Chilling Horror Stories

Ecdysis Two

***

Dr. Allison's office doesn't smell like soap. It smells like lavender and tears. There is no music in here, only the soft, predictable tick of a clock counting down the minutes with malign diligence. The walls are lined with bookshelves, nearly organized. A desk with a computer, a stack of folders (patient files), a fountain pen, and a lead crystal paperweight is nestled in the corner. Hear the center of the room are a high-nsck leather chair and a couch. She sits in the chair and gestures to the couch. Usually, I lie down. Today, I sit.
She comments on my beard, says she likes it (she's lying), and then asks how the last week has been. I tell her my roommate is mad at me because he thinks I killed his cat. She asks if I did, and I tell her I didn't (I'm lying, sort of), and she asks how that makes me feel.
I tell her I feel itchy.

***

The last time I saw Mamma alive, she was lying in an expensive hospital bed. The bugs hadn't bothered me in months, and both Dad and Dr. Carlson thought it would be okay for me to visit.
She looked different. Not like Mamma at all. Her soft yellow hair had been cut short. Dad said it was because she'd been pulling it out. The medical word for this is trichotillomania. There were little red sores all over her face and scalp, and she wore mittens that she couldn't take off.
Mamma just lay there, ignoring both me and my dad, murmuring over and over again that she was hungry. I begged Dad to get her something to eat. He patted me on the head, told me I was a good boy, and asked me to keep Mamma company while he stepped out to get some graham crackers.
As soon as he was gone, Mamma popped out of bed like some lunatic, termite-infested jack-in-the-box. She told me that the bugs were hungry. That if she didn't feed them soon, they would eat her instead. Tears welled up inside her eyes; tiny black specks swam in them. Mamma kissed me on the forehead and I felt something crawl out of her lips and up onto my scalp. I pulled bs k, running my hands through my hair, trying to dislodge the invader.
When I looked back at Mamma, she was standing very still, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was open wide, and a terrent of black vomit (not vomit, vomit doesn't writhe) spewed from it.
I screamed and screamed and screamed.

***

Dr. Allison asks if the new pills have been helping. At first I don't answer. I'm staring at the floor. One of the bugs has escaped. It's meandering across the nylon weave.
Formication is the medical term for the sensation of insects crawling in or under the skin. But it's the itching that really bothers me. The medical term for this is pruritis.
She asks again if the pills are helping.
I answer in affirmative.
Dr. Allison follows my gaze, asks what I'm looking at.
I change the subject.

***

The last time I saw Mamma, she was lying in an expensive wooden box. Her hair was long and soft again (a wig), and makeup coveted most of the holes in her skin. Neither, however, could disguise how hollow she was. Dad said she's gotten so skinny because she stopped eating.
The medical term for this is anorexia.
But I knew better. She hadn't stopped eating; she'd been eaten.
During the service, a procession of tiny insects filed out of the casket and onto the floor.
They looked like ants, but they weren't; these were smaller. Harder. Meaner. They formed a quivering semi-circle around the coffin. Their soft him was a nearly inaudible requiem. I pulled my feet up into the pew and cried.

***

Dr. Allison is scribbling furiously on her yellow legal pad.
I've never spoken about my mother before.

***

The funeral was bad, but nowhere near as bad as what happened that night.
I was dreaming about Casey Nelson. In real life she was a red head, but in my dream she had yellow hair like my mom, and her face was round and healthy, free from blemishes. Her eyes were lined by thick velvet lashes and they glittered like geodesic. Casey smiled as her lips whispered permission. I reached out and touched her, and she did the same, but where my hand closed around soft, pliable tissue, hers gripped flesh turned nearly to stone.
I moaned and felt my crotch moisten.
Casey looked at me, but she wasn't smiling anymore, and her eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle. She released her grip and raised her hand to eye level. It had turned black. I shrank ns k revulsion, only to realize it wasn't just her hand - my groin was black, too...
Necrosis is the medical term for premature tissue death.
At first I didn't think there could be anything arise than a lapful of necrotic pen is, but as I reached a trembling hand down to examine my discolored genitals, I realized I was wrong. The stain didn't just cover my withering erection; it was coming from inside. And it was spreading. Little blend of darkness separated from the primary mass, budding off like spires. They sprouted legs and antennae and-
I work up, horrified to discover it wasn't just a dream.
The bugs were everywhere, clinging to my sheets, swarming over my thighs,arching up my belly toward my face and my silent, gaping mouth. I tumbled out of bed, knocking the lamp off the night stand; it flattered loudly but did not break. A few seconds later, the hallway light blinked on, and heavy, rapid footsteps claimed the stairs.
The light worked the insects into a frenzy. Desperate to get back inside, they filled my eyes. My ears. My nose. I gagged and choked as they fled downy throat.
That's how my Dad found me: writhing on the floor, choking on my own nocturnal issue.

***