The night it began, a storm raged outside. Thunder rattled the glass cases in Mr. Sheidele's house, and the wind howled with an unearthly wail. He was cataloging his newest acquisition, a vibrant green beetle from South America, when he heard it—a faint clicking noise.

  It came from the Cicada.

  At first, Mr. Sheidele dismissed it as a trick of the storm, but the sound grew louder. A dry, rhythmic rattle, like brittle bones scraping together. He turned toward his beloved collection, as his heart pounded.

  It moved.

  Pinned for years, the insect's body twitched. Its desiccated wings cracked open, filling the room with the sound of tearing paper. Mr. Sheidele froze, terror and awe warring within him. Then, from the hollow cavity of its body, a voice emerged—a chittering, buzzing amalgam of human and insect tones.

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  "Why do you cage us, Jonathan?"

  Mr. Sheidele's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. "I... I honor you," he stammered. "I preserve your beauty!"

  "There is nothing to be preserved," the voice hissed. "You must learn."

  The room exploded into chaos. The insects in their cases began to stir. Their wings flapped, as their legs scraped against glass, and faint whispers began filling the air.

  "Join us."

  Mr. Sheidele screamed. He ran to the door, but then the air felt heavy, as the walls began to seem alive with an unseen force. Then, something crawled under his skin — followed by an itch, a writhing sensation he couldn't reach.

  When morning came, the storm had passed, but Mr. Sheidele was no longer the same.