Chapter 318

The first signs had been subtle. At first, they were mistaken for something else entirely, a strange rash or a stomach flu that wouldn't go away. People would wake up, their skin mottled, veins bulging slightly beneath the surface. No one thought it would amount to anything. They were wrong.

Martha had noticed the change in her husband, Robert, after he came back from the farm. The dark red marks around his bellybutton were alarming, but he'd shrugged them off. "I've been working too hard," he'd said, grinning at her with that same crooked smile. She didn't question him. Not at first.

The night after, his complaints grew worse. His stomach, aching more than usual, pulsed with discomfort, and he groaned in his sleep. She listened, the unease building in her chest. It was impossible to ignore the way his body shifted, as if something inside him was twisting and tearing him apart. But when she pressed him to go see a doctor, he just waved it off.

By morning, the marks on his skin had spread, faint, dark lines snaking down his sides. Martha couldn't stop staring at them as he moved around the kitchen, his movements stiff and awkward, his face drawn tight in discomfort.

"Rob, you need to see someone," she said, her voice thick with worry.

He paused, set down his mug, and sighed. "I'm fine, just a little tired, is all."

But he wasn't fine. Not at all.

It was a week later when he started to change. Martha was in the kitchen when she heard a soft, wet sound from the bathroom. The noise was strange, like something scraping against glass. She froze, her hand still on the kettle. It wasn't normal.

She found Robert kneeling by the sink, his hands gripping the edge of the countertop, his face twisted in agony. He didn't look up at her when she entered the room, his breathing labored, shallow. She took a step forward, and that's when she saw it.

Tiny worms—black, slick, and wriggling—were emerging from the pores of his skin.

It wasn't his rash anymore. The worms had burrowed deep into his flesh. His skin had split open, just enough for the creatures to escape. The sight was grotesque. But the worst part was how Robert didn't react. His eyes were wide, blank, as though he couldn't feel what was happening. He stared at the floor, unmoving.

Martha screamed. The sound shattered the silence, but Robert didn't flinch. She reached for him, but as her fingers brushed his arm, a terrible, wet sound erupted from his stomach. His skin stretched and pulsed.

The worms—they were inside him. They'd crawled through his insides, devouring him from within.

Martha recoiled, horrified. Her heart slammed against her ribcage as she backed away, her legs weak. She knew she had to do something, but her mind couldn't grasp what.

Robert's body jerked, a sharp, grotesque movement, and he let out a low, guttural groan. He slumped forward, a terrible, wet cracking noise filling the air. His skin tore, splitting wide as more worms spilled from his open flesh.

She could only watch, frozen in place, as he collapsed to the floor. The worms crawled over his body, their tiny bodies twitching, squirming across his ruined form.

Martha couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She couldn't scream anymore.

She had no idea how long she stood there, eyes wide, watching her husband fall apart. By the time she snapped out of her daze, it was too late.

The worms had eaten him alive.

And they weren't done.

------

Martha left the house. She couldn't bear to stay another minute. The memory of Robert's broken body was enough to burn into her mind. She needed to get away, needed to find help, but she didn't know where to go. Her car barely started, the engine sputtering as she drove away from the farmhouse. She felt like she was being followed—by the shadows, by the memories of the nightmare she'd just witnessed.

As she drove, she passed the houses of neighbors. But as she looked, she saw them too. The marks on their bodies. The faint, wet scraping noises from behind their closed doors. She gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles turning white.

Her mind raced. There was no way this was happening. It was impossible. But the further she drove, the more she saw the same signs: people with swollen bellies, their skin taut and stretched, their movements jerky and unnatural. It wasn't just Robert. It wasn't just her.

The worms—whatever they were—had spread. They had evolved, multiplying faster than anyone could understand.

------

It wasn't long before the first reports started to trickle in. News stations ran footage of people collapsing in the streets, their bodies torn apart, writhing with the worms crawling in and out of their skin. It spread faster than any disease. The government shut down major roads, quarantined cities, and sent in soldiers to patrol the streets. But nothing could stop it.

Martha's phone rang. She hadn't spoken to anyone in days, but the number on the screen was one she recognized.

"Mom?" she answered, her voice cracking.

"Martha," her mother's voice was thin, broken. "Martha, I need you to come home. They've taken him. They've taken your father…"

"Mom?"

"Martha, I'm scared. I—"

The line went dead.

------

When she reached her mother's house, it was dark. The streetlights flickered, casting erratic, uneven shadows across the road. The house itself looked untouched from the outside, but Martha felt the tension in the air, as if something was waiting.

She knocked at the door, but no one answered. Hesitantly, she pushed it open, her heart hammering in her chest. Inside, the silence was overwhelming. Every step felt like it might break the stillness, but Martha couldn't stop herself. She had to see if her mother was okay.

The kitchen was empty. So was the living room.

And then she saw it.

On the floor in the hallway, just past the bathroom door, there was a dark stain. At first, it looked like a spilled drink or something worse. But as she moved closer, the smell hit her—sickly, sweet, and rotten. Her stomach twisted.

Her mother was in the bathroom.

Martha forced the door open, her breath catching in her throat.

Her mother's body was stretched out on the floor, her skin pale and cracked. She was barely recognizable. There were no worms on her, but her stomach was bloated, as though something was moving beneath her skin.

"Mom?" Martha whispered, kneeling down beside her. But her mother's eyes were empty, lifeless.

Martha didn't know what to do. She couldn't help her. She couldn't stop what had already started.

Suddenly, her mother's hand shot out, grasping her wrist with a strength that shouldn't have been possible. Martha gasped, her heart stuttering in fear.

"No," her mother's voice was hoarse, strained. "Get out. Get out before they get you too."

The last words were broken, jagged. A choking sound. And then, with a sickening wetness, her mother's body collapsed. The worms inside her broke free, crawling out from every pore, spilling onto the floor.

Martha stumbled back, her stomach heaving. She wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything. But her body betrayed her. She couldn't move.

And then she felt it.

A crawling sensation, deep inside her. Something wet and squirming. Her skin burned where she couldn't reach, and her body trembled violently as she realized—it had already started.

She turned toward the door, but it was too late. The house was full now, full of movement. The floor beneath her feet gave way, the worms slithering toward her with their awful, endless hunger.

She didn't scream. She couldn't.

Her skin tore open as the worms pushed from within, crawling into the open air, and Martha knew there was no escape. The inside of her body was no longer hers.

The last thing she felt was the burning. And then... nothing.