MicroHorror

I sat dejectedly on a rock outside the tent. I had expected this trip to be paradise. Two months alone in the jungles of New Guinea sharing a tent with my beautiful idol, Dr. Henrietta. Just walking behind her through the brush had been a treat.

But only a few days in there’d been an accident. A sharp branch had left a gash along her right thigh. Granted, I’d enjoyed dressing it, but I was very worried it would turn septic in the living damp of the rainforest. I’d radioed for an emergency pickup, but they’d have to take the same trails we did, and it had already been a day and a half since I’d called them.

Dr. Henrietta hadn’t been out of the tent since the day before, and would no longer let me check the wound. I was wondering how far off the rescue might be when I heard her come out of the tent behind me.

I turned to see the Dr. Henrietta standing outside the tent. Her eyes were downcast and she wore nothing but her sleeping bag.

“You’ve been dreaming of seeing this, haven’t you?” she purred, letting the covering slip from her naked form. I gasped.

Her body was covered in a madman’s calligraphy of moving lines. As she began to stride toward me, I saw that it was thousands of nematode worms dancing through the upper layers of her skin. The cut on her thigh was nothing but a mass of writhing–

She touched her hand to my cheek–God, I could feel them–and pressed her body against me. My skin crawled in a pale imitation of hers. She looked up at me with eyes that were pools of squirming hell. My throat worked frantically, but made no intelligible sound. She pressed a finger to my lips to silence me. My eyes focused horribly on a shape pushing her fingernail up and down from underneath.

“I know what you’ve been wishing for,” she said sensually, then kissed me deeply. There was no tongue.