The first sign was a faint itch beneath my skin, right between the shoulder blades, like a spider skittering just out of reach. I twisted in my chair at the office, trying to scratch it through my shirt, but my fingers only grazed fabric. “Probably dry skin,” I muttered to myself, attributing it to the harsh winter air seeping through the old building’s cracks. Alex Harper, thirty-two, accountant by trade, master of rationalization. That night, as I lay in bed, the itch pulsed rhythmically, syncing with my heartbeat. I ignored it, rolling over and forcing sleep.
By morning, it had migrated to my arms, a prickling sensation that made my hairs stand on end. I showered longer than usual, scrubbing until my skin reddened, but relief was fleeting. At work, I caught myself rubbing my forearms absentmindedly during meetings. My colleague, Sarah, noticed. “Everything okay, Alex? You look… uncomfortable.”
“Just allergies,” I lied, smiling tightly. The truth was, the prickling had deepened into a whisper—a soft, insidious murmur vibrating from within my muscles. Not audible words, but a feeling, like my body was trying to communicate something urgent. I shook it off, focusing on spreadsheets until quitting time.
Home was a small apartment on the third floor of a brick walk-up, cozy but lonely since the breakup six months ago. That evening, cooking pasta, my hand trembled as I gripped the knife. The blade slipped, nicking my thumb. Blood welled up, bright and accusing, but as I watched, the cut seemed to hesitate before clotting. Inside the wound, I swore I saw a quiver, like flesh resisting the injury. Paranoia, I told myself. Too much caffeine.
Sleep evaded me. The whispers grew louder, now forming vague shapes in my mind: shadows coiling around my thoughts. I woke drenched in sweat, convinced something was crawling under my ribcage. A quick Google search yielded hypochondriac forums and articles on somatic symptom disorder. “Your brain playing tricks,” one headline blared. I booked a doctor’s appointment for the next week.
Days blurred. The sensations intensified. My legs felt heavy during jogs, as if they resented the effort, dragging me down. Eating became a battle; food sat like stones in my stomach, my gut churning with unspoken rebellion. Mirrors became enemies—my reflection’s eyes seemed duller, lips twitching independently. “You’re losing it,” I whispered to the glass one night, but my voice cracked, and for a split second, my mouth moved without my command, forming silent words I couldn’t hear.
Sarah cornered me at lunch. “Alex, you’re pale. What’s going on?”
I hesitated, then spilled fragments: the itches, the whispers, the slips. She frowned, sympathetic. “See a doctor. Could be neurological.”
Dr. Ellis was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties. She poked, prodded, ordered bloodwork. “Stress,” she diagnosed preliminarily. “Common in high-pressure jobs. Try meditation, cut back on booze.”
I nodded, grateful for normalcy, but the drive home was torture. My hands clenched the wheel too tightly, knuckles whitening against my will. At a red light, my foot hovered over the gas, an impulse to surge forward into traffic. I slammed the brake, heart pounding. What the hell?
The bloodwork came back clean. “Fibromyalgia? Early MS?” Dr. Ellis mused at follow-up, prescribing painkillers and an MRI. “We’ll figure it out.”
The pills dulled the edges, but the whispers sharpened. Now they had voices—faint, overlapping, pleading. “Get out… not yours… leave…” I pounded my temples, but they echoed louder. Nights were worst; I’d wake with bruises on my thighs, as if fingers had gripped from inside, pushing outward.
I quit jogging, called in sick. Isolation bred obsession. I pored over medical sites, then veered into forums on possession, body snatchers, alien parasites. Laughable, yet the fear rooted deep. One entry chilled me: accounts of “internal dissent,” bodies rejecting their inhabitants like foreign organs.
Sarah visited, bringing soup. “You look like death, Alex.” Her hug felt wrong—my arms stiffened, resisting her touch.
“I’m fighting something,” I confessed. “Inside me.”
She paled. “Therapy. Please.”
Alone again, I stripped naked before the mirror, tracing veins that seemed to pulse blackly. Pressing my palms to my chest, I felt it: a flutter, like wings trapped beneath bone. Rage boiled—not mine, but borrowed. I punched the glass, shards flying. Blood streamed, but the cuts knit too fast, flesh writhing visibly.
The MRI loomed. I drove myself, hands slick on the wheel. The machine’s hum drowned the whispers temporarily, but as I lay encased, they roared. “Liar… thief… expel…” Claustrophobia gripped; I thrashed, technicians pulling me out prematurely.
“Anxiety attack,” they said. Results: normal.
Desperation peaked. I swallowed handfuls of pills, chased with whiskey. Blackout. Woke to my apartment trashed—furniture overturned, walls scratched with nails. My nails. Deep gouges spelling “OUT” on the bedroom door.
I fled to my parents’ cabin, two hours north, seeking solitude. The woods enveloped me, pines whispering secrets. But inside, the rebellion escalated. My reflection in the lake showed eyes not my blue, but darkening to void. Limbs jerked spasmodically, fingers curling into claws without volition.
Nights by the fire, I’d rock, whispering back to the voices. “What do you want? I’m trying to live!”
Silence, then: “You don’t belong.”
Paranoia fractured into terror. I chained the door, barricaded windows. Hunger gnawed, but eating triggered vomit—my stomach rejecting sustenance as poison.
On the fifth day, fever raged. Delirium brought visions: not mine, but memories. A life before—wedding vows, child’s laughter, my face younger, happier. No—her face. Sarah’s brother? Flashes: car crash, soul adrift, invading warmth, a body empty from overdose. Mine.
No. The memories weren’t mine. I staggered to the bathroom mirror, vomit staining my shirt. “Who are you?” I screamed.
The eyes stared back, pupils swallowing irises. My mouth opened, but the voice was layered, mine overlaid with another. “You… are the intruder. I am Alex. Get out.”
Fragments assembled: six months ago, after breakup despondency, pills too many. Heart stopped. But something latched—a drifter spirit, homeless soul slipping into the husk. It wore my skin, spoke my words, fooled the world. The itches? My true self awakening, flesh rebelling against the squatter.
The twitches: my muscles cramping to expel the parasite. Whispers: my soul screaming from the depths. Bruises: my spirit pounding cage walls. The car impulse: my will seizing control briefly.
Horror dawned fully. I wasn’t decaying; the body was purging me.
Fingers—my fingers?—clawed at throat. No, Alex’s hands, guided by his rage. Gagging, I collapsed, vision tunneling. Internal war raged: my essence clawing for purchase, his surging dominant.
Last sight: mirror reflecting true Alex’s eyes, fierce and reclaiming. Flesh convulsed, splitting seams. The drifter me ejected in a howl of ectoplasm, dissolving into nothingness as rightful owner breathed free.
But in that final gasp, awareness lingered—a whisper not from within, but the void: “Welcome home.”