I also learned while staying in Santo that it was always necessary to check the light fixtures.  The wood scorpions that lived in the brush along the acres of my grandparents’ acreage sometimes came in the house when it rained.  They’d crawl down into the attic, eventually making their way into the dome part of the light fixtures, where their scorpion silhouettes could be seen illuminated from above.  The problem with the scorpions was that if they didn’t die from the heat of the bulb, they’d occasionally escape, dropping down angrily onto the floor, stinging whomever and whatever they came into contact with first.  Sometimes if we found the scorpions still alive, they’d get shaken out of the light fixture and into a glass jar by my dad, so my sister and I could examine them more closely.   I remember when my dad wasn’t paying attention, my sister and I would shake the jar violently, watching in horror as the scorpion tried to strike our fingers through the glass.

Read this story in its entirety