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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/myrasam79 on 2024-10-28 21:55:31+00:00.

It started with an itch, the kind you dismiss as a stray irritant or the side effect of a poorly washed shirt. Nothing serious, just a vague discomfort on my forearm that I could scratch away without a second thought. By the next day, though, that itch had spread, snaking its way up my arm in patches that seemed to appear and vanish like ghostly bruises. When I looked closer, I saw faint outlines, almost like impressions beneath my skin, lines that seemed too precise to be random.

As the hours passed, I became acutely aware of that crawling, tingling sensation, as if something was squirming right under the surface, trailing like whispered secrets I couldn’t ignore. I forced myself to laugh about it, though the unease was already beginning to curl in my stomach. My friends joked that it was probably a new allergy or the side effect of too much late-night junk food. But this wasn’t an allergy—I knew that. It was something else entirely, something I couldn’t easily explain away.

By the end of the day, I found myself instinctively covering the patches with my sleeves, hoping no one would notice how much I was scratching. There was no rash, nothing visible that should have made the itching so unbearable, but the irritation was constant, almost hypnotic in its persistence. And then, as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror that evening, rolling up my sleeve to inspect the strange marks, I noticed something far worse.

The skin on my forearm seemed… uneven. Beneath it, as I pressed gently with my fingers, I could feel tiny bumps, like grains of sand shifting beneath the surface. My mind instantly jumped to all the horror stories I’d ever heard about parasites, though I dismissed it as soon as the thought arrived. But I couldn’t deny the physical reality, couldn’t brush away the sensation that something was undeniably, horrifyingly wrong.

That night, as I lay in bed, trying not to scratch, I felt that subtle shifting again, like a ripple running through the skin of my arm. It was slight, barely more than a whisper against my senses, but it was there, undeniable. I lay motionless, eyes wide open, feeling the unwelcome activity beneath my skin, a silent protest against sleep.

In a fit of desperation, I’d slathered on every ointment I could find, hoping it might soothe whatever was festering beneath. But as I closed my eyes, willing myself to ignore the sensation, a single thought began to gnaw at the edges of my mind: What if it’s not just in my arm? What if it’s spreading?

The itch, I realized, wasn’t just an annoyance anymore. It was a warning—a signal that something within me had started, and I had no idea how to make it stop.

The itch had spread by morning. What began as a single patch on my forearm had now crept up to my shoulder and down to my wrist. Each area tingled with an unnerving sensation, like ants crawling just beneath the skin, tracing invisible pathways along my nerves. I spent breakfast awkwardly holding my coffee mug, trying not to let my family see how much I was scratching. I could still hear my sister’s voice from the night before, mocking me for “imagining things” and “being paranoid.” But this was beyond imagination. The bumps under my skin were real.

I tried my best to avoid mirrors that morning, but the bathroom one caught me off guard as I reached for my toothbrush. My reflection stared back with dark, hollow eyes, evidence of a sleepless night spent tossing and turning. The skin on my forearm had taken on a strange, dull tone, slightly bruised and sunken where the itch was strongest. I pressed down on the spot again, feeling the telltale grit of tiny lumps shifting beneath the surface. They felt more distinct today, as if they had grown overnight, settling into my skin with a sickening permanence.

During my lunch break, I finally gave in to the impulse to Google my symptoms. Each result was worse than the last—nerve disorders, rare skin diseases, parasitic infections. My stomach churned with dread, but I couldn’t stop reading, hypnotized by the horrifying possibilities. In the back of my mind, I tried to rationalize it away. Maybe it was stress? My job had been piling on the pressure lately, and I’d barely had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. But even as I thought this, I knew it was a weak excuse. Nothing about stress explained the feeling of something moving, something alive, beneath my skin.

By afternoon, the sensation had evolved. It was no longer just an itch; it was an almost rhythmic pulse, as though whatever was under my skin was slowly waking up, becoming aware. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was probing, seeking something within me. When I wasn’t scratching, I was pressing my fingers against the bumps, trying to understand what they were. But each time, they slipped and shifted away from my touch, evading me like shadows under the skin.

As the day dragged on, the anxiety began to bleed into every part of me. I found myself barely focusing at work, my mind consumed with the alien presence in my own body. Colleagues cast worried glances my way, but I ignored them, unwilling to explain. Who would believe me? That I felt things crawling under my skin? I barely believed it myself.

I left work early, ignoring the concerned expressions of my manager and the odd questions from friends. As soon as I got home, I headed straight to the bathroom, rolling up my sleeve with a trembling hand. The patches of uneven skin had spread even further, branching like the veins in a leaf. It was now unmistakably clear that they were following a pattern, some kind of system that only they understood.

Unable to resist, I took a needle and carefully pressed it to the skin of my forearm, hoping that a small puncture might release whatever was trapped inside. The prick stung, and a bead of blood welled up, but nothing more. Frustrated, I pressed harder, trying to dig deeper, feeling the pressure build as I forced the needle further. But instead of relief, I felt a sharp, searing pain rip through my arm, and the skin buckled under my touch, pulsing in angry protest. I pulled the needle away, horrified, realizing I was only making it worse.

I sank onto the bathroom floor, clutching my arm, my mind racing. Whatever was beneath my skin, it didn’t want to be disturbed.

I couldn’t go to work the next day. The moment I tried to put on a shirt, the rough fabric brushed against my arm, igniting the sensation into a maddening fury. Every nerve seemed on edge, every inch of skin prickling with the unnatural movement underneath. It was as if my own body was rebelling, each patch of skin tightening over the hidden lumps as they shifted and pulsed.

I spent the morning in bed, sleeves rolled up, staring in morbid fascination as the trails of tiny lumps spread across my arm, weaving along my veins. The sight was dizzying. The tiny, gritty bumps beneath my skin were following a path, creating a map only they understood. I felt helpless, staring at my own body as it transformed into something unrecognizable. I was no longer just “me”—I was becoming their host, my skin their shelter, my body their prison.

Around noon, I heard my phone buzz on the bedside table. It was a message from my sister, checking in after our conversation the previous night. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. How could I explain that what I’d tried to brush off as a skin irritation had become a full-blown infestation? I couldn’t even say the words to myself. Instead, I turned off the phone, cutting myself off from anyone who might try to reach out. This was mine to face, alone.

The hours dragged on, and the daylight began to dim outside. I lay still, paralyzed by fear and a morbid fascination, unable to tear my gaze from the gradual spread of the patches across my skin. I was half-caught in a trance, a waking nightmare that felt both surreal and inescapable. With every pulse, the bumps moved, shifting in sync with the beat of my own heart. They seemed to understand me in a way that was unnerving, as though each beat was their cue, each pause their signal.

The itching had dulled, replaced by something else—a raw, aching feeling as though my skin was being stretched from the inside. I ran my fingers along my arm, feeling the uneven texture beneath my touch, the lines and patches that had become almost a network. With a grim determination, I resolved to find out what they were, to confront whatever I had allowed to take root inside me.

Grabbing a small utility knife from my bedside drawer, I took a deep breath. My hand trembled, but I steadied it, pressing the blade just above one of the larger bumps on my forearm. A quick, shallow slice. Blood welled immediately, a thin line of red, but beyond the pain, I felt nothing else—no release, no dislodging of whatever was beneath. I wiped the blood away with a tissue, squinting as I tried to catch a glimpse of anything unusual within the shallow cut.

And then, as if in response, the bump under the skin moved. Slowly, it shifted just out of reach, retreating deeper, avoiding the light and the blade, evading me. My stomach turned, a nauseating wave washing over me. It was alive. A living thing, crawling just beneath my skin, aware of my attempts to remove it.

I stumbled back, clutching my arm, horror clawing up my throat as I realized the full extent of what was happening. Whatever was inside me, it wasn’t some random irritation, some easily excised intruder. It was somethi…

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