The Hobby

Image by REVOLT

by

Trisha McKee

It was a cool hobby. Everyone told her that. It gave Sherry something to talk about, something to be asked about at uncomfortable events like work parties or blind dates. She was a striking woman with honey blond hair and emerald green eyes, but she was painfully awkward, always feeling out of place.

The beekeeping hobby gave her something to speak about confidently. No one else had the hobby, no one else knew much about it, so she could inform others, educate them. It was something to hide behind. A mask to cover the past, the pain, the deep-seated distrust of people in general. 

Of course, she heard the whispers. Sherry was socially awkward, but she was not dumb. She knew people talked about the bees and her husband. The awful accident. Gossip at its finest, spoken in whispers mixed with horror and sympathy.

“How could she continue beekeeping after the accident? I don’t understand it.” That was the most common whisper. 

The truth was Sherry could never give up her bees, especially now that her husband was gone. They were her family. What had happened was instinctual. Nature. They had come out to investigate and found that the queen had been missing. The other bees were hyper-protective of the hive. 

“Aren’t you scared?” her coworker, Patty, asked. “I mean, that sounds horrible. Aren’t you scared since they attacked once that they’ll do it again?”

Sherry never knew how to respond to that. They couldn’t understand; they didn’t want to. She said the words she knew would not register. “No. I’m not scared. It was a terrible accident. But Paul didn’t know what he was doing. He had no business being out there without the proper equipment. He never took time to learn about beekeeping, so he was careless.”

As always happened when she gave that response, Patty’s face froze in disbelief, as if Sherry were speaking some demonic language and not the truth. Because how could she speak of her dead husband so pitilessly? So disrespectfully?

The one positive thing about people’s reaction to her answer was that they stopped asking. They simply started to give that vapid smile and ask her how her day was, how the work project was coming, if she heard that the weather was going to be stormy the following few days. 

It was better that way. Sherry was there to work; to do her job and get paid. Then she was free to go home and care for her bees. That was where she belonged, where she wanted to be.

Sherry was tingling by the time she reached the far end of her backyard. And then there was that sound, that vibration coming from the hive. An electric humming striking a chord within her own body so that her nerves, her muscles, seemed to vibrate in sync with it. She was one with the hive. 

And that rejuvenated her, charged her soul, and made her forget the day. This, where she belonged, revved up her spirit and made everything less dark and tangled. 

That night Sherry woke in a cold sweat, her body trembling with leftover images, contorted and disorienting. There was snarling, grabbing, fingers pointing… she gasped for air, for a break in the fog still lingering.

After several moments, that familiar hum filled the room. Hundreds of insects moved as one dark, vibrating cloud across the shadowy room, and she felt her body respond. Once in tune, she was able to return to sleep, the images much less threatening. 

Just when Sherry felt her life was finding routine once again, her husband’s best friend, Karl, stopped by unexpectedly. She let him into the house with a bit of hesitation. They had never been fond of each other. She found his vulgarity and sour breath repulsive. And it was clear he had not been fond of her as he mumbled in response to any greeting or question. 

But now he stood in front of her, his eyes clear instead of the usual puffy, red appearance, his words forceful. “I’ve just had a hard time making sense of this.”

“I know. He was your best friend. My husband. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” She made no move away from the door, hoping he took the hint and did not linger. But instead, he stepped farther into the house.

“No.” His forehead crinkled, his eyes narrowed, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I mean, how he died. Glen hated bees. Was terrified of them. He hated that you had those damn things in his backyard. He would not have gone near them.”

Sherry kept her stare level with his, unblinking and hard. “And yet, he died from multiple bee stings. So, he did, in fact, get near them.”

“Something’s not right.”

“I’m still not sure what you’re getting at.” Despite her outward display of calmness, she felt the sweat collecting at her temples, her palms growing clammy, and before she could order him out, she heard the buzzing of a single bee right by her ear. Soon, she heard the humming get louder as a few more found their way to her.

Karl’s face lost its color, and this time, he stepped backwards, toward the front door. “What the hell is going on, Sherry? What did you do?”

Sherry straightened, drawing in a deep breath. The humming dimmed as she gained control. “You’d better watch what you say or accuse me of, Karl. You’ll sound crazy. Got it?”

Two days later, she parked one street over and watched as he went to his mailbox. His face was a mix of emotions when he pulled out the wooden box that had a picture of him and Glen on the top, but his expression froze when he opened the box and a single bee flew out. 

The message did not stick, as the police showed up a few days later on a tip from an anonymous source. This time she remained calm inside and out as she answered their questions and offered to take them out to her hives. She explained that her husband’s friend, Karl, was grief-stricken and needed to blame someone. Since he had never liked her, she was the target. The answers satisfied them, and they left without even taking her up on the offer to visit her bees. 

But Sherry knew this would only be the beginning. She saw him lingering at the edge of the woods around her house, watching, waiting. She made calls to the police, crying and claiming she was frightened. She went to the station to make a report, stating she did not know why Karl was taking this to such an unnecessary level. The police sympathized with her, but they told her he was not setting foot on her property, so there was not much they could do until he did. 

They asked how the beekeeping was going, and she let them know it was swarming season. Bees would separate from the colony to make a new hive, with a new queen. As with most people who discovered her hobby, they were fascinated, and she explained that a swarm would most likely gravitate toward the woods. She’d collected her last few hives that way. And she was excited to get another one started, so she would be searching the woods the next few weeks.

The next night, Sherry set out into the woods, not surprised when she heard footsteps behind her. Slowly, she turned and faced Karl. “You have to stop this.”

“No!” The word seemed to punch the quiet darkness. “Tell me what happened to Glen. Huh? He didn’t deserve this.”

“Didn’t deserve this? Ha. Okay. He was such a great guy. Yeah, you two, drunk off your asses shouting obscenities about other women. He was fantastic. Kicked me in the jaw one night because I tripped over his fishing gear. Let me tell you something.” She leaned in closer, a hard, cold laugh falling from her lips. “He deserved every second of agony. Covered in bees. That’s how they found him. On the ground with bees just rolling over him, in and out of his mouth, his nose, everywhere.”

“You fucking piece of shit! Crazy bitch!” He stopped and stumbled back, his eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

It was then that Sherry realized her body was humming, vibrating with the hive. He was seeing the transformation, even through the shadows of the night. And she smiled. “I warned you. I told you to walk away from this, Karl. I also told the police about you stalking me. And about the wild swarms in these woods, the same woods I’ve seen you hiding in.”

She stood tall as her bees swarmed past her, charging with an aggression initiated by their queen. She almost laughed as Karl turned and tried to run, his arms mimicking propellers as he swiped at the bees. But she stifled any sound, watching as her hive did their job. Such good worker bees, landing on every inch of exposed skin and stinging. 

Finally, after running in circles, Karl succumbed to the attack and fell to the ground, his screams weakening as his heart started to give out. A heavy drinker, he had been in no shape to run, to form a quick plan. It had been the same for her husband. There was not a chance to escape. 

Then it was time to lead her bees back to their home, and she watched as they settled in, so calm even after the attack. She thanked them, humming her communication and smiling as they hummed back. 

Once in the house, Sherry called the police, and in breathless, teary whispers, she revealed that she had seen Karl on the edge of her yard again and several minutes later, she had heard screaming. She was frightened, too frightened to venture out to see what was going on. The police assured her it was best if she stayed inside, and they would send someone out. 

As she hung up, she watched as a single bee flew around her, still craving its queen.

Trisha McKee resides in a small town in Pennsylvania where even the bees get cranky. Since 2019, her work has appeared in over 100 publications, including Deep Fried Horror, Crab Fat Literary, Tablet, Kzine, and more. She is the author of five novels and is a member of the RWA.