my so-called boss, talking as he drove us to our next job. I call him my "so-called" boss because a real boss actually pays his or her employees. But not Tom. He owed me two weeks' worth of wages so far. He didn't know it, but I was quitting that week if he wasn't going to cut me a check soon. That's the promise I made to myself that morning, anyway.

Tommy was about 25 years old, good-looking, with a backwards baseball cap and a too-small tee shirt for a uniform. His work van was a rattling tank filled with fast food wrappers and a huge roll of carpet. Floors were Tom's business: carpeting, tiles, vinyl. He hired me as a helper, which meant I did the grunt work. I didn't mind, though. I hoped to learn what I could and one day start my own business. It would mean more money for my kids.

Yep, that's right. Kids, as in plural. Three, to be exact. So I didn't really have the luxury to hop around from job to job, despite the pep talk I'd given myself that morning. I just had to trust Tommy, which wasn't easy. He said he was getting an influx of cash that week and he'd catch up with me then. As we pulled into the driveway of our latest project, I prayed he was telling the truth.

You've heard of "fixer uppers"? Well this place was a "tear it the hell down and start again-er," a small, one-story wreck with missing shingles and a faded blue exterior. The yard looked like a thorn-studded jungle, and a filthy green hatchback sat on flat tires in the driveway. My first thought was, why were we even there? This was a job for a demolition crew.

It was dark inside, so we threw aside the curtains and let sunlight pour in through the grimy windows. The interior of the house was much nicer than the outside. In the den was a beautiful red-cushioned chair made of solid oak. Next to it was an easel with an unfinished landscape painting in it. Nearby was a brick fireplace, and above it was a painting of a slightly smiling, dignified old woman -- was that the owner's mother?

The old man kept the place tidy. I almost took off my shoes before walking onto the thick white carpet, but Tom said, "Forget it. It's all coming out. " Tear this stuff up? What a waste. Still, it wasn't a helper's place to question the boss. I gathered the tools I'd need: pliers, knee pads, utility knife. Then Tom brought in his gigantic tool box and plopped it in the kitchen. "You're on your own today," he said. "Text me when you're done."

"Where you going?"

"I uh, gotta meet with this contractor about another job. I'm sure you can handle it." He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I've never been more than a worker, a helper, a ditch digger my whole life. It made me feel good to know he trusted me to do most of the job myself -- even if I wasn't 100% sure I could handle it. I gave him a hesitant OK, and a few minutes later, he was gone.

Well shit, I thought as I surveyed the room. He could have at least helped me move the furniture. The stuff weighed a ton. I had a good sweat going by the time I moved the chair and easel into the kitchen. Then I grabbed my pliers and yanked up a corner of carpet to begin my work. Plumes of dust flew up. The guy must have only been using a broom to clean everything. Just how long had he been without electricity? I tied a bandana around my face and peeled more of the carpet back.

I saw the eye when I removed the first square of padding. It was painted on the hardwood floor, a big, bloodshot eye that was wide-open in alarm or fright. I stared at it for a while, thinking that perhaps it was just a trick of the light and shadows, but it wasn't. I looked out the window -- maybe Tom would be coming back soon?

I removed the rest of the den's carpet to reveal a giant painting on the floor. Tears from the eye flowed into a pitcher held by a stick figure with a tail. He was surrounded by other figures, all of whom were busy with various tasks: some danced around with knives, other tore the arms off other stick figures, some decapitated themselves by yanking their heads off.

Hovering above them all was a monstrously fat beetle. Tentacles led from its body to some of the figures. Blood dripped from it pincers. And off to the side, as if added as an afterthought, was the old man sitting at his easel. His throat was cut but he kept his head up and continued to paint.

I walked out of the house and took a seat on the bumper of the old hatchback. Deep breaths, deep breaths -- this was too much for a first job. Then I thought about my kids, and how school was coming up, and how expensive new clothes were going to be. I steeled myself and went back inside to finish.

I tore open Tommy's toolbox. I wanted a crowbar to finish this thing faster. A receipt fluttered out of the box. The date on it caught my eye: September 29, just a few days prior. Judging from the drinks listed, it was a bar receipt. No, scratch that -- it was for a strip club.

I searched around the toolbox and found another receipt for the day before that. Then I found one for a steak dinner at a fancy restaurant in town and another one for a video game. None of them were for tools or anything work-related.

I felt like such an idiot for trusting Tommy. There he was swearing up and down that he couldn't pay me, but meanwhile he's tipping strippers and munching on steak and lobster. I suddenly didn't care about any spooky artwork or some old man's idea of a joke. I walked right up to the painting of the beetle and flipped it the bird.

"You know, your proportions are all wrong," I said. "And these little stick figures suck! What the hell happened to hard work? Why does everyone rip everyone else off --" With that, I stomped to the edge of the hallway and ripped up carpet and padding all at once.

On the floor were more markings. This wasn't a painting, though. It was the word "No" written over and over again in different languages. The words formed a funnel shape. I followed it, pulling up the carpet as I did so. It led me down the dark hallway until it veered to the right and ended at the wall.

I knocked on the wall and my fist punctured it. It was made of paper. I tore it open to reveal a red door with a silver doorknob. I started to open it -- then stopped. What exactly happened to the old man that used to live here? Tom never told him how he died. Did he slip away peacefully in a rest home, or was it something...

Not so peaceful. I opened the door and found a closet with a little green button on the wall. So, what do you think I wanted to do? Push it, of course. But I was nervous. What if it was a bomb?

Nah, it wasn't a bomb. He would want a bomb to be easier to find. I decided the old man was an eccentric weirdo who put the button there on a whim. Maybe it would even reveal a cache of money? I laughed at the thought as I pressed it and immediately heard a low-pitched whirring emanate from the den.

Of course, I thought. All the damn button does is turn on the fireplace. I walked out into the den. The noise wasn't coming from the fireplace, but from right above it. It was the painting of the old man's mother. It was -- changing.

The oil paint melted and swirled as the old woman spiraled into a faceless glob. The frame shook as the dark mix of paint took the shape of a beetle, just like the one under the carpet, only larger.

And realer. The creature snapped each leg from the wall and shook off the excess paint. It braced all six appendages against the wall and pushed its body out from its two-dimensional prison. Then two antennaes plunged forth from its tiny head.

But it's what I saw next that made me run. The tiny head swung in my direction. A black piece of carapace split open to reveal an old woman's eyeless face. She made a sucking noise at me before she suddenly flipped backwards off the wall onto the floor.

Instead of coming right at me, though, she paused for a moment. That's all the time I needed to rush out the back door, leap over the fence, and run until I passed out.

The police would ask me later if I remembered seeing Tommy's van pull into the driveway. I didn't -- it must have happened right when the beetle was emerging. However, the more I thought about it, I did start to recall a noise in the front of the house right as the beetle dropped to the ground. It was the front door being opened.

Sorry, Tommy.