Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Worms! Worms! Worms! Worms!

Episode Date: October 6, 2025

When a reclusive man rents out his spare room to a mysterious young woman, he discovers too late that some roommates don’t just share your space—they devour your soul. Wake up or stay up with NoSleep Coffee! Go to⁠ ⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ to get 20% off fresh roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! There are over 80 bonus episodes waiting for you right now. Unlock them here with Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

When the doorbell rings on Friday afternoon, Wynn doesn't answer right away. He sits stiffly on his couch, sweat beating on his cheeks, wondering why, why he had ever listed his apartment's second bedroom as a short-term rental. There had to be a less painful way to come up with additional income, selling his organs on the black market, for instance. He's lived alone since college, over 20 years. And the thought of having a roommate causes his guts to clench with an unlawful. audible squelch and grumble. The bell rings again, screeching in his ears. Wyn gets to his feet, straightens his glasses, and wipes his palms against his jeans.

Forcing an awkward smile onto his face, he crosses the living room to the front door and pulls it open. A gust of wind shoves the door inward, startling Wynn, and nearly causing him to trip over his feet. He studies himself and opens his mouth to speak, but the young woman on the landing doesn't wait for an invitation. Sweeping past him, she strides confidently into the living room. Oh, uh, mutters, closing the door, and cringing to see that some wind-swept leaves and dirt have just found their way inside with her. The woman meanders in the center of the room.

Her hands clasped behind her back, craning her head to look around. Hey-yo, nice place, just like the pictures, and so very clean. when adjusts his glasses. Yes, well, as she turns in place, her head bobbing and her big eyes darting to survey every detail. She reminds him of some sort of punk rock ballerina. All her clothes are black, clunky platform boots, knee-high stockings, poofy miniskirt, undersized t-shirt, and oversized jacket, which is covered in enamel buttons, safety pins, and a large hand-painted anarchy symbol on the back.

Her hair, too, is jet black, voluminous and feathery, with harsh, straight bangs. Heavy black eyeliner frames her eyes, which now swivel to lock onto Wynn. Hey-o, she chirps again. So you gotta be Mr. Armitage, yeah? Wynne flinches at the sound of the name. Just call me Wynne. Win? Win? As in, win or lose?

No, it's W-Y-N-N-N. It's Welsh, I think. Sorry. Why are you apologizing? She strides toward him, holding out a hand. I'm Morgan. It's Irish, I think. Not sorry.

Wynne looks down at her hand and swallows. She is wearing four-inch nails, black and slightly curled, like talons. Yes, sorry. Hello. He gingerly reaches to tuck his fingers around the top of her hand, and gives it, an ungainly little shake. She winks. Don't worry, I haven't sharpen them yet today.

He retracts his hand and wipes his palm against his pants, as she continues to smile up at him. Her face is not unattractive, but there's something off about it. Her eyes are large and glassy. He hasn't seen her blink once. Her hawkish nose is pointed with a pronounced curve, and she wears a shiny black ring in a septum piercing. Her mouth is small and rather lipless, and her cheeks are full and rosy. Wynne clears his throat.

So, uh, Morgan, are you new in the city or? Yep, just flew in. She whirls suddenly around and walks into the hallway. Wyn follows, watching as she pops her head into both bedrooms, then scuttles into the bathroom at the end of the hall. Wow, you sure are. organized, aren't you, Mr. Armiter, when? she says, looking through the cabinet behind his mirror. I suppose. He swallows. So your, uh, room would be this one here on the right. I previously

used it as a home office, mostly to great papers, but, well, it has a closet, uh, lots of natural light, so... Swerving past him again. She swoops through the hall and enter the second bedroom. Yeah, yeah, looks good, she says, craning her long neck to once again examine all the nooks and crannies. So you're a teacher. I didn't see any schools near here. I was a teacher, says when, from the hall. I'm sort of in between things at the moment. Right now I'm tutoring English, online, to students in China. The time difference means I do have to start pretty early some days, so I hope that won't be a problem. Nah, not at all.

I'm an early bird, too. And I won't be here much anyway. I'd travel for work. This will be a place to land on the weekends, you know? Oh, uh, good. She spins to face him. So can I move in today? Wind takes a deep breath.

Uh, I guess. Maybe. Yeah. But like I said in the messages, this wouldn't be a whole official thing. I'm not technically allowed to sublet, so... Yeah, yeah, yeah, no paperwork, no problem. Cash up front, week to week. I'm totally down with that.

She reaches to an inner pocket of her jacket, rummages for a few seconds, then pulls out a wad of 50s in a binder clip. Five hundred, yeah? He nods. She counts out the bills, then holds them out to him. Voila! There you go, Rumi! Wynne tries to smile back, but his attention is focused on the cash. Something wrong?

Could you maybe put those in an envelope? Oh yeah, sure. Cash is supposed to be really dirty, isn't it? I read that somewhere. 99% of bills are like drenched in cocaine or something. Where are your envelopes? He turns and heads to the open kitchen off the living room, where he extracts an envelope from a drawer.

As she shoves the bills into it, Wyn represses his gag reflex. All cash is dirty, but Morrigan's bills are beyond dirty. They're crumpled and grimy, with some sort of dark slime soaked into corners. He sure hopes that's not a bad omen, but it's too late now, isn't it? The room is paid for, at least for the week. Thanks, he says, taking the envelope and holding it gingerly, between his thumb and forefinger. So, she chirps, turning and, much to his surprise, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter.

Perched there, her legs swinging and rubber heels bouncing against a cabinet door. She grins. What now? Well, I guess I need to give you the Wi-Fi password, and the keys for the door in the mailbox, and, uh... I'm sorry, Morgan. Can you please stop that? Her legs freeze. And the smile on her face melts into a frown.

Wynne exhales. Thank you, and I'm sorry, I just... Perhaps you could make it a habit to remove your footwear at the door when entering the apartment. Would that be a reasonable request? She stares at him for a moment, then nods. Sure thing, but I gotta warn you, I got some freaky-ass feet. She hops down from the counter and walks over to the front door, where she stands on one leg to untie her laces.

I appreciate that, Morgan. Thank you. And again, I'm sorry if I'm acting a bit uptight. I guess I've gotten used to being alone since... What was I saying? Oh, the keys. Do you party when? She asks, interrupting him.

He blinks. Do I attend parties? I'll take that as a no. She says, chuckling. I got a couple of girlfriends dropping by the city this weekend. Thought I might invite them over for drinks. You should join us. Wynne feels himself blushed.

Oh, uh, well, I'm not really a... But I suppose that, since you'll be living here, you can of course have a... Get-together, as long as it's not too loud, and you clean up after... Oh, yeah, totally. They're both great gals. We've been together forever. Don't you worry?

Right. Okay, then. As the weekend progresses, Wynne Armitage does worry, because of course he does, but after seeing that Morrigan stays mostly in her bedroom all Saturday, cleans up after herself, and follows his rule about removing footwear, his nerves start to calm. Admittedly, she does have weird feet, lumpy and angular, stretching the fabric of her stockings. Picture this, it's late at night, you're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly, what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to

checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. from major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7.

See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash D-N-S. That's Shopify.com slash D-N-S. When the doorbell rings on Sunday evening, Wyn is watching a video in his bedroom, and the sound makes him jolt and slam his laptop shut.

He sits quietly on the bed, listening as Morgan's footsteps move from her room to the front door. He hears the lock click and the door open. There are some initial excitable shrieks and some laughter. which worries him. But after a few minutes, the noise of the women dies down. And as the night darkens outside and the hours pass, he hears only muffled voices in conversation and an occasional trill of laughter. Twice, he is successful in tiptoeing to the bathroom undetected. But by the time 10 p.m. rolls around, and the little party shows no sign of stopping, Wynne realizes he's going to have

to make an appearance. His phone is almost dead, and he left the charger in the living room. He's also starving. All he's had to eat since lunch is a roll of sugar-free mince, and the leftover pasta in the fridge is practically crying out to him. Rising nervously, he tucks in a shirt and slips quietly into the hall. He saunteres with deliberate aloofness into the living room, and heads to the connected kitchen.

Morrigan and her two friends had been chatting freely, but they all go completely silent as he appears. He pretends not to notice, and moves straight toward the fridge. The silence seems to get heavier somehow, as he covers the pasta with a paper towel and sets it in his spotless microwave. The sound of shutting the microwave door and its beeping buttons are like explosions in his ears,

and he blushes with embarrassment. As the microwave begins to buzz, is it always that loud? Wynne tries at first to stare blankly at the kitchen cabinet in front of him. But after three torturous seconds of this, he caves. There's nothing for it. He has to say hello. Damn it.

Turning coyly to face the living room, he sees that six large eyes are gazing back at him, fixed unblinking. Uh, good evening, he says, clearing his throat. You must be Morrigan's friends. Hello. All three women smile. Morrigan is perched on the center of the couch.

There's more than enough room for her friends as well, but both have chosen to sit on the carpet instead. So you're the guy, huh? The elusive, Mr. Armitage, says the friend on the left. Morrigan jabs her playfully with a foot. I told you he doesn't like that. Call him Wynne. A pleasant evening to you, Mr. Wynne.

greets the woman on the right. Where are my manners? Says Morgan. Introductions. When, this stony-faced beauty here, is Nia. The woman on the left cocks one stylish-notched eyebrow. Nia's buzzed hair is dyed lime green, reminding Wynn of a highlighter.

She wears a baggy camouflage jacket, frayed at the collar. Hey, and this prim and proper young lady is Mack, says Morrigan, before adding with a wink. Mac's a real bitch. Mack blushes and giggles, raising a small, pale hand to cover her mouth. She's dressed far more conservatively than her peers in a navy pants suit. Mack's long red hair is gathered in a high, taut bun. Wynne has trouble guessing any of their ages.

He's probably old enough to be their father. So then, could they still be in college? Maybe. All their faces are round and full, with smooth, almost radiant skin. But there's also something older about them. The eyes, perhaps. Join us, Rumi. It says Morrigan, motioning with one tallened hand at the coffee table,

where two bottles of liquor stand among cans of soda and empty shot glasses. Oh, no. Thank you, he says. I, uh... The microwave beeps behind him, making him jump. Linguini Alfredo. I mean dinner. I mean, that's my dinner, so I really should... Win?

Crunes Morrigan. Sit. Is one little drink gonna kill ya? But, my Alfredo! Morrigan scoots over on the couch and pats the cushion beside her. Wyn rubs his palms against his thighs and walks slowly toward them. On the floor, Nia shifts to let him pass. He lowers himself on the couch, hands in his lap.

For a few seconds, all three women continue to stare at him, and then, at last, They relax and look away. The two on the floor are moving to prepare a shot. So, uh, what are we drinking? Is that tequila? Mack giggles again. It's mescal, says Nia, grabbing one of the bottles, which is already almost empty. That's the one that has the, uh, worm, isn't it?

The larva? Nia turns the bottle for him to see. He squints into the golden liquor and feels his stomach drop. What? Really? Oh my god, I was kidding. I thought that was just an urban legend. All three women laugh softly as Nia pours. Relax. Says Morgan, laying one hand on Wynne's knee, her long nails tapping against his leg, which does not help him relax.

But that, that thing looked like it was still moving. What? No. That was just the liquid swirling around in the bottle. Don't be so silly. Wyn watches as Nia holds up the filled shot glass and experiences a moment of relief when he sees that it contains nothing but Amber Mescal. The worm must still be in the bottle, but even so, he knows he can't actually drink any of it now. Not after seeing that. Smirking, Nia downs the shot herself, licks her lips, and goes to refill the glass. Uh, look, I appreciate being included. Wyn lies.

But I'm not much of a drink or so. Oh, God! She's holding up the glass again, and now, revolving in slow motion like a squiggly little galaxy is a fat, white worm. Wyn gags, his stomach going cold, and tries to stand. But Morrigan's hand seizes around his wrist. Her fingers squeeze, and with a tug, she pulls him back down.

It's perfectly all right, Mr. Wynne. Mack assures him. The consumption of larvae. has been a practice of many diverse cultures throughout history. It's just another protein, adds Nia unhelpfully. Wynne opens his mouth to speak, but Morrigan's grip tightens on his wrist, and he cringes. Deep breath, yeah? If you don't want to, it's no big E, okay? He nods, closing his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing.

The fingers on his wrist relax. There now, better? Wind nods and opens his eyes. Yes, sorry. I was just a bit shaken. Morgan smiles sweetly. Everything shakes you, don't it? He shrugs and adjusts his glasses. I guess.

You know why? A chill travels across wind's skin, like a draft of icy wind, and the hairs on his arms stand up. What do you mean? There's something missing from your life. There is. Mm-hmm. She nods, head jerking up and down, feathery hair bouncing.

Do you know what that is, Wynn? What you need more of in your life? He shakes his head. Morgon's big eyes gleam. Life, she whispers. Vigour! Drones Nia. Vitality! Trills Mack.

Morgan retrieves the shot glass, and holding it up before him, she swirls it lightly in her hand. So how about it? You want to stay all, coiled up like a tight, tight spring? Or let loose and go wild, frolicking and free. Wyn can't seem to break eye contact from her, and she still isn't blinking. Why isn't she blinking? Not interested, she tilts her head.

Then how about this? How about I drink the liquor and catch this little wormy on my tongue? Then I can give it to you with a nice little kiss. Mack giggles. Winn's whole body shudders, filled with revulsion at the thought. He suddenly snatches the shot glass, scraping his hand on her fingernails as he grabs it, splashes its contents into his mouth, and throws back his head, and swallows. Hey-o!

Morgan whoops. On the carpet, Nia starts to clap, fast and childish. Well done, Mr. Wyn! Even Nia looks pleased, slowly nodding with approval. As soon as the liquor reaches his stomach, Wynne feels his body start to reject it. His abdominal muscles contract, and he puffs out his cheeks. Nope!

yells Morrigan, grabbing a soda from the table and bringing it up to his lips. He's gonna be sick, says Nia. He just needs a chaser. Wyn allows her to pour the sweet, hissing soda into his mouth. Swallows gratefully, then stands up, wiping at his mouth. Oh, oh my God, that was... Why did I... He groans, swooning.

clutching at his stomach. The thought of the Linguini Alfredo sitting in the microwave makes him want to die. Hmm, maybe it's best you head back to bed then, yeah? He takes a shaky step toward the hall, nodding. We're all really proud of you, Mr. Wynn, proclaims Mack. I'm taking off later tonight, so I'll see you next weekend, calls out Morgan as he stumbles into the hall. He jerks a hand up in response, then hurries into his bedroom and slams the door.

He stands there for a moment. feeling feverish. Why the hell did I... He doesn't bother turning off the lights. He staggers to the bed and drops onto it, grabbing his pillow and clutching it to his stomach, he curls up. He is shaking, sweating, and his guts won't stop rumbling. He shuts his eyes tight, waiting for it to be over.

Next morning, Winn awakes with a pounding headache and sore muscles, but his stomach is back to normal. his glasses lie on the blanket beside him. He sits up in bed, yawning and blinking in the sunlight, streaming through the window, though his alarm hasn't gone off yet. Spotting his phone on the nightstand, he pulls on his glasses and stretches to pick it up. As he turns the phone in his hand and waits for the screen to illuminate, and waits, a wave of panic crashes over him.

Shit! He jumps to his feet and hurries into the living room. The room is clean, the bottles and cans cleared away. His forgotten phone charger is plugged into the corner of the room. Turning to the kitchen, he checks the time on the microwave, but it shows nothing but zeros. The damn pasta! He reaches over and hits cancel, and the time appears.

927. Shit, shit, shit! He's already missed his first three lessons. Running back into the bedroom, he tosses aside the blanket in search of his laptop. grabs it, and lurches to the desk in the corner. Sitting in his squeaky office chair and yanking open the laptop, he fumbles to find and attach his webcam. When he finally opens the teaching website,

his inbox shows three new messages from his admin. No surprise there. Wyn navigates into the virtual classroom with 90 seconds to go. His students aren't present yet, thankfully. In his own viewer window, he looks terrible, bloated, and sickly. How'd that one stupid shot mess him up so much? He stifles another yawn, which turns instead into a rancid belch. How the hell is he going to explain to the admin why he missed three lessons?

What excuse can he possibly make to keep this job? Crappy as the pay is, he needs every penny. Morrigan's 500 won't last long, with rent being due soon, and his lawyer breathing down his neck about falling behind and the agreed-upon payment plan. But if he can at least get through the rest of his lessons today, if he can show that it was a one-time mistake, then maybe. In the student's window, a webcam halfway around the world turns on. In grainy pixels, he sees the student's mother leaning over their computer,

and as she moves away, a shy seven-year-old girl comes into view. Hello, Sarah! Wyn announces, calling her by the English name the admin shows, and waving theatrically. How are you? You. Good? Good. Me too. Today, we are learning about... He looks around from the container of finger puppets. About animals.

Shoving the little rubber heads of a dog, a parrot, and a cat onto his fingers. He wriggles them in front of his webcam. On the other camera feed, the student blinks, unimpressed. Wind swallows, tasting acid, and feeling mucus. tingling in his throat. Here's the, uh, the dog. The dog goes woof, woof. He wiggles his finger and he wiggles his nose. Wynn's headache is emanating from his sinuses, a savage pressure.

And his sinuses have begun to tingle. Sniffling, Wyn tries to keep smiling. And here is the, uh, the bird. The worst itch yet rises behind his cheeks. and he expels a quick breath through his nostrils. A drop of snot shoots out and lands on his keyboard. Wyn hopes the student didn't notice. He chuckles, and keeping his gaze on the screen,

he reaches to grab the box of tissues. And the bird says... His gaze darts briefly down as he goes to wipe the keys and he freezes. As Wynne stares at the keyboard, the thin, pale line of goo on the space bar, rolls and twists, and wriggles on. to the laptop's touchpad. Wind's eyes widen.

A suffocating sense of dread seizes him. In his guts, in his throat, in his sinuses, he thinks he can feel something, like hundreds of tiny wet hairs beginning to squirm, lifting his face. He sees that his student has risen on her chair and is squinting at the screen, seeming for the first time to be genuinely interested.

In his own camera feed, something white and shiny is moving to. from Wynne's left nostril, slithering up and around to the bridge of his nose. Wynn wiggles the rubber parrot on his finger. Tweet, tweet, tweet. The teaching site lets Tudors log out at five minutes to the hour, and the second that minute changes on the last lesson of the day. He yells, goodbye, and slams the laptop.

Oh, God! He groans, jerking to his feet and scooting away from the desk. He clutches both hands around his stomach, and rocks back and forth, tears coming to his eyes, turning in place and moaning through his clenched teeth. And the trash can by the desk, every tissue from the box is now wet and crumpled and wriggling. Oh, no, no, no. What is this? Oh, God, no. He has to clean up, to clean up everything, to take the trash out to the dumpster and vacuum the keyboard and the carpet and disinfect every inch of... Oh, shit!

He spins and lunges to the hall, crashing against the doorframe, then stumbles into the bathroom and falls to his knees on the linoleum. No sooner as he thrown open the toilet seat, then his lips burst apart as watery vomit sprays between his teeth, splattering inside and outside the bowl, and dribbling down his chin. He groans and reaches a shaky hand to grab some toilet paper. But his second wave of nausea growls deep within him. His diaphragm convulses.

like a punch to the gut, and he heaves over, a hot, slick of gelatinous puke erupting from his throat. Wyn clamps his eyes shut, retreating into himself, walling off his mind to keep out the sound, the taste, the stink, the pain. After a third round of this violent regurgitation, he feels his stomach start to relax, but his throat is raw, and he is trembling. Oh my God! He opens his eyes, blinking out hot tears, and careful to keep his gaze upturned and away from the mess in the bowl, he clutches at the toilet seat and shuts it. Exhaling, his breath smells like curdled milk and ammonia.

He flushes the toilet. Nightmare. He pants. It's a nightmare. A nightmare. It takes him a full minute to get back to his feet. And when he finally does, he is dizzy and short of breath. My hands.

I need to wash them. I need to shower and get the rubber gloves, bleach, paper towels, scrub brush. He unrolls a wad of toilet paper to wipe his lips and chin. Ben leans to quickly lift the seat and thrust the paper inside. But in that half second that the water is visible, Wynn sees them. Milk white worms, drifting in a loose cloud within the rising water. He spasms and slams a fist onto the flushing lever again.

When Wyn gets back from the drugstore that evening, he pulls off his N95 mask and unloads his shopping bag onto the counter. Besides the four boxes of anti-parasetic medication, he's also purchased additional cleaning supplies. He doesn't even know how much he paid for it all, and he left the absurdly long receipt in his car. Tearing open the medications packaging, he extracts the little bottle inside and strains to read the instructions. Right, right, right, dosage, weight. So then that's three teaspoons and screw it. Uncapping the bottle, Wynne chugs the whole thing, winceing as his sore throat contracts in waves to swallow every drop. Oh, banana flavored my ass, he mumbles, pushing his glasses back up his sweaty nose.

Okay, just got to let the meds do their work, and it'll be all better tomorrow. Yeah. Wynne has to wash all his bedding the next morning. Fresh from a shower, his hands are shaking violently as he bundles the linens and the blanket and the clothes he had been wearing, and carries the whole soiled mess down to the building's laundry room, a detergent bottle tucked under one arm. There's an older woman sitting in the corner of the laundry room, playing a noisy game on her phone. As Wyn slumps inside, dressed in a bathrobe and slippers, and breathing hoarsely, The woman looks up at him with a disgusted sneer.

Casting a nervous glance at her own laundry, whirling in the machine next to her, she mutters something, rises, and shuffles past him. Whether it was the smell of his bundle or the unsightly appearance of Wynne himself that scared her away, he doesn't know. Shoving the bedding into two separate machines, he just hopes he has enough left on his laundry card to run both on the heavy-duty setting. They're going to need it. The worms that he found upon waking, hundreds of them, swimming in his filth, were pink and fat, like grubs. Wind skips all his Tuesday lessons, and he still hasn't answered the admin's messages.

Oh well, either he loses the job, or he comes up with a very convincing excuse, like a long hospital stay. That might not even be a fiction by the time this is all over, though he hopes to God it doesn't come to that. He spends most of the day on the couch, trying to distract himself with shitty TV and fidgeting constantly. His guts continue to churn and verbal, and his sinuses burn. But it's more than that now. It's like he can feel the inside of his muscles, all itchy and tingling. And when he looks down at his arms, he can see. But that has to be a hallucination, surely.

He sees his veins, bulging and darkly discolour. end, moving, slithering in place and rippled undulation just beneath the skin. He hides his arms under the blanket, wrapping himself tightly, rocking on the couch, staring at the TV, even as his vision fogs. But that fog is simply from those. What do you call them? Floaters. Those squiggly illusions you sometimes see. They're just shadows on the retina, cast from drifting clumps of vitreous humor within the eyes themselves. That's all. Surely, by the time he limpsed at the bathroom to brush his teeth before bed, every joint in his body is sore and squeaking.

There is bruising on the inside of his elbows and his wrists, and looking in the mirror, he sees more on his neck, not to mention dark bags under his eyes. In his cloudy vision, the bruises seem to be moving, like living splotches, subtlety, changing color and shape and texture. Wynne brushes his teeth, wincing with each little motion, then chugs two more bottles of the anti-parasitic medication, and hobbles with agonizing slowness to his bed. Wednesday arrives, and the worms?

Glossy and crimson. He can feel them, writhing in his digestive tract. He can smell and taste them, the stench, thick in his sinuses, and rising up his throat to coat his mouth and tongue and teeth. He can even hear them, the vibration of many tiny sinewy bodies moving moistly through the tubes and tissues and vessels and nodes of his own. When he blows his nose on the last scrap of toilet paper left in his apartment and flushes away the slimy red results, Wynn decides that he's done, that nothing else in this world could be worse than spending another minute in his home, which has become everything he fears, squalid, polluted, defiled.

And he is too ill, too miserable, too utterly overwhelmed to scrub away the mess. That outer cleanliness, it is all important to win, the only thing that can distract him from inner ugliness. But now it's all coming out. All that sinuous grotesquery pouring forth from every orifice. It's coming out again and he can't handle it. The worms, they are taking everything. His job, his health, his home, his sanity.

Shaking with the cold sweat, he climbs into his car and sits, leaning on the steering wheel, trying to find the strength to drive, his breath hot and moist within his N95. After several long minutes, he tastes the earthly vomit rising in his throat again, and swallowing it down, he starts the engine. He drives slowly, heading downtown toward the hospital, squinting through the squiggly haze before his vision. Twice, he swerves out of his lane. and other drivers honk when he finally reaches the hospital, retrieves a parking stub at the gate,

and takes a spot by the emergency room entrance. He can hardly believe that he's made it this far. As he exits the vehicle and staggers, hunched and groaning, through the automatic doors, he imagines the unbearably painful awkwardness to come. His explanation to the doctor, the poking and prodding, the tests, the horrified looks on the faces of hospital staff, but also the relief of getting care, of getting real meds, of being cleaned out, purged of his impurities.

He waits in line at the check-in desk, rubbing his palms against his thighs, over and over and over until the skin on his hands is red. Soon, there is only one person ahead of him, a small bent woman with curlers in her hair, walking with a cane. As the old woman shuffles to the window, the hospital attended behind the check-in desk, glances up through the glass, looking past the woman and seeing, when? Recognition flashes across her face, followed quickly by a look of pure and absolute, loathing. Even in the N95 mask, she knows him, and he knows her. They've spoken many times, though there used to always be a teacher's desk between them.

She had asked to come in for several parent-teacher conferences, all to discuss the troubling behavior her child was developing. Then, of course, she had been at the trial. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Then a voice behind Wynn says, Oh gosh! What is that? He gasps and looks around. The woman in line behind him has her upper lip wrinkled in disgust and her gaze on the floor. Wynne looks down. A little pile of gooey red worms sit against his shoe, and more are dropping into it from the bottom of his pant leg every second. From the chairs nearby, more voices rise in repulsed solidarity, and the woman behind him backs away, bumping into someone's wheelchair. No, I...

He spins back around and sees the attendant at the desk, standing up to peer through the glass at the source of the commotion. Wynn's breath goes short, his hands shake. He turns in place, and his foot slips on the worms. He staggers, reaching out to catch himself. The woman behind him who shrieks as his hand seizes on her elbow, a few little worms tumbling from his sleeve and sticking to her forearm. Chairs squeak as though sitting in them jump to their feet. The attendant snatches up a phone receiver, and down a hallway to the left, a security officer comes jogging toward the waiting room.

No, no, no, no. Wyn runs toward the exit. The automatic doors are opening to a man with his arm in a sling. Wynne slams into the injured man, knocking him to the ground as more voices inside. cry out. Scambling forward, panting in raspy gasps, he staggers through the parking lot, finds his car, and jumps behind the wheel. As he fumbles with his keys, when begins to cry, only tears do not come to his eyes. Rather, his eyelids grow hot and itchy and seem to swell. He starts up the car, and when he looks into the rearview mirror, his eyes lock onto their own

reflection. They seem to be filling with blood? No. With worms! The tips of sleek ruby red worms are squeezing out from his tear ducts, while the shape of their long bodies wriggle beneath the skin of his cheeks. Wind screams. Vision blurred and wriggling, he slams on the gas, speeding across the parking lot, and turning to avoid the line of vehicles at the gate. He drives over the curb instead, car bouncing, flowery bushes crunching beneath the wheels.

He swerves onto the street and barrels through a red light. Hark, Wyn doesn't care. He just needs to get home. Home is better. Alone is better, even with his filth and his ooze and his shame. He does not get out of bed on Thursday, because he cannot. The pain is too strong. The worms have teeth now. He can tell. Little teeth and their little mouths. They are burrowing into a skeleton, drilling through the cortical bone to feast and to swim and to multiply in Wynne's gooey marrow. He writhes on the bed, spasming, squealing, naked, but for a pair of sweaty, soiled underbands. And he cannot even find the strength or the focus to sweep away the worms that fall out of him,

crawling from his ears and nostrils and tear ducts, or bursting out in little swarms with each ragged cough and gassy expulsion. The worms are purple now, slick and fat, and everywhere. He is still alive on Friday. In fact, You might even say he is more alive than ever. Life flourishes within the swollen form of Wyn Armitage. His skin ripples with it, each vein engorged and dark. His fingers trembled with it, and worms coiled tightly under every nail. His eyes swim with it, little spherical baggies almost bursting from the mass of writhing gelatinous life within them.

And in his chest, a heart-shaped tangle of jet-black worms continues to contract and release. With an audible, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, bumping liquid out to every wriggling organ. Liquid rich with life, though not the red and white of blood cells. No, not anymore. Worms. Teeny, tiny, perfect, worms. Clusters of them. Armies.

Legions. Nations. Wynn is a world, crowded with life. And the life is worms. As the sun sets outside, when hears something, though the sounds are muted through the squelching muffle of the slime within his ears. He hears a click and a rattle, and the front door swinging open. He moans,

Don't come in. It's dirty. It's all so very dirty. In his dim and undulating vision, he sees his open bathroom door and gasping for breath, He tries to reach out a swollen arm toward it, but instead his body slides off the bed and hits the carpet with a sloppy thwump, worms bursting out onto the floor around him, black and jittery. Wyn groans and looking up, sees an ominous figure standing over him, with two glinting eyes peering down from a great feathery silhouette. Heyo, Mr. Wynn, your room is back. Stairs up at her in her leather jacket and puffy skirt, all black like the worms.

Morgan? He weases. Can you call nine? She bends and grabs him roughly with her long-nailed hands. He grunts and feels himself pulled, dragged across the carpet, through the door, into the hall. Wait! She pulls him into the center of the living room. then straightens up and takes a deep breath.

Behind her, he sees Nia and Mac enter the apartment, shutting the front door quietly behind them. Good evening, Mr. Armitage, says Mac, smiling politely, and giving him a little wave. Rough week, Nia sneers. Wind stares at the three of them, trying to understand. The women are different now somehow. They are thinner, almost skeletal,

so that their clothes hang loose on their wiry frames. Their cheeks are gaunt and haggard, and their eyes, so large unblinking, seemed to glow with a ravenous inner light. These three, Wynne thinks, they are not human. They never were. Morrigan crouches at his side,

and the other two follow suit, kneeling in a triangle around his grotesque body. I think I understand now. Wyn murmurs. He tries to swallow, but the fat worm in his mouth that has replaced his tongue makes it difficult. This lives my penant, my punishment because of what I did with those students. Morrigan shoves one long fingernail vertically across his lips. Does it matter to us, though why? We don't care. We come because we can. She can smell it from afar in a mortal soul.

And worms? They thrive in that ruinous decay. She blinks. Finally, only the black lids that slip across her eyes come from either side, rather than top and bottom. And we are hungry little chickies, aren't we ladies? She asks, grinning. Six-eyes gleam, fixed within three hungry faces. Faces whose true shape, Wynn can now decipher beneath their human disguises.

Ancient, avian, numinous. Morrigan raises a hand, flexing her talons, and then she strikes. Wyn's mouth stretches wide in a silent scream as his belly is sliced open. It feels a rush of wet heat around his middle. Then the air is split with a thousand screechy voices, high and shrill as nails on a chalkboard. Wyn whips up his head and stares down. down at the forest of wriggling, black worms,

as they stretch up from within his wound, squirming in a frenzied madness. At his sides, Nia and Mack look on in gluttonous delight, then jerk their scaly, pointed faces downward, sinking their beaks into the gruesome meal and scarfing up the screaming worms in wild chomps. Wyn finds his voice and groans, as Morrigan moves around to crouch between his legs,

and stabs one talon into his upper right thigh. He spasms, spilling more than, spilling more worms from his torn torso, and watches as Morrigan drags the claw down, splitting open his leg all the way to the kneecap. Worms sprout in gooey abundance, writhing and squealing, before Nia twists and begins snapping them up by the beak full. No! No!

He tries to back away, but Nia clamps onto his leg and jabs her beak into his right knee with a crunch. He howls and scrambles, pushing at the carpet with his hands, forcing himself back stretching open his torn belly. There's a straining of taut, tissue, and skin, a fiery pain, and then a wicked snap, and Wynn falls backward. He pushes up again, dragging himself. Well, everything above his rib cage, backward along the carpet,

while his waist and legs remain where they were. From the severed base of his spine, he sees thread-like worms reach out from the center of the vertebrae and wiggle in the air, before Mack dives and slurps them out. Winn sobs, still struggling to get away, slippery black organs spilling out from his open chest and bursting into tangled puddles of worms as they hit the ground. The back of his head hits against the kitchen cabinet, and he freezes.

Morrigan approaches, her eyes like spheres of red glass, her dark, angular face, leering and playful. Wynne opens his mouth to speak, but she plunges upon him, bites hard, and rips the tongue from his mouth. He tries to scream. but all that comes out is a stream of glittering black vomit. Morgan swallows his tongue, then taking aim with her beak, she leans in, skewering his left eye, which bursts into a fibrous pulp

and begins to suck up the worms within his brain, filling her belly. They eat down every scrap, every drop, every worm, even running their rough tongues across the fibers of the carpet and sheets in the bedroom, careful to find every last teeny tiny wriggler. And when they leave, walking out through the front door and swooping away into the night upon great wings of shadow.

The apartment they leave behind is, actually, pretty clean, just like the bastard would have wanted.