In the outskirts of town, where the road gradually turned to dirt and the woods loomed thick, a man by the name of Jonathan Sheidele's lived alone. His house was an oddity, neither grand nor humble, yet undeniably unsettling. Its windows were perpetually concealed behind thick, dark curtains, and its walls seemed to whisper and creak under the weight of the roaring wind.

  Inside was a world of glass cases and shadowy alcoves, all devoted to Mr. Sheidele's singular passion: insects. Beetles with iridescent shells, moths with delicate patterns, and spiders preserved in amber filled his shelves. He didn't just collect; he meticulously preserved each bug, winged or not. Each specimen was pinned with such precision, labeled in perfect script, and lit by soft, flickering lanterns.

  At the center of his collection was the famed collection he lovingly called the "Cicada". It was an enormous insect with blackened wings and gnarled legs. Locals whispered about it, saying Mr. Sheidele had stolen it from a sacred grove. Others claimed it was a relic of some sort. It was even the talk of town when one day, multitudes of cicadas moaned in unison, and only stopped when they went to investigate. Jonathan never really cared for these rumors.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "It's art," he'd say, staring at the cicada. "A testament to the wonder of the natural world."

  But Mr. Sheidele's obsession was no mere admiration. He spent hours speaking to his insects, whispering his secrets and confessions to their lifeless forms. In the silence of the night, the house seemed alive with faint clicks and hums.

  Even the townsfolk, who rarely saw him, felt the weight of his presence. Children dared each other to throw rocks at his house, but none had the courage to linger. Adults kept their distance, too, their unease growing with each passing year.

  Jonathan's devotion towards his collection was absolute, but his obsession would soon lead him beyond the limits of human reason.