It began...

When I was in pre-kindergarten, my family lived in an apartment. My sister and I shared a large bedroom with a bathroom connected to it. My parents were in a similarly sized room, with a master bathroom I can not recall. I was smaller compared to my older family members, but I was taller compared to the other kids around me. I grew fast in height, but I could still curl up in a bedding closet. My arms were called sticks.
It first appeared where my grandma lived, my dad tells me that a ball rolled under the fine china. I excitedly went to put my hand into the darkness of the thin space only my short, stick arms could reach. I grabbed something, ignoring the texture, and pulled out a horrifying, black creature. Deader than dead, yet still it felt alive in my grasp. I likely screamed and cried as I threw the monstrosity to the ground, running to my father, who probably laughed at my terror. That is when it haunted me.

The result...

The thought that this thing could be in any room stopped me in my tracks. When my family moved to a house, the place was filled with these undead horrors. Some would be just out of sight: a darker spot in the abyss of shadow created by whatever structure it clings to. The mere thought of moving and possibly revealing these creatures triggered pure instinct—my thoughts switched from reason to survival. Some appearances were easier to spot: a dark spot crunching beneath pressure would send me fleeing before I had a chance to rationalize it. It took me about 8 years of living there before enough work had been done to finally drive them away from the basement, but by then, I imagined the leader of them all had likely formed a collective of rotting corpses whose presence kept me away.

“You should come to the basement. It is colder there,” my mom would ask. She could not stand the summer heat, but the AC was firmly set to the most economical setting. We had to use other methods to shrug off the heat. I would look at her, weighing everything to eventually land on:

“No.” After my answer, I would leave for the safety of the higher floors that only had chance appearances with quick ways of dealing with them. It was simpler to grab someone to firmly place these creatures into the land of the dead than to try touching and moving them myself. I still can not to this day, but I am hyper aware of their presence: a scouting dog that leaves the kill to the hunter. Bravery was the deciding factor against the undead. There is a difference in rushing to them with all your bones cowering and approaching slowly as if nothing was wrong at all. Some seemingly never saw them. Their living spaces were not haunted, or the presence did not even register as a problem. In China, the US, Mexico, Japan, Thailand, and Cambodia, they even disrespect these beings, snacking on them; crushing them into garnish; selling them in their most lively state; and possibly using them medicinally.

Why? I could not fathom.

In the summer of 2025...

The haunting became worse. Instead of starting with me, the undead went for my husky, Bruce. He was a smiling dog that I found in the front yard. I thought he looked aimless and sad, so I gave him water, eventually convincing my father to keep him for a while. Bruce was a quiet yet proud dog. He was quick to chase after and mess with other animals, but played nicely with people, quick to lie about and watch others. To his haunting, the outside was his downfall. Their natural haunting sites were amongst the grass to prey and feed on wandering souls; slowly, his vigor was drained from him, and the only thing he could do to fight back was scratch and bite at where they tried to haunt me. Eventually, they came upon me. I could feel crawling all over, all the time. The only respite was to shower, loosening its hold for a short while, but the creatures were upon Bruce as if he were a beacon.

At night, I would rub at where they attacked. At day, I would insistently pat myself down over and over again, growing mad. I would curse and try to comfort myself in a low hiss, “It is okay. It is okay. They are not even on me. There is nothing there, but it will not go away. Why will it not go away?”

The showers were routine with multiple a day to simply rinse off the presence whenever I could. I would scratch until I started to bleed and open up scars as soon as they healed.

A friend saw the bumps, bites, and scarring on my legs and arms. With worry and care, they asked:

“What happened to you?”

I still itch in the night. Bruce made his way to another owner, and the summer is coming to an end. I still itch. I live comfortably in Athens, exploring with glee. I still itch. I feel something brush against my arm, tangle into my hair, and crawl up my legs. I feel them biting. I see the marks, but I do not say a word. If I say something, it will not change. I will still itch. I see it crawling when I close my eyes. I feel it watching as I sleep. I lose myself in its circular motions and feel sick a moment later. I can never escape. I can never escape; there are more of them than I can count, and they will be here after I die. They will eat my corpse and seal my fate.

I feel it crawling in my mouth.

I cannot swallow but cannot spit it out. I feel it crawl all over me.

Once...

It pierced through life and death and found me in a dream. I was tied to a chair in the pantry of my old apartment. It is cold and dark, and I can feel them crawling. Various forms claim every inch as its home, turning to that of seat, soil, and skull. I could not cry, I could not scream, but I could wake. I could breathe as a child, check around my room, and hope to find nothing.

When I close my eyes, I can visualise my struggle: thrashing, crying, and desperately wishing for something to change. Maybe I could imagine a person to save me. Maybe I could go back to sleep and see something else, but it had already crawled into my mind. A small black void that skitters across floors with sickening haste. It unleashes its wings to bring itself above physically and mentally. Its visage haunts me, parts that shine like resin, expensive and rare, and move in desperation. Why is it always like that? I think with tears. Why can you not leave me alone? I turn and run, but it is already crawling all over me, changing me.

seat, soil, skull.