Panicked, I burst out of the bathroom. My legs refused the energy I requested, spilling me against the wall and leaving a nasty hole in the sheetrock. My brain, exercising self-preservation, forwarded a single thought, delivered with the desperation of a dehydrated man dying in the desert sun: 911.

With every inch of my resolve, I pushed myself up, regained an unsteady base, and headed back toward the bedroom. An odd sensation began trickling up my throat, beginning as little more than a tickle before sandpaper fingers grasped my trachea. Another five feet and I would have made it to the phone; I couldn’t. A coughing fit overwhelmed me and drove me to my knees as a fine mist exploded from my lips. Something small and solid rested on my tongue; disgusted, I spit onto the comforter.

It was a tooth.

I reached for it with a trembling hand. Why—after everything else—this gave me the shakes, I’ll never know. I raised the item to get a better look; I wish I hadn’t. The surface, riddled with tiny holes, bore a closer resemblance to a sponge than a tooth. I held it up in the glimmer of a bedside lamp and observed the light pouring through the cavities.

My tongue flicked across my remaining teeth and found a coarse surface in place of smooth enamel. Ignoring my earlier spill, I scurried to the bathroom as my heartbeat throbbed in my head. The sink squeaked in my grip. Anxiety battled terror as I searched for the will to open my mouth.

No.

Each tooth looked as though some tiny carpenter went on a meth binge before picking up a drill. A cloud of white dust drifted downward, propelled by my breath. One by one, they began fracturing. Pressure built before they burst, bits of bone rattling into the sink; the air grew dank with the scent of sulfur. Despite the incredible pain, this wasn’t the worst of it.

An army of snakes slithered through my flesh, locked in a race toward my head. I squeezed my face in my hands and screamed; thin, fleshy tendrils crawled through my gums, occupying the space vacated by my choppers. They flailed wildly in the air, thrashing around and smacking against the mirror. To my fevered mind, they looked like the tube men you see at car dealerships would look if powered by a jet engine.

I realized I was still screaming when a rat came running out from behind the toilet. By the time my eyes registered it, a half-dozen of the tendrils darted across the bathroom and speared the poor bastard. A wet squelch echoed off the tile; the coils were draining the animal and pulling everything into me.

Or something inside me.

Whatever happened, it eased the pain. It didn’t disappear completely, but it became barely perceptible. The sound of scratching drew my attention to the wall; there were more rats. The thing—whatever it is—drove me to the corner, close to the source of the commotion. With no conscious input, my fists slammed through the drywall and into the void behind.

I didn’t feel a thing as small, sharp teeth tore into the flesh on my palms. The tendrils shot out again, disappearing into the darkness before returning with three angry rats. Again, the tendrils sucked them dry from the inside in a bizarre spectacle: their midsections sagged inward before their ribs snapped. Their eyes fell back and popped deep into their skulls where the tendrils liquified them. As the feeding concluded, we tossed aside the limp carcasses; they fell to the floor like dirty socks.

This didn’t satiate the creature inside, however; the rats were merely hors d’oeuvres.

Almost as if answering some macabre prayer, a banging came at my door. It was my shithead neighbor, yelling about the racket. Yes, the same jerkoff who played dubstep at an obnoxious volume at three in the morning couldn’t handle my impromptu remodeling. The tendrils read my mind—or perhaps planted the idea—and withdrew into my gums, allowing me to speak. I told him to go fuck himself, knowing exactly how he would respond and what would happen when he did.