It started with a rash—a small, itchy patch on the back of Daniel's neck. He thought nothing of it; stress, he reasoned, could cause all sorts of odd skin conditions. But within days, the rash spread, covering his arms and legs in angry red welts. They itched relentlessly, driving him to scratch until his skin bled. Still, he dismissed it. He'd see a doctor if it got worse.
It got worse.
The welts began to blister, oozing a thick, foul-smelling liquid. Daniel's skin felt hot to the touch, as if he were burning from the inside out. He visited a dermatologist, who ran tests but found nothing conclusive. "It's likely an allergic reaction," the doctor said, prescribing a steroid cream. But the cream only made it worse. The welts grew larger, more inflamed, and Daniel began to feel something moving beneath his skin.
One night, as he lay in bed, he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He lifted his shirt and stared in horror at the swollen, pulsating mass beneath his skin. Something was alive in there, writhing and squirming as if trying to break free. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen, his hands trembling, and made a small incision. A gush of black fluid poured out, followed by something small and wriggling—a maggot, its body glistening in the dim light.
Daniel screamed, stumbling back. He tried to pull himself together, rationalizing that it must have been a hallucination, a side effect of the stress and lack of sleep. But the maggot was still there, squirming on the floor, and the pain in his abdomen hadn't subsided. He felt another sharp pain, this time in his leg, and watched in horror as a swelling formed beneath the skin.
Over the next few days, Daniel became a prisoner in his own body. The welts continued to grow, bursting open to reveal writhing masses of larvae. The pain was unbearable, a constant, gnawing agony that left him unable to sleep or eat. He locked himself in his apartment, too terrified to seek help. He knew no one would believe him—no one could.
As the infestation spread, Daniel's body began to change. His skin turned grey and leathery, his eyes clouded over, and his voice became a guttural rasp. He could feel the rot spreading within him, consuming him from the inside out. The larvae burrowed deeper, devouring his organs and replacing them with their own grotesque forms.
One night, as Daniel lay on the floor, his body too weak to move, he felt a final surge of energy. It wasn't his—it was theirs. The larvae had taken control, their collective will overpowering his own. He tried to scream, but the sound that came out was a wet, gurgling noise. His body convulsed, his limbs twisting at unnatural angles as the larvae forced him to his feet.
He stumbled to the mirror, his reflection a grotesque mockery of what he once was. His skin was stretched taut over a mass of squirming larvae, his face a mask of agony. He raised a trembling hand to the glass, and it shattered, the shards embedding themselves in his decaying flesh.
The last thing Daniel saw was the swarm of larvae spilling from his body, crawling toward the open door. They would find new hosts, and the rot would spread. It always did.