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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DetectiveWaff on 2025-07-16 23:20:01+00:00.

One little step. That’s all it took, when I think about it. Despite wearing heavy boots, a sharp pain shot up my leg from the bottom of my foot. It was quick—like getting jabbed by a needle. I winced, looking at where I had stepped along the riverbank with confusion, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. I must have misjudged my next step due to the pain because I ended up on my face less than a second later.

“Miss?” I heard, filled with concern. A few dozen feet in front of me was Marcus, our hiking guide. An older gentleman with silver hair and your typical adventurer’s starter kit: greasy skin, khakis, a safari-style button-up—and an absolutely unbearable ‘can-do’ attitude that was hard to keep up with.

“I’m alright!” I shouted back, but he was already moving through the rest of the group toward me. I managed to get up and take another step, only for a similar pain to shoot back up through my foot.

“Short break! Don’t wander off too far!” he shouted to the rest of the group, which promptly scattered, exploring the surrounding wilderness. The guide approached me and signaled for me to sit down on a nearby rock.

“I’m okay, just lost my balance,” I said as he knelt next to me and took out a small medkit from his hiking bag.

“I believe you, Miss—” he took a second to look at my nametag, which every participant had created before the hike. “Tara. That was still quite a fall! It’s dangerous to continue without treating a wound like that.” He took out a small alcohol wipe from the medkit and motioned for me to show him my arm. A sizable gash greeted the both of us. I hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh… thanks. I guess it was.” I watched as he patted the wound with the alcohol wipe, making sure to sufficiently clean the area of dirt and debris. He must have noticed how tense I was, as a look of concern never left his eyes.

“You know, we get a lot of different types of people out here, who come for a lot of different reasons,” Marcus began to comfortably wrap my arm in gauze. He had clearly done this many times. “Nature enthusiasts, trail buffs, spiritual types—the occasional lost soul looking to ‘find themselves’ and whatnot.” Grabbing a pair of medical scissors from his kit, he carefully cut the excess bandage and tied off a neat knot on my arm. “I don’t know what type you are, Miss, but you look tense. There’s no pressure or commitment. We meet every weekend, and you are always welcome. No need to force yourself.”

I nodded. It was a bit of a relief—knowing that my inevitable absence from this group was an expected outcome. Marcus extended his hand, which I took, getting ready to start moving again.

“Good to go. There’s not much longer, so try and hang in there.” He smiled.

I finished the hike with a slight limp. The pain in my foot wasn’t as intense as it was before, but it still made it a bit difficult to maneuver through the gravel path. I wasn’t really one to do this sort of thing—hiking, that is. I was told a little nature would help with my generally sour disposition. It didn’t. I hated types like our guide. It was difficult for me to navigate that kind of compassionate and outgoing attitude. The whole trip was full of corny jokes and overenthusiastic descriptions of the surrounding terrain. I just could never engage with that kind of energy—and I think he noticed. After our little interaction when I fell, he decided it was probably best to leave me to my own devices. I appreciated it. I think that, as a side effect of being outgoing and energetic, you become a lot more perceptive of those individuals who really want nothing to do with you. If anything, I respect people who have reached that level of awareness. There are lots who haven’t.

I got home absolutely drained of energy. I did what they told me to do, and as I thought, it didn’t help one bit. I limped over to my fridge, where a rudimentary checklist made from a ripped page of a college-ruled notebook was haphazardly attached via magnet. In bold letters was the title: ‘Tara’s Recovery Plan,’ with three checkboxes. Grabbing a nearby pen, I begrudgingly crossed off the item labeled ‘Nature walk,’ and plopped down on the floor. If the universe is kind to me, I won’t ever make it to the end of that list.

I took off my boots, glancing between the wound on my arm and my foot. Especially if this is the result, I thought to myself. Slowly, I took my sock off, expecting blood—or at least some kind of small object stuck in the cotton.

I found neither. Instead, a small thread, no thicker than a strand of hair, stuck out of my foot. I stared at it with a furrowed brow. Strange.

Before I could react or reasonably process what I was looking at, it quickly disappeared. A familiar, sharp pain followed, causing me to recoil a bit.

“What.” I muttered, unsure of what else to say.

I rested my bare foot against my knee for inspection. The hole was small, almost imperceptibly so, but no one could mistake the slight writhing just underneath the tiny wound. Had a parasite unknowingly made its way into my boot during the hike? I think such a thought would have understandably caused panic in anyone else, but for some reason, I felt apathetic—no, that wasn’t quite right. Underneath that layer of calm indifference was a slight fascination.

I placed my finger softly—so as not to disturb the creature—on the ball of my foot. It beat and pulsed near imperceptibly against the unexpected pressure, attempting in vain to loosen my skin as it tried to wrest itself free. I watched as it struggled, painfully, to preserve its own life. I took a moment to consider my next action.

I could continue. I could squish the worm, with nowhere else to go, its viscera and remains trapped under my skin, flagged as invasive, foreign, my body attacking and dispelling its waste until nothing was left. Or—maybe—I could preserve it. Let it feast until I was hollowed out; a husk of skin loosely kept together by marrow and sinew. I was curious as to what would happen if I chose the latter. There was something alluring about the tiny creature, vulnerable and weak, finding that I, of all people, was the most appealing choice. It didn’t take long to decide.

I avoided putting pressure on the balls of my feet for the next few weeks. I doubt it was necessary—this amount of care, diligence, and effort. But it was the type of person I was. I wanted to be careful. I had chosen to take care of this little creature, so I would take the utmost caution in everything I did henceforth. That slithering feeling never left me; every passing moment, I could feel its movement within my body. It grew remarkably quickly. At first, it could only navigate within the shallow interior of my skin, but as it grew, it began to burrow deeper and deeper into my flesh. It felt as if it was swimming throughout my internals, an ever-present reminder of the vast expanse of gore that was human anatomy—a sea of meat, constantly nourishing a grateful existence.

It was painful at first, of course. As the worm grew, it began to wreak havoc. Every alarm bell screamed and pleaded for me to take action—to expel the foreign invader. I ignored it. Pain was something I could deal with, given time. Even pain of the unbearable variety.

Perhaps as a result of its growth and expanded navigation throughout my organs and flesh, I began to vomit on an almost daily basis. It was a wet, crimson concoction of blood and other fluids. One night, I could see small segments of the creature—white and resembling that of a maggot—among the debris. Each section was at least a millimeter thick. The little worm had grown quite a bit since it had first invaded my body. Against my better judgment, I poked at one of the bits of worm I had expelled, which surprisingly wiggled and recoiled at the touch. In passing, I had heard of creatures that could reproduce through fragmentation. It works similarly to autotomy in lizards or starfish; except the regenerated segment instead grew into an entirely separate being. I couldn’t help but smile.

With a pasta strainer and a little bit of patience, I managed to recover all of the moving, maggot-sized chunks of the worm and set up a tiny, makeshift terrarium on my nightstand, utilizing a spare chafing dish I had lying around the kitchen. I watched as they struggled to navigate the smooth aluminum. I frowned. This won’t do, I thought. I grabbed the dish and exited my apartment, practically running down the stairs to the front of the building, where there lay a small patch of greenery and dirt surrounding a large tree. I knelt down, digging my nails into the soil, and carefully transferring it and bits of shrubbery into the tin—ignoring the confused and judgmental expressions of passersby.

Chirp! A nearby sound caught my attention. Chirp chirp! I inspected my surroundings. A few feet to my left was a small sparrow, its visage a subtle, soft combination of browns and grays. The way it looked, it must have been a juvenile. I focused my attention upwards, into the branches of a nearby tree. Fallen from a nest, maybe?

Chirp! I felt a pang of pity for the creature and crawled over to it, wanting to bring my face close enough to feel the warmth radiating from its pink, featherless skin. No—no. It wasn’t just pity. It was something deeper. Something primal. The instinct to provide. The instinct to feed. I could feel the worm thrashing and flailing within my torso and left arm, beating against my u…

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