Crawl

There was a steady, frustrating, buzzing noise coming from the ceiling.

He could tell it was coming from the broken fluorescent light, which flickered above his head like a pulse. The sound filled the area, and his skin vibrated with it, tingling in fear.

Five minutes he had to last. Five minutes, and he would be free.

He imagined himself walking through the heavy double doors of the factory, out into the cool, black night where his friends would be waiting. He imagined himself walking up to them with a confident stride and a wide smile, saying, "Nothing to it, guys. It was all just a myth."

He imagined this as he pushed his body into the looming darkness, moving his nearly paralyzed self deeper into the body of the building.

The first glowing light that had been turned on at the entrance grew dimmer and dimmer as he went on, climbing the staircase to the second floor. Soon, he was surrounded by the darkness, but the buzzing continued, malignant and strong.

He shuffled his feet along the floor, kicking up dirt and dust and feeling with his hands as he went. One of the conditions was that he bring a souvenir back with him - just a small artifact to commemorate his bravery. But where to find one? He pressed his hands along the grimy machines, looking for maybe a piece of the machine that he could break off and take with him, but he found none. Instead, his hand landed in the web of a spider, and he jumped back quickly, frantically brushing his hands off.

As he moved towards the center of the floor, the buzzing seemed to grow louder. He occasionally brushed his hands off, afraid that the spider was still crawling on him. He hated spiders. In fact, he hated all bugs, and he hated the darkness. The thought of it all made him itch all over. Still, he continued on.

Little beads of sweat were beginning to trickle down his face now, but he swallowed hard and wondered how long he had been in there. Surely it had been five minutes, but he had no souvenir. He knew no one would believe he had really gone deep into the belly of the factory if he didn't bring proof.

So he pressed on, blindly making his way into the darkness, into the buzzing, and face first into another web.

This time he screamed and feel backward, swiping at his face. He could feel the thin fibers of the web tickling his cheeks, nose, and mouth. Or was it tiny arachnid legs? He wiped his face over and over, but the feeling wouldn't go away. He felt them crawling on his face and his arms. Crawling into his ears, where the buzzing noise began to grow sinister.

The noise was low and primal and steadfast, and he moved hysterically to get it out of his brain, but it wouldn't leave. It crept through his body, and the itch grew as he felt more and more legs crawling on his skin.

There were bugs in here. He knew it. He could feel them. They were all over his skin, making his body their home.

He began clawing at them with his grubby hands, but they wouldn't go away. They were invading his body, going deeper and deeper and he could feel them worming inside him.
He clawed and clawed and dug at his skin. Why wouldn't they go away? They were just buzzing, buzzing, crawling in his skin.

He had to get out, but he couldn't make himself go. No, he had to get rid of the bugs first. He was bleeding now. There were chunks of skin embedded under his nails. Did he do this to himself? No, it was the bugs. They were tearing away at him piece by piece. They were feeding off the flesh, the sweat, the tears.

And he cried more and fed them more and soon enough, he could take no more. He gave his body up to the bugs, letting his blood run thick and soak in with the dirt on the floor.

His friends waited outside for quite some time, but they never went inside. In fact, they all went home, laughing nervously. He was playing a joke, of course. Just being a plain asshole. Everyone knew the things they'd heard about the factory were just rumors. Nobody really died in there.

They believed this. They all went home and slept late into morning.

When they met the next day, someone bravely asked, "Where is he?"

"Still being an asshole," another said.

"Just being a plain baby."

And in the bright, cherub light of the midday sun, they believed this, because, well, they were myths, and the myths just couldn't be true.

They couldn't be true.