This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nashtyboii on 2024-10-24 01:51:57+00:00.
I never used to be like this. My name’s Alex, and if I’m being honest, I’ve never been one of those guys people would call the life of the party. I wasn’t great at making friends, didn’t go out much, and I’ve been single for as long as I can remember. But I was normal, you know? Quiet, maybe, but normal. I held down a job. Kept to myself. People at work thought I was weird, I guess—kept their distance—but it didn’t bother me. I liked being on my own. I didn’t need anyone.
But lately, something’s been happening. Something I can’t explain. And I’m starting to wonder if being alone is the reason why. If maybe, being by myself all the time, living in this tiny apartment with no one to talk to, has messed with my head.
No one’s visited me in months. My phone doesn’t buzz anymore. People have stopped trying. I used to make excuses for it, saying I liked the quiet, but now… now, I’m not so sure.
Maybe it’s the isolation. Or maybe it’s something else.
That’s when the itching started. Just a little scratch at first. Right at the back of my neck. Annoying, but nothing major. I thought it was stress, or maybe I’d developed some kind of allergy. You hear about people having that stuff all the time, right? It wasn’t until the itching turned into something more that I realized…this wasn’t normal.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when things shifted. Maybe it was gradual, and I just wasn’t paying attention, or maybe it happened all at once, like flipping a switch in my head. But I felt something under my skin. At first, I thought I was crazy, but the more I felt it—the more I scratched—I knew something was there. Growing. Moving.
I’m not crazy. At least, I don’t think I am.
It’s hard to explain to anyone who doesn’t know what it’s like to feel your own body turning against you. To feel something alive under your skin. Some days, I think it’s all in my head. Other days, I’m certain it’s real. But no one else would believe me. Why would they? I barely believe myself sometimes.
I tried looking it up online—trying to figure out if this was some kind of disease or infection. There are forums out there, filled with people who say they’ve felt the same thing. Parasites, they call them. Bugs crawling beneath the skin, burrowing deeper. I laughed it off at first. Figured it was just people looking for attention, trying to freak each other out.
But then it happened to me.
I started noticing little lumps under the skin, just on my neck at first. Small at first, barely noticeable, but they didn’t go away. They’d shift, like something was writhing beneath the surface, and every time I pressed on them, I swear I could feel them move. The itching became unbearable, like ants crawling just under the skin, and no matter how much I scratched, no matter how deep my nails dug in, it wouldn’t stop.
It wasn’t just lumps. Soon, my skin started to blister—tiny, raised bumps that oozed yellow fluid when I pressed on them. I tried to ignore it, but then more of them started showing up. Small, pin-sized holes. Holes that leaked, that itched worse than anything I’ve ever felt. I stared at them in the mirror, watching them spread like a disease across my neck, down my arms.
And then I started hearing things.
I’m not sure when the noise began, but once it started, it never stopped. This buzzing in my ears, this constant whirr—like cicadas screaming just beneath my skull. It started as a low hum, like distant machinery. But every day, it got louder. Louder until it was all I could hear. It’s like their wings are brushing the inside of my brain, rattling my thoughts, eating away at my sanity.
I thought maybe it was tinnitus, but this isn’t like any ringing I’ve heard before. It feels alive. Almost like they’re inside me.
That’s when the hives spread.
Tiny clusters of holes, dotting my skin like the surface of a hive, oozing that same thick, yellow pus. I would press on them, desperate to squeeze whatever was inside out, but nothing came except more blood, more pain. I started seeing movement in the holes—little black specks writhing inside the pits, like something was nesting in me. I thought maybe if I cut into them, I could dig it out, but every time I tried, the thing slipped away, burrowing deeper under the skin.
I know how this sounds. Believe me, I do. But I’m not making this up. This is real. I can feel it.
But some nights…when I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the buzzing so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts, I wonder if maybe I am losing it. If maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe the isolation, the silence, the constant being alone with no one to talk to…maybe it’s all catching up with me.
But then I feel them again—those little legs crawling through my veins, burrowing into my muscles, and I know it’s not just in my mind. How could it be? I see the holes. I feel them.
I tried burning them out. Maybe it was stupid, but I thought the heat would drive the thing out. I held a lighter to my arm, letting the flame scorch the skin, watching as the blistering flesh blackened and peeled away. The pain was unbearable, but the noise, the sound of the buzzing—it got quieter. Just for a second.
But when the burns healed, the holes came back. They always come back.
I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every part of my body feels infested, like I’m rotting from the inside out. I’ve even started to smell it now—this sweet, rotting scent coming off my skin. The buzzing is louder than ever, the cicadas deafening in my ears, drowning out everything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see them—the little black shapes crawling just beneath the surface, burrowing deeper, spreading.
I tried calling a doctor once. I made the appointment, stood in front of the mirror, practicing what I was going to say. But when the day came, I couldn’t bring myself to go. What would I even tell them? “There’s something growing inside me”? They’d lock me up. Throw me in a padded room. Give me pills and tell me I’m hallucinating.
Maybe they’d be right.
But what if they’re not?
I can’t tell anymore. Whether it’s real or not, it’s eating me alive.
I thought maybe I could cut it out.
I took a paring knife from the kitchen, its edge dull but enough to do the job. I started small, just pressing the blade against one of the clusters of holes on my forearm. The flesh was raw and soft, pus oozing from the tiny pits. My hands trembled as I pushed the blade into the skin, just a little—just enough to break the surface.
The buzzing grew louder, almost like the cicadas were excited, anticipating what I was about to do.
I pushed deeper, the blade sinking into the flesh with a wet, sickening squelch. The skin peeled back under the pressure, tearing in uneven lines. Blood welled up around the knife, thick and dark, but beneath it, I could see it. I could see something moving. Just under the skin. Something black, something squirming.
I dug the knife in deeper, desperate to reach it. The pain was intense, like fire crawling through my veins, but I didn’t care. I had to get it out. I had to stop whatever was inside me before it spread.
I yanked the knife through the flesh, pulling it away in ragged strips, revealing the raw, red tissue underneath. Blood poured from the wound, mixing with the thick, yellow pus that dripped from the holes. I used my fingers to pry the skin apart, tearing at the meat like a butcher at a carcass. My nails dug into the flesh, pulling it away in chunks, but no matter how deep I went, I couldn’t reach it.
The thing inside me slipped further away, burrowing deeper into my arm. I could feel it crawling through my muscle, feel it laughing at me, mocking me.
I stabbed again, over and over, each cut more frantic, more desperate. The pain blurred into a dull, throbbing agony, the blood pooling on the floor, staining my clothes. I screamed, my voice hoarse, but the buzzing only grew louder, drowning me out.
I reached into the wound, my fingers slick with blood, and tried to dig it out. I could feel the squirming mass just beneath the surface, feel it slipping between my fingers. It was slick, like oil, sliding through my grasp every time I thought I had it.
I ripped at the skin, pulling it away in long, ragged strips, exposing the bone beneath. The buzzing was deafening now, the cicadas screaming in my ears, filling my head with their maddening song.
But no matter how much I tore, no matter how deep I went, I couldn’t find it.
It was still inside me.