I feel I need to issue a disclaimer before reading. This story, even though short, contains graphic and grotesque imagery. It is a horror story inspired by scientific fact that I felt like writing about one evening. Feel free to critique and review but just know that you have been warned about it's sensitive nature. Thanks. -EH
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Inside of Me
A horror story written by Efrain Hernandez
“Now arriving from ANGOLA.”
When the doors to the bridge opened up only a handful of passengers rolled into the airport wheeling their suitcases with FIRST CLASS stickers on them. Then the next wave of passengers quickly poured out of the bridge from a fluid stream of families and single fliers. Dozens of suitcases and backpacks collided with each other amid the traffic but one managed to squeeze itself out. Dr. Stephen Cohen quickly exited the arriving gate and headed straight for the men’s lavatory.
He shut himself in a stall and dropped onto his knees, hugging the sides of the toilet with tremendous pain. Every few seconds Stephen lurched his face forward and emptied himself. When the waves of hot pain had subsided from his chest Stephen pulled himself up with great difficulty and cleaned the area. He washed his hands with warm water and looked at the mirror in front of him. A man with whitening hair and stained lips was staring back at him. Somewhere in his bloodshot eyes he could remember the nightmarish week he had just spent in Angola, Africa. His travels as an international scholar led him to a peculiar study in Luanda where he battled local sentiment, exotic environments and Insects that belonged in the book of nightmares.
Stephen splashed cold water on his face and started to clean the bile left on his buttoned shirt. He rolled up his sleeves, leaving the water faucet running, and leapt backwards in disgust. What used to be a centipede-like creature crawling around his forearm was now just his skin pulsing in terror. He searched for it by unbuttoning his shirt and examining himself in the mirror but found nothing.
“Don’t lose it Stevie. Got to get home now.” He scrubbed his hands feverishly with soap and hurried out of the bathroom.
Seeing the familiar streets of his city had settled well for him. In his city the cars were new and shining Fords and Chevys which reminding him of his things waiting for him back home. He was much calmer now and could comfortably relax in the taxi’s passenger seat. In front of him the skies gleamed of red and blue from a beautiful sunset. Every intersection that reflected the street signs off of his window meant he was that much closer to home now. Stephen rested his head on the headrest and slowly closed his eyes. A foot-long yellow spider with black rings was trying to pry his open mouth open while another had just crawled into his ear.
Stephen shouted the taxi to stop. He hurried to pay the driver, nearly giving him too little, and lunged for his suitcase in the backseat before starting his walk home.
It was already dusk and Stephen had a few blocks to go. There was a brilliant aura coming from the street lights that dazzled the parked cars alongside the sidewalk. Each apartment complex he had passed reminded him of his own single bedroom studio. He felt a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach that sent waves of comfort towards every end of his body. His walked slowed into a simple stroll around the dark neighborhood. As the feeling worked itself up towards his spinal cord, Stephen’s heart was pounding softly and a glimpse of the maggots squirming from beneath his fingernails squeezed whatever was warm in him back out. Stephen dropped back on his knees again and vomited what he saw as chunks of night crawlers and critters. Every cough sent larvae spinning onto the sidewalk. He screamed in rage and kicked his suitcase aside. The brown case opened up and emptied a bizarre bunch of colorful scorpions and clothes over the ground. Stephen grabbed his hair and shut his eyes.
“Please stop!” He cried with a hot and wet face.
But there was nothing to fight against, nothing to break or destroy when he opened his eyes again. Nothing was left on the ground but an opened suitcase and blood. He grazed two fingers over his lips and saw red. With uneasy legs Stephen leaned against the light pole and dialed a number on his cell phone.
The dial tone buzzed.
Stephen looked around him frightfully and begged for someone to answer.
The dial tone continued.
He kept a close eye on every shadow and small hole, fearing that the worst of creatures would crawl out and terrorize him yet again.
Still no answer.
Suddenly, a wide, dark man appeared from the shadows of a nearby alley. He wore a string thong, laced with grass and weeds. Shells and the skulls of small animals were wrapped around his wrist and neck in decorative detail. White paint outlined varying designs and shapes alongside his arms and chest that continued up his neck to a wonderful system of symbols on his face. He pointed a long, rattling staff towards Stephen and frowned.
“HAKI.” The dark man bellowed. His eyes gleamed a bright green that froze his nerves cold and in an instant he was gone.
“Stephen?”
“James!” Stephen exclaimed wildly. “He followed me here! He won’t let me go!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Help me James!” His face was growing hot with sweat and his fingers began curling inwards.
“Tell me where you are Stephen.”
Stephen turned around him.
“About a block from your apartment.” He squeezed a clump of his hair.
“Get here quickly then.”
“James,” Stephen begged, “you have to help me.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I went to Luanda to help a colleague with some Linguistic interpretation,” Stephen coughed and continued running, “and I halfway into the trip I started seeing terrible things, the worst things you can imagine.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like hell! I can’t make it like this. It hurts too much.”
“How did you get this way?”
“My colleague and I went on a venture through some of the native’s woods for some sightseeing and we came across a tribe…the Kongo People. At first they were hospitable but somehow…”
“What is it Stephen?”
“I don’t know what I did, I just know that I crossed the shaman there. He did something to me, James. I can’t explain it but I’m not going to live though this.”
“Don’t talk like that Stephen. It’s not going to be that way.”
“My colleague, he died soon after he returned to Luanda and I know I’m next. The shaman wants us dead and he’s followed me here.”
His friend waited to say something more. “Stephen, get here as fast as you can just don’t hurt-”
Stephen was already sprinting down the sidewalk towards a taller complex now rising ahead. Cars that sped by left long trails of red and yellow streaks. The street lights radiated beautiful orbs of light that bounced between apartment windows. Seeing the clouds over him swirl past and into each other like food coloring sent his eyes into a daze. And all the while his head was caving into itself.
“I can’t do this.” He muttered. His colleague’s apartment was half a block away but it somehow moved farther down. New buildings were popping up in between him and the apartment. With his bones rattling to the point of breaking off from his tendons, Stephen found it nearly impossible to move. His heart moved faster but with every beat his body resisted that much more.
“He couldn’t have found me.” Stephen heaved, the ribs in his chest pushed back and forth with every breath. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Haki…
“He said Haki.” Stephen thought about the word and cringed. Thinking was now out of the question. His brain was frying and he felt every nerve cell breaking apart one by one.
Stephen slapped his hand on the caller button at the front door of the apartment tower and rested his head against the front door. A bloody hand print covered the speaker which buzzed on, queuing him to speak.
“James, let me in!”
The door buzzed open and Stephen rushed in. He felt a river of warm blood oozing from every orifice on his body and bled. He bled on the way to the elevator and left a pool at his feet. He bled down the hall to the apartment and trailed that with chaotic shoe prints. Every door he passed was dripping with a black substance that inched closer to the gold plated room numbers.
“289...290...291...”
Stephen’s body was on fire now and with great relief, he stopped in front of room 292. He knocked furiously, leaving his shouts to echo down the hallway.
“James!” He screamed louder.
The hallway lights flickered sporadically.
“Let me in for god sakes!”
The door to room 292 swung open and the large, dark man who sought for him stood behind the door with the decapitated head of another dark skinned man firmly grasped in his hand. The second head was familiar to Stephen as it was his guide and his friend at the Luanda trip. Spiders were crawling out from his eyes and mouth that immobilized Stephen. He stared and watched the head swing backwards and then forwards at his face.
Haki…
Haki…
Justice…
The words coming from James faded from a cold, dead blur. Stephen, barely alive now, was lifted and placed onto a soft couch. The sweating had stopped but it left his skin dry and pale. In fact, a white residue caked his face. His breathing was shallow.
“Stephen? Look at me.”
Stephen’s eyes took time to look at the stout man standing over him. James raised a flashlight over his friend’s face and examined him. He looked into Stephen’s drooping eyes and half crooked smile.
“Can you hear me Stephen?”
Stephen nodded and smiled. He remembered the dried bushes that the Kongo people resided in and the warm, dry air that blanketed the everything in life. Animals were everywhere as were the people themselves. He remembered driving into the village to meet the indigenous people and seeing every scurry back into their huts like frightened mice. At the end of the main trail encircling a large pit of burnt ash was the shaman’s house. He stood outside waiting for them to arrive. Stephen remembered that while it was a recreational retreat for him, it was not so much for his colleague Nzambi Mpungu, a native scholar researching linguistic diversity among local tribes. It was his job to delve into the diversity of language but instead he made it his mission to unify the conflicting tribes though one common language: English. His first attempt was made weeks prior to his trip and by the time Stephen arrived, he was thrown into a tension between the Kongo People and Luanda Linguistic Academy; most specifically, Nzambi Mpungu. Nzambi destroyed most of the traditional language in the village by schooling the newer generation otherwise and as Nzambi journeyed across Luanda in search of more villages, the shaman of the Kongo People kept a close and vengeful eye. When Nzambi and Stephen arrived to discuss intentions and negotiations between the academy and the village, the shaman replied with a refusal through words. The shaman spat out his outrage and even swung his staff towards the men, rattling the various shells and bones that were tied on at the end. He pointed a finger at both of them and shouted “Haki”. At this moment Stephen was confused at the shaman’s outrage and offered to help by outstretching his hand. The shaman glared at him too and pricked his arm with a thin, featherless dart. Stephen jerked his hand away and stepped back. He watched the shaman utter strange words at them while Nzambi urged them to leave. As they drove away, Stephen was confused but even more worried at the tiny, red prick in between his right index finger and thumb. Later that week Nzambi was found at his house decapitated and his head stuffed with wretched insects and spiders. That was all that the convincing he needed to leave.
“Stephen, the ambulance are on their way.”
Stephen muttered something softly. James leaned in closer.
“Haki means justice.” Stephen coughed and smiled. “Justice for something I didn’t do.”
“What are you talking about?”
Stephen looked towards the ceiling and watched its colors move in among each other like worms in a pit. James examined his face again and stopped at his eyes. He saw a small bubble in the corner of Stephen’s right eye and flash the light over it. Instantly the bubble retreated back into his eye. Stephen breathed in harder and slower, straining himself to control his muscles. When James had left him laying on the couch to answer the door, Stephen began to feel the effects again. He watched in stunned silence as the pillows of the couch began to move and lines of scorpions with brilliant red and blue dots made their way towards Stephen’s face. Stephen couldn’t move even if he wanted to but the thrill and horrifying sensation was still there. He felt the fear crawl over his skin like the prickling legs of the scorpions which were now blanketing his body, their tails stretched outwards in equal excitement.
Suddenly, Stephen found the will and power to move his head again.
“I didn’t do anything!” He screamed with a widening mouth but just as it took a chest full of air to declare his innocence, did it also take the scorpions to fill it back up again with their growing numbers. One by one, the scorpions entered his mouth and followed each other into his chest. Stephen rolled his eyes backwards and thought no more.
When James returned with the arriving paramedics, Stephen laid still and cold with whitened eyes and an open mouth. Blood and tears ran down his silent face and the red prick that was made just days ago had finally stopped pulsing.
The paramedics worked with Stephen while James watched as he was only a doctor in Biology, not in health. With every attempt to revive his dear friend, James thought about his last words. The paramedics declared Stephen dead in five minutes. James did not help the paramedics haul Stephen’s body into the black body bag, nor did he walk them downstairs. He gave a final report to an investigator that followed and then he left in peace.
James sat down in his study and recalled the bubble in Stephen’s eye. He recognized it as a symptom if a something he wasn't too clear on. Lifting a large textbook from beneath his desk, James began searching through the pages until he found what he was afraid of most. His eyes dimmed at the picture below him and he immediately stopped reading. He could only imagine what Stephen saw. Whatever and however his misery followed him, Stephen suffered through it alone. He tapped a finger at an italicized word and rested his forehead on his hands.
“Stephen, my friend, what did you do?”
The picture was that of a flattened worm with the name Naegleria fowleri beside it.
“Naegleria fowleri,” he said to himself, “The Brain Parasite.”
The End
