A thick, dark, rusty line of movement flowed up the concrete steps. It looked like a living vein, pulsing and undulating. The line moved with terrifying purpose, disappearing under the weather-stripping of the front door.
He hammered on the door. “Police! Mia! Can you hear me?”
No answer.
He tried the handle. Locked. Of course. The mother had told her not to open it.
James took a step back, raised his boot, and kicked just below the lock plate. The rotting wood gave way with a sickening crunch. The door swung inward, banging against the wall.
The smell hit him first. It wasn’t the smell of filth, exactly. It was the smell of poverty—damp wool, old frying oil, and a sweet, chemical scent that James recognized as ant pheromones.
“Mia!” James shouted, drawing his flashlight as he stepped into the gloom. The windows were covered with heavy blankets, making the house dark despite the morning sun.
“In here!”
It wasn’t Mia. It was the paramedic, Miller, who had just rushed in behind him.
They burst into the bedroom and stopped dead.
The room was alive.
The walls were crawling. The nightstand was a shifting mass of red. But the bed… the bed was the epicenter.
Mia lay in the center of the mattress, a small lump under a thin, grey sheet. She was frozen, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t moving. She couldn’t move.
“Oh my god,” Sarah, the second paramedic, gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
James stepped forward, shining his light directly on the girl.
Her legs were exposed. They were unrecognizable. They were swollen to three times their normal size, the skin stretched so tight it looked shiny and translucent. The angry red welts had merged into a single, massive map of inflammation. The swelling was so severe around her hips and thighs that her legs were forced outward in a V-shape.
And over the swollen flesh, the ants moved in a chaotic, biting frenzy.
“Get her out! Now!” James roared, holstering his light and rushing forward. Continue reading…
