Scratches

Scratches

Hello, my name is Mikha. I’m going to tell you about the most horrifying experience of my life, but be warned: this could happen to you too. I take no responsibility for anything that might happen to you. The only reason I am even telling this story, despite me dreading saying these words out loud, is to maybe save somebody. Somebody else to live through what I’ve been through, though I doubt they’ll want to. Either way, here we go.

A while ago I noticed a small scratch on my arm; I thought nothing of it because it hadn’t even broken the skin. I thought that maybe I had scratched myself with my fingernail or something. I had recently started taking sleeping pills to help with my insomnia, and one of the side effects was restless sleeping. I brushed the thought that maybe it was something else out of my head quickly and ignored the sinking feeling washing over me. That was a mistake. I wish I had realized what was going on, maybe to figure out how to prevent it, or stop it, anything. But how could I have known that what was happening was something much more ominous than a scratch on my arm? There was no warning, nothing to prepare me for what was to happen to me.

 Slowly the scratches progressively got larger and deeper, all over my body. Every week a new cut was somewhere on my body. Whenever I visited with my friends they told me they were worried, and asked if I had purposely cut myself. I was taken aback by these accusations and quickly replied no, explaining that they mysteriously appeared while I was sleeping. Some of my friends believed me and were scared for me; others didn’t and told me I needed to talk to someone. I thought that maybe it was my sleeping pills causing all of this, seeing as I was still taking them and kept ignoring them because my doctor had said it was perfectly normal to accidentally scratch myself in my sleep. I wasn’t going to stop taking the pills; this was the most sleep I had gotten since before I can remember. A few tiny scratches weren’t going to stop me from feeling good and normal again.

About eight months had passed and the scratches were so deep that they left permanent scars, large and ugly scars. My prescription for the sleeping medication was running out, and I never thought I would be happy to have my insomnia back. I would only take a pill when I had something very important the next day so that I could ration them. At first I had been taking them 2-3 times a week, and then slowly I was taking them less and less until I was only taking them once a week. The scratches would only be there the morning after I had taken the medication; the scratches were larger though than when I had been taking them more. I assumed that my body was just reacting stronger to them since I had gotten used to them and was now almost not taking them at all. I took less and less of them until I had run out. This is where I wish the story had ended.

It had been a week since I had stopped taking them and the scratches had stopped. I was relieved to find them all gone. Unfortunately my insomnia was back, and worse than I had remembered. Maybe going almost a year without it had made me forget just how terrible it was. I had gotten another prescription for medication that was not as strong as the one I had gotten before, the pills were the same shape as the ones I had gotten before but ovals were a common shape for pills so I thought nothing of it. I took the pills the same as the others, had a sip of water with them and went to bed. I fell asleep slightly slower than the last ones had made me, but at least I was sleeping. Or so I thought.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a dull pain on my ribs, it was strange. This sensation was like someone was… sucking my blood through the cut. It couldn’t be though; there were no lips or weight on me. The moonlight was the only light I had to see what was going on. I felt petrified, I didn’t want to move. At that moment I knew I would regret investigating what was happening. I slowly looked down towards my stomach only to find a tall slender figure bending over me. This wasn’t a person, it wasn’t even alive. It wasn’t even from this universe. This creature was rotting, its flesh barely hanging onto its old brittle bones. Its jaw was only attached to one side of its disgusting face. That was the worst part. It wasn’t even a face. Its head had some horribly disfigured and mutilated bunch of humanlike mutant features attached where its face would be. It was using its tongue to slurp the blood out of the cut on my torso. I wanted to stop it but I couldn’t move. 

I was frozen with fear. Apparently the cut wasn’t deep enough to supply the amount of blood that it wanted so it took its long, yellowed, rotting fingernail and dug it in. I flinched and let out a quiet whimper at the pain. I wasn’t quiet enough. The creature noticed and tilted its head towards me as if it were looking at me, it moved its head closer to my face and plunged its fingernails under my ribs and punctured several internal organs. It moved its hand down and kept slicing away at my skin until all that was left were shredded pieced of red flesh. I laid there until noon the next day in agony; I was supposed to go to lunch with a friend during my break at work. When I didn’t show up and wouldn’t answer her calls she headed over. We were good friends so she knew where the key to my house was and let herself in, she found me. When she saw me she screamed, she thought I was dead. No, I only wished I was. I hoarsely croaked out “ Heeellllp mmeee…” and attempted to turn my head towards her; she yelled and told me to lie still as she dialed 911.

The police and people at the hospital tried to get me to explain what had happened, I wouldn’t say a word. I simply told them I didn’t know. But that was the problem, I couldn’t forget no matter how hard I tried. The gut wrenching image of that thing still etched into my mind. Now, every night I’m thankful that I have insomnia. I only sleep during the day when I‘m not alone, fearing what that thing will do to me if it finds me again. I knew that wasn’t even close to the worst it could do, and I didn’t want to find out what it could really do. So that’s it, my story. I just needed somebody to know before I’m gone. I can’t take it anymore and I’m sorry. Goodbye…

Original work by P.H.