It took me longer than it should’ve to notice that my son had gone missing from our fishing site. My gaze had been trapped on the still waters of the lake; those dark waters have a way of doing that to you. I wouldn’t have broken out of my concentration if it weren’t for an echoed cry which came from deep inside the forest. The voice was my son’s. It echoed through the decaying trees, and it would’ve been hard to find him through the dense woods if it wasn’t for his ceaseless screaming.
As I neared his voice, I came upon an old, run-down house. Its windows had been boarded up and the door had been ripped from its hinges. The inside of the house seemed to emit darkness and the whole place had a deep stench of rot. It’s safe to say that, had my son not been on the line, I would never have entered. As my feet stepped through the hole which had once been a door, a memory of my father came flooding back to me. The memory was from when he used to take me to this same fishing spot. I remembered how my father would prepare the worms for baiting.
Every time we went fishing, he would grab a tub of worms from the store for us to use. He’d always have to prepare my worms for me; I was too squeamish to do it myself. I didn’t— I still don’t like worms; I like them even less now. I don’t like the way they squirm. The mere thought of it sends shudders down my spine. But my father had no problem with them at all. He would grab a worm from the bucket, not even flinching as they wriggled around his finger. He just grabbed one, ripped it in half, and tied it in a knot around his hook. I could never do that. The feeling I got every time I touched one reminded me of one lone vein wrapped in a thin layer of skin.
As I stumbled through this strange abandoned house to find my son, I made note of the floors. The wood had been warped by the wetness, and in some spots it was practically mud. I approached a thin hallway and peered through a sliver of the doorway to see my son’s face, screaming in agony. But standing above my son was a moist, fleshy, mass; it dripped fluids from its long, spindly arms. At that moment, I froze up. My son was writhing in pain, but standing above him was a monster. I watched intently as the creature’s body shifted from shape to shape. After a while, it let out a low mumble.
“Come here boy, don’t you miss your daddy.” It couldn’t be true, but then again, nobody knows what happened to my father’s body. I slowly staggered towards my son as this thing that was not my father watched me. When I got within arms length of my son, I grabbed his hand, but his fingers squirmed on my skin like worms and my flesh began to burn as if his hands were leaking acid. I immediately jerked my hand away in fear, then I looked up at the creature who gave me the most terrifying grin. I hadn’t even noticed the screams come to a halt until I looked at my son’s mouth where the sound had been coming from, but instead there were worms. His eye sockets were empty except for the occasional worm oozing in and out.
I ran away as fast as I could when I heard the creature say “your turn lad,” I’m sorry son, but there are some things I just don’t know how to handle.
As I sprinted away, I could hear the beast seizing itself through the halls of that old house. I only got one good glimpse of the creature, but it will live in my nightmares for the rest of my days. It was a wet mass of worms that took the shape of my dad. Its eyes were hollow and it had a long gross tongue made of worms. It didn’t move correctly, it just shifted around. Its legs squirmed as the body bounced off the walls around it. Its flesh dripped acid, the same acid that was on my son’s hand. I don’t know what it was, but I do know that I’d never seen skin bubble before until I got it on myself. The hand is fine now I suppose, although it’s quite wilted.
I never saw my son again. I had to turn all the pictures of him, or my father in my house away. Every time I looked at them all I could see looking back was those hollow eyes, and the worms that burrow inside of them.