This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SocietysMenaceCC on 2024-07-02 05:50:58+00:00.

I live a quiet and peaceful, well I did once. I lived in an old, creaky house on the outskirts of a sleepy town, far from the bustling city life I once knew. I really was the reclusive sort, content with my solitude and the simple pleasures of my daily routine. I spent my days reading dusty books, tending to my overgrown garden, and mending the many parts of my decaying home.

The house had a certain character, I always thought this. It spoke to me in the groans of the floorboards, the whispers of the wind through the cracked windows, and the constant scurrying within the walls. I had grown accustomed to the sounds of the mice. They were my only companions in my solitude, little creatures that lived unseen but ever-present. I would occasionally set traps, but deep down, I had felt a strange kinship with them.

One cold autumn evening, as the leaves rustled outside and the fire crackled softly in the hearth, I sat reading an old, yellowed book. The scurrying sounds seemed louder than usual, more frantic. I shrugged it off and continued reading, but then I felt something peculiar—a tingling sensation beneath my own skin.

I scratched absentmindedly, but the sensation didn’t fade. It grew more intense, a writhing, crawling feeling that spread across my body. I set my book down, my heart beginning to race. I pulled up my sleeve and watched in horror as tiny bumps moved beneath my skin, trailing up my arm like something alive.

My breath quickened, panic setting in. I raced to the bathroom, staring into the mirror as the sensation grew worse. My skin writhed and bulged, like countless tiny creatures were burrowing beneath it. Trembling, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer, a desperate idea forming in my mind. I had to see what was inside of me.

With a shaky hand, I made a small incision on my forearm. Blood oozed out, but so did something else—something small and furry. A mouse, slick with his blood, wriggled free and scurried down the sink. My vision blurred with shock and pain, but I couldn’t stop. I cut deeper, wider, and more mice emerged, pouring from my flesh in a grotesque exodus.

I began to scream, but the house seemed to absorb the sound. The mice continued to flow from my wounds, a never-ending stream that seemed to be draining my very life. I collapsed to the floor, my strength ebbing away. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was the swarm of mice, eyes gleaming in the dim light, surrounding me as if reclaiming their territory.

When I awoke, I was no longer in my house. I was in a stark, white room, restrained to a bed. Medical equipment beeped softly around me. My skin felt tight, stitched together in a patchwork of scars. A nurse noticed I was awake and approached with a wary smile.

“Good to see you awake, Mr. Bishop,” she said gently. “You had a severe episode. We’ve treated your wounds, but you need to rest.”

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry and sore. I managed a raspy whisper. “The mice… inside me…”

The nurse’s smile faltered, a shadow crossing her face. “You were found in a terrible state, Mr. Bishop. There were no mice, just severe self-inflicted injuries. You need to understand, it was a delusion.”

My mind reeled. It had felt so real, the mice crawling beneath my skin, emerging from my flesh. I could still feel the phantom sensation, the memory of their movement. I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself it had been a nightmare.

Days turned into weeks as I recovered, but the sensation never truly left me. I was eventually discharged, deemed stable but fragile. I returned to my old house, but it no longer felt like home. The scurrying within the walls now filled me with dread rather than comfort.

One night, as i lay in my bed, the familiar tingling sensation returned. It started in my legs, then spread upward, a relentless, crawling feeling. I whimpered, clutching at my skin, but I didn’t dare to cut it open again. I was far too afraid of what I might find.

The sensation grew stronger, and with it came a maddening itch. My resolve broke, and I scratched at my skin, desperate for relief. My nails tore at my flesh, drawing blood, but the itching only intensified. In the dim light, I saw them—tiny, dark shapes writhing beneath my skin, moving with purpose.

All I could do was scream, the sound echoing through the empty house. I was certain now that the mice were real, that they were inside me, multiplying and consuming me from within. I stumbled to the bathroom, my reflection a ghastly sight, and grabbed the knife once more.

As I cut into my skin, the mice poured out again, more numerous than before. They scurried across the floor, their beady eyes glinting with an unnatural intelligence. My vision blurred as my strength faded, the life draining from me with every drop of blood.

The last thing I saw was the mice, not just emerging from my wounds but crawling back inside, burrowing into my flesh. My body convulsed, then went still, the mice finally settling within their new home.

The house on the outskirts of town stands silent now, its creaks and groans the only signs of life. The townspeople avoid it, speaking in hushed tones about the reclusive man who once lived there. They say I went mad, driven to self-destruction by the solitude and the scurrying within the walls.

But sometimes, on quiet nights, if you listen closely, you can hear it—the faint, rhythmic scratching, like tiny feet moving just beneath the surface. And if you’re very unlucky, you might feel it too—a tingling sensation beneath your skin, a sign that the mice have found a new home…