I remember pulling into my grandparents’ driveway when I was six years old to see the place crawling with Them. Everywhere – the scaly trunk of the giant pine tree in the front yard, the splintered and bowing railing of the porch, the elliptical leaves of the azalea bush under the bathroom window – their hard, slick bodies clung with stiletto feet.

Sitting in my Graco booster seat, a year’s worth of contraband candy wrappers crumpled into the pull-out cup holders, I stared out the window in horror. As far as I could see, everything was covered in black polka dots: black polka dots with lifeless red eyes.

My ears were filled with a sickening crunch as the car ran over the diaphanous, yellow shells that littered the driveway. The tires ground them into the shady asphalt. And all around us, there was the hissing of their chirps. It was a sizzling noise, almost like the sound of bacon thrown into the skillet on Christmas morning. But this wasn’t the beautiful sound of delicious pig fat cooking in my mother’s best Pampered Chef pan. This was the sound of something evil, something hideous. Their song rose in a creepy crescendo, punctuated by the swat of the screen door closing as my Nana loped onto the front porch to greet us.

My mom’s car door slammed. I clutched my baby doll close to my chest. I knew I had to get out of the car. I knew I had to go into the house and hug my Nana on that vermin infested old porch. My heart was racing. Tears were welling in my eyes. I whimpered my protestations.

Suddenly, my door was flung open. Leafy sunlight and the vile concerto of the bugs hit me all at once. I cried.

“You have to get out of the car,” my mom told me.

I cried harder. I wailed.

“You can’t just sit in the car.”

My tears were hot lava streaking down my face. My sobs intensified.

“What’s wrong?”

My Nana had come down from the porch. She was standing next to my mother, their faces obstructing the sunlight that spilled through the trees. They were standing on them, their shoes touching the shells, the dead bodies of the grotesque creatures that had clearly vanquished my grandparents’ backyard. Why weren’t they scared? Didn’t they see how dangerous and disgusting these things were? They might as well have just bathed their shoes in hepatitis.

“She won’t get out of the car. She’s scared of the cicadas.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake.”

They were laughing at the child, scared for her life in the backseat of a Toyota Camry while outside the world was gradually consumed – bitten off and swallowed whole – by a swarm of 17-year locusts. How inconsiderate of them.

“Do we need to carry you?”

I could sense the sarcasm in my mother’s voice. She was obviously both amused and annoyed. I nodded my blotchy, tear-stained face. With a sigh, she scooped me out of my car seat and carried me to the house, because that’s what mothers do when their children face irrational fear. They will move Heaven and Earth in the moment, and then, to blushing amusement, tell the child’s first boyfriend about the ordeal years later.

Meghan Beakley is a sophomore studying education and public policy with a minor in English. She is a writer for the student-run news site Panorama and is also a member of Women in Politics, a nonpartisan organization that seeks to empower and encourage civic involvement among women. Additionally, Meghan volunteers with THON and enjoys playing music in her spare time.