The Maggots.









The Maggots. sick stories
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syIg @really_nice_salads
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
A terrible, terrible short horror story.

The Maggots.

John liked rolling around in earth ever since he was a little boy. He was notorious for it, scrabbling about and filling his finger nails with mud. His mother, may she rest in peace, used to spend hours scrubbing his clothes from brown to white, only for him to put them on again and immediately return them to a filthy state.

As he grew up he maintained his filthy habits, adding Chinese takeaway boxes and crisp packets to the mix, and existing in a permanent and utterly revolting armpit of a house. It didn't take long for John to drive everyone away from him (what few there were), and so he descended into greater and greater levels of gunk and refuse.

For years he lived in this way, his floors a moulding mess of spam letters, food, and broken crockery. There were no clear spaces to sit down, or indeed do anything at all with any level of comfort, without one desiring a scalding shower. John, of course liked it that way and actively resisted any form of cleanliness.

One particularly hot summer (for they do occur in England, occasionally) the flies came in for respite. They came in droves, buzzing in through the broken windows and crawling under doors. It didn't take long for them to overrun the dingy house and cover every available space. John considered them pets.

And naturally, the flies began to mate. If flies were aware of sexual constructs they would consider it the greatest fly orgy to have ever happened in fly history. Not long after came the greatest fly egg laying session. Everything became speckled with tiny black eggs, and within a month the maggots were born. Unfortunately for John, he slept with his mouth open, and doubly unfortunately he

slept with his mouth open during the great fly egg laying session. A few weeks later, John began to feel ill. Not like the usual sickness that he contracted when he consumed rotting fish fingers, oh no, this illness seemed to wriggle inside of him. It was alive.

For the first time ever, John cleaned something. Namely, his mirror, in order that he could inspect himself. It took a fair few hours to shift the grime from its surface. When finally done, it revealed a real horror. His skin was wriggling. Wriggling and squirming. John fainted.

For a few days he just lay where he fell, too sick to move, too sick to eat. And then, quite suddenly he raised his left leg, and then his right, and clambered to his feet. John was distinctly aware that he had done no such thing himself, but there he was standing in front of the mirror once more. His skin was clammier and greener than it usually was, and it was still wriggling.

He turned abruptly and picked his way over the rubbish and out of the room. The maggots had taken control! He twisted his limbs about at bizarre angles and half walked, half fell down the stairs. Feeling suddenly hungry, he unbolted the front door, and without putting on shoes, nor a coat, he walked out into the world.

Somewhere, there would be some flesh to feast on.

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