Setae

When I was young, my friends dared me to eat a worm.

I know, I know. Typical schoolyard dare. We were young and dumb. I’m surprised none of us ended up with some brain-eating parasite from some of the stuff we ate. On the plus side, we did max out our immune systems.

That worm was the worst. A massive rainstorm had just blown through town and the playground next to the library had transformed. I remember how it felt for our socks to soak through with mud and that horrible squelching of the rubber mulch under the play equipment beneath our feet. The sidewalks were flooded with puddles that could flood our shoes. We pretended to be explorers looking for lost civilizations in the rainforest. At some point, we noticed them.

As always with rain, the worms came. Lots of worms.

The sidewalks around the play square were covered in squirming earthworm bodies. Big ones, small ones, ones that were fat, skinny, pink or sickly grey. They hauled themselves along the concrete laboriously, their heads wriggling every which way in search of whatever they’d come to the surface to find. Within the puddles, many worm bodies sat bloated and floundering.

It was one of these waterlogged worms that my friends selected to be my feast.

Honestly, the idea of eating a worm didn’t phase me. It wasn’t my first bug-eating rodeo. I had even been the only one brave enough to touch a giant wolf spider the week previous. I wasn’t squeamish.

But that worm.

As expected, it was cold and slimy in my fingers. Its waterlogged body felt…wrong. Too soft. Too heavy. When it squirmed weakly in my grip, I felt the rough bristles on its side catch on my skin. They hooked at the grooves on my fingerprints, trying their best to tug their body free. It all made me shudder.

Even if I hated it, I couldn’t give up. The others were cheering, egging me on like any good friends would. If I had chickened out, they’d have never stopped calling me a wuss. I had to go through with it.

So I did.

I can’t describe what it felt like swallowing that thing. I almost puked. Almost. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be in the situation I am today.

You see, ever since I ate that worm, things have been different. This will sound stupid, but I’ve become a worm magnet.

I’m not kidding. If it rains and I happen to go outside, all worms I pass inch my way. They’ll pause, their blind little heads wavering in the air as if searching for something. Then, they’ll start their pursuit. If I stand still long enough, my feet will quickly be surrounded by dozens of writhing bodies. If my footwear allows it, they’ll climb up into my shoes to press against my bare skin. There’s nothing like having to pause a conversation with your crush to pull a six-inch nightcrawler from your sandal. 

Over the years, this has lead to me developing a bit of a phobia of the rain. My stomach tightens at even the mention of it. It takes everything in me to step out into it. There are only so many sidewalk-worms a guy can take, you know? The worst part is, this phenomenon is not limited to just earthworms.

Have you ever been in an unfinished basement and seen one of those freakishly-long, two-headed worm-slug things? Some are skinny and white, others are striped and fat. They’re called hammerhead worms, apparently. I learned that when dad and I were sealing the basement and about twenty of the bastards swarmed me. The white ones squirt disgusting green slime from their heads if you squish them, by the way.

I hate them the most.

All of this worm business would be fine and dandy if it ended there. A bit gross and annoying, but that’s the norm for worms. Recently, though, the things have been escaping the rainy days. They’re invading my dreams.

My dreamscape was pretty normal before. Surreal, but normal. Now, it’s fucked.

I’ll be exploring an old castle, taking a test, going on a date, y’know? The dream progresses normally enough: dragons, anxiety, hand-holding, the works. 

Then, worms.

Worms are crawling out of the castle’s stonework, BECOMING the stonework. Worms cover my desk, replacing even the pencil I grip tight. They come pouring out of my crush’s mouth as he leans in for a kiss. They’re there, and inevitably, they end up on me.

The texture of the worms in my dreams is the same as that waterlogged worm from my childhood. No matter what, the sensation echoes. Their bristles burn as they drag themselves up my flesh, the ice cold bodies breaching the sanctity of my clothing. Up and up they crawl, clinging tight even as I claw my skin raw. They swarm me, flowing over me like acid until they reach my mouth, and force themselves past my clenched lips, their soft, frigid bodies making me gag. They’re rubbery under my molars, swelling even further in my saliva. I usually wake just as they begin to invade my throat.

Usually.

These dreams are horrible. I hate them. Unfortunately, I’ve begun to doubt the concept of them being figments of lingering dreams.

Sometimes, when I’m wide awake, I can feel it. Not a sliver of drowsiness lurks within me when those slick, bristled bodies seem to slip beneath my skin. If I look closely, I can see my dermis bulge as the largest of them inch painfully along. They crawl through my fat layer just as they would soil.

My rational brain tells me I’m imagining it. It can’t be. But, I cannot deny the sensations: the cold, soft fullness spreading within my core, the itch beneath my skin straining to be set free.

Maybe I should help them with that.

When I was young, my friends dared me to eat a worm.

Now, the worms eat me.

END