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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-10-05 12:01:05+00:00.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Ugh, this itchy scalp is driving me crazy. Keeping me up at night. Can’t sleep. And when I do, I wake up scratching. This can’t go on.

I’ve always had an itchy scalp. There are special shampoos for that, and I’ve tried them all. Some work better than others, but they don’t make the problem go away. Not entirely. That said, I never dreamed I’d be in this scenario.

I was playing piano, working on a difficult performance piece, when the critters first appeared. As usual, my scalp was super itchy. Only this time when I scratched, something flew out and landed on my lap. I must’ve jumped a mile high. The thing was hideous, with long, curvy antennas and tiny toes, tap, tap, tapping as it crawled across my lap.

I squashed it.

The thing shrieked as it exploded. Total nasty. Then, trying not to panic, I lowered my head and went to town, shaking and scratching, seeing what else was living in there.

“Gross!”

A fleet of crawling critters scooted out from my hair. Ugh. Head lice. At my age? Must’ve gotten it from one of my piano students. Totally annoyed, I fled to the drug store and picked up the appropriate treatment, then I set about ridding myself of these uninvited guests.

The following week was spent trying to kill those little buggers, but they persevered, and kept coming back. Sleep was impossible. All I could do was lay in bed and scratch, my fingernails brown and gross from all the scratching.

At wit’s end, I asked Marley, my BFF, to have a look. She’s tough, and certainly not the squeamish type. If she can’t help, I’m screwed.

Marley went in for inspection. She gasped and groaned and gagged. Five minutes later she’s running out the door, eyes wild with accusation. To this day, she won’t answer my texts. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

My mind went on overdrive. This is absurd. How bad could it be? Then I heard the tap, tap, tapping of tiny toes, trailblazing across my bedroom floor. I used my phone’s flashlight to have a closer look, and shuddered. My mind went sideways. I’d never seen anything so repulsive in my life. Critters, but unlike any I’d ever seen.

With much effort, I coaxed the cretaceous-looking critters into a shoebox. Tap, tap, tap, they went, marching around the box like tiny warriors. From a distance, they looked like head lice, but they moved too fast, and made too much noise.

Totally freaked out, I peeled off my clothes and removed my bed sheets. Laundry time! Ugh. My pillow cases were crawling with them. I shook them off into the shoebox, carefully, and threw the laundry into the machine.

Afterwards, I retreated to my bedroom feeling sickened and sad. Can I not have one good day? Is that too much to ask? Then I glanced into the shoebox, and nearly fainted.

A Battle of Epic Proportions. That’s the only way to describe it. The critters were fighting each other, crawling and biting and doing God-knows-what else. But in teams. And they were vicious. I couldn’t watch.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

My condition was worsening. My scalp and neck were sore with scabs. Over the shoebox, I scratched and itched and tossed my hair about. It looked like a Christmas snow globe, where snow dances after shaking it. Except this wasn’t snow, this was some hideous form of head lice.

Or so I thought.

I went online and did some research, and it became glaringly obvious I wasn’t dealing with head lice. Not even close. Their behavior didn’t match. Head lice don’t battle each other. Nor did they form groups. Plus, these buggers were too big. Ugh. Now what?

I fetched my microscope, which I hadn’t used in years, and caught one. I put it under the microscope for a closer look, and nearly died. My mind was on the brink. This can’t be happening, I told myself, again and again. This isn’t real.

But it was.

I went online, searching for matches. Nothing matched. These cruel-looking critters had fangs and claws and wings. The wings scared me most. If they could fly, then what? For now, at least, they crawled; tap, tap, tapping as they skittered across the shoebox.

I crushed it. Then I scooted to the washroom and regurgitated my breakfast. My stomach was turning faster than the laundry machine. After showering, I set off to work, scared and confused. It was a miserable day, lemme tell ya. As a piano instructor, I sit close to the students. I did my very best at keeping a distance, but there’s only one piano, and it’s a modest sized room.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

All day I scratched, careful not to spray critters everywhere, but unable to help myself. I was constantly cleaning the gunk from my fingernails, which were brown and gross, and in plain view as I played piano. Finally, my shift ended and I scooted home as fast as possible, hoping to get to the bottom of this. Those little buggers must’ve come from somewhere, right?

When I got home, I gasped. The shoebox had completely transformed. Inside the box was a city. They must’ve scoured my bedroom for supplies. But how? A discarded sock, for instance, was torn to shreds and used as grass. Little specs of cotton now covered the entire base of the box. My favorite Pokémon card, which I’d kept since I was a kid, was chewed up and made into tiny houses. Not only that, they were using my empty earbud container as a swimming pool! Like, where did they get the water?

I had to stand back and catch my breath. My heart was threatening to explode. I’m twenty-five, I told myself, way too young for a heart attack. Then I noticed something deeply disturbing: the shoebox was divided into halves. One side was sophisticated, with houses and a public pool etc. The other side was filthy and unkempt, with big black mounds – which may have been feces – piled high around the edges of the box. Droplets of blood were splattered across the socky grass, staining it crimson-red.

I covered the box, then spent all night on the computer, looking for answers. I researched thousands of species of insects, but none fit the description. Not even close.

Coffee became my salvation. I was ridiculously tired, and should probably be kept under quarantine, but bills are bills. Having no other source of income, I had to work. I knew damn-well I shouldn’t be out in public, the last thing I wanted to do was infect anyone, but what choice did I have? Ugh. This was awful. The Battle of Epic Proportions was taking place on my scalp, and I was the referee.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Somehow, I made it through work, itching and scratching, clawing my scalp with tremendous force. When I got home, I went straight to my room. I live in a small one-bedroom apartment, so at least there weren’t roommates to contend with. That said, I wish I had someone to confide in. Then again, look at what happened last time. I still hadn’t heard from Marley. Oh, the conundrum.

The shoebox was gone. I scratched my head, this time out of confusion. I swear I’d left it in the middle of the floor.

Panic.

First, I checked the closet, searching frantically through wardrobes. Nothing. Then I got on my hands and knees and searched under the bed. Aha! Found it. Sneaky buggers. When I flashed a light, the bugs disappeared, skittering inside their newly developed homes, or mounds of poop, depending on what side of the box they were living in.

The box was buzzy. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The sophisticated critters, enjoying a more luxurious lifestyle, had constructed some kind of recreation area using pens and pencils and pieces of scrap paper. Plus, they had condos! I swear to God, they did! Ugh, they’d stolen more Pokémon cards. Hence forward, I started referring to them as Mavericks.

Inside the shoebox was a war zone. Hundreds of critters were dead, mostly from the gross side. Apparently, the Mavericks had conquered them. But not entirely. The Filthy’s (as I’ve come to call them), were fighting back, making horrible hissing sounds, then taking refuge in the mounds of poop.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

My head was worsening, my neck red with rash. Feverishly, I flung my head over the box and scratched. Ahh, sweet relief. When I stood up, I gasped. The entire box was filled with bugs. To them, a tornado must’ve touched down. Next thing I know, both sides went to work, separating one species from the other, fussing and fighting and squeaking and squalling.

Using tweezers, I scooped up a Filthy for inspection. Yikes! Unlike the Mavericks, these buggers were fat, with crap-like bellies, and hundreds of tiny legs. No wings. Their teeth were treacherous, like tiny razor blades, their eyes were glowing red bulbs.

I crushed it.

I considered seeing a doctor, but waiting for hours, only to be given lice shampoo, was not a top priority. So, I shaved my head. Goodbye golden locks. Hello sweet relief. For whatever reason, I put my defiled hair into the shoebox. The creatures went on a warpath, gathering the precious cargo, hissing and squawking and fighting. Then I took the box out back and set it on fire. The sound was horrendous, like a million tiny souls screaming out at once. The smell was way worse. Completely distraught, I retreated into my bedroom, longing for a good night’s rest.

Itch, itch, scratch, scratch.

Only now, my belly itched. What the? I flashed a light. Those godawful critters were scampering across my abdomen. One poked out of my belly button. I crushed it, then I turned on the bedside light, and screamed…

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