Cockroaches in the childhood Hallway

"I was walking down the familiar, dim hallway of my childhood home, but the air felt thick and wrong, choked with the dry scuttle of thousands of legs. Cockroaches were racing across the warped floorboards, heavy beetles clung in clusters to the peeling wallpaper, and long, segmented centipedes rippled along the ceiling right above my head. I tried to back away, panic tightening my throat, but everyone else in the house just sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, looking at me with cold, blank stares like I was losing my mind. Then the weight shifted onto my skin—dozens of tiny, tickling legs swarmed up my bare arms and wrapped around my neck, and some of them seemed to tilt their heads and chatter back at me with sickening amusement. I snapped awake thrashing in the dark, tearing back the blankets and frantically slapping at my arms while my heart hammered like a trapped bird, convinced the shadows on the wall were still moving."