Maggots

                                                                 Maggots

It was a few weeks ago that they started appearing. I was quite surprised by them, I had known Al, the fruit salesman for years. In almost two decades he had never sold me anything a day past its prime. However,  these last few purchases had been very odd for him: first it was one of the apples, then three… the next time the whole batch was full of ‘em.

Maggots. There were plenty of ‘em out there in the trees that grew in the plains, but I hadn’t seen one inside an apple I bought since I was a kid. It has to be the weather, I thought, I couldn’t remember a hotter summer in years. Maybe they were aright about global warming after all. I had an awful lot of time to think now that my dear old Martha was gone. I still couldn’t believe it was a tumour that got the better of her. The house was mighty quiet without her and there was a lot to do, but I managed. The farm wasn’t what it used to be, we mostly just kept a few critters for sentimental reasons. They required care, but an old man like could still manage to provide for ‘em. That took up most my day, this wasn’t 1983 and I wasn’t 25 any more.  That day wasn’t much different at first: I cleaned the barn, fed the animals, repaired the fence, made some stew, watched TV then went to bed… didn’t miss a beat to the routine.

Little past midnight a strange sound woke me up: A ringing. It sounded like a small dog, just outside my bedroom. But… it had been years since I’d had a critter inside the house. Trying not to make a single noise I slowly reached out for my gun resting in my night stand and in that same slow, trembling fashion I tried to get off the bed and stand up, never taking the barrel of the gun away from the door. I winced at every small squeak I failed to muffle, fearing whatever the person behind the door might do were he to find me awake. Once I was in my feet I lightly trod towards the door, making every effort I could to mask my agitated breathing. When I finally got to the door I moved as fast as I could: rotate the doorknob, pull back the door, step back and aim at the bastard that dared to intrude my home… Nothing. There was nothing there.

But the ringing hadn’t stopped. Maybe my ears were fooling me; this wasn’t the time to think about that. It was coming from somewhere in the house. Slowly and methodically I went down the stairs the ground floor, my eyes slowly adapting into the dark. Trying to scan every inch of the house, nothing seemed out of place. But I could hear it. I followed the sound to the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, but they weren’t there. Not willing to let them be, whoever they were, I went outside to check the barn. When I opened the door they were there: dozens of them, tossing and twisting on the porch floor. There were so many of them you could practically hear their syncopated squirms and their wet bodies rubbing against the wood in the dead of night.

My only reaction was to stomp them, my boots getting covered in their guts, kicking them, sweeping them. I didn't have time for this, but I couldn’t let them be there. Once done with them I went to the barn as fast and silently as I could but I found nothing. The ringing wouldn’t stop, but when I moved it seemed to change directions. However, whatever it was, it wasn't on my property. I decided to leave my boots at the entrance, what with them being covered in maggot gut, and went back to bed.

I awoke the morning after, a little later than usual. I went about my usual morning routine: took a shower, got dressed, this time with a different pair of boots, cooked breakfast, no apple for breakfast since they’d all gotten infiltrated. The ringing persisted, but I had grown more and more confident that it was inoffensive.  After feeding the animals I had to clean up the mess I’d made last night. I fetched a bucket of water and a brush and started cleaning the maggot’s remains.

I drenched the brush in the bucket and saw as the water grew a sickly mix of green and white and got filled of small, gross lumps. When I turned my head back to the porch’s wooden floor I saw one moving and alive. I couldn’t believe it had survived there the whole night. I crushed it with the brush and dipped it in the water again to rid it of its entrails. Then I felt something small in my shoulder. I turned my head and saw a maggot squirming on my shirt. As I raised my hand so I could flick it off my shoulder two more fell on top of it. Before I could look up to see where these maggots were coming from I felt the whole mass hitting my body; Dozens, Probably one hundred of ‘em.  All on top of me. I ran and violently swept them off my face and my body. Instinct took over, I knew they couldn't hurt me but I had to get them off. I could feel tens of maggots all retorting on my body, and I could feel their wet texture when I brushed them off with my hands. I could feel every one of them.

Maggots. They were an infestation, but this wasn't the first time I had dealt with one. Partly because of convenience, partly because of vengeance and partly because of fear I decided to fix it the most indirect way I could. I fetched my high pressure hose and took aim at my porch from a distance. I felt relief as the water pressure sent them flying into the air and mutilated their bodies, leaving my entrance without a trace of the disgusting bugs.

But they had come from somewhere. They fell from the roof. They had a nest.
I fetched my ladder and went up the roof shaking lightly. Partly because Martha wasn't there to keep the ladder still, mostly because these things had made me genuinely uncomfortable. When I reached the top a smug smile filled my face; they were there, like fish in a barrel. The hose just blew them all away. I didn't care where they remains would end up; I just cared to see their bodies torn apart by the force of the water. I had gotten rid of the maggots.

If I am honest I was very jumpy the rest of the day. Many folks would say without reason. And you know, maybe I would have agreed with them. It had been a very unpleasant experience. But at least the logical part of my brain new I had gotten rid of them.
That night I had some trouble sleeping. I could still hear the ringing but it hardly mattered. I’d grown accustomed to it. Despite being numb from laying down my body would itch horribly every now and then. I was tossing and turning, closing my eyes, trying to finally end such an awful day. And then I heard it. I heard a soft, almost inaudible wet squirm. I thought to myself that if I didn’t know better I could have sworn it was trying to be stealthy. Oh, but I know better now, it was.

Maggots. I jumped from my bed and saw maggots. Not too many, maybe a dozen. I kicked the mattress trying to get them off only to reveal the wooden bed beneath, with tens, dozens, maybe hundreds of the writhing abominations in it. I couldn’t stand around; I could feel them on top of me. I jumped into the shower and turned on all the way. The water washed them away. Then it stopped.
The water stopped flowing from the shower head and a dry suction noise dominated the space. I saw as a small, liquated white and green lumpy liquid flowed slowly through the shower head’s holes. And I could hear them. I could hear the echoes of their wet movements beneath me. They were everywhere. I ran down the stairs and saw them coming from the woodwork, writhing and squirming.  I stomped on them with my naked feet ignoring the unpleasant sensation in favour of pure survival instinct. As I passed the kitchen I could have sworn I saw them coming from the faucet. When I got to the door I they were there again; Falling from the porch’s roof and all over the wooden floor. I ran past them as fast as I could and didn’t look back. It was obvious: They were in the shower, the bed, the porch, the woodwork, the kitchen sink. They were here for me.

Listen, I know it sounds crazy… Martha, My Martha. She got killed by one of ‘em; One of ‘em maggots, one of ‘em worms. They’re the same thing, right? Eye worm or sumthin’ like that. I’ve read, I know it wasn’t a tumour. They can infiltrate us, one way or another. My doctor tried to tell me the ringing was just an ear condition. They know I know. And they don’t want me to tell you. It’s not an ear condition; it’s them, millions of them. They’re beneath the earth, squirming, twisting, writhing, planning. I know they want something and I can hear it. Can you? Can you feel it? Can you feel that slopy but steady movement? Can you hear a faint high pitched noise in the distance? You’ve got to do something. You know what they want. You know they’re there and you know what they are: Maggots.