The Tenant

Routine has always been a part of Arthur. Breakfast would be two slices of wheat bread with scrambled eggs, lunch would be ham and cheese on rye, and dinner would be a basic stir-fried chicken. He was particular, not fussy about food. That exact particularity was what set him on a path of deepening discomfort and growing terror.

It started off quietly. Despite having just eaten, he felt a rumble in his stomach following a completely typical lunch—a twinge of hunger that felt almost urgent. Arthur dismissed it, blaming it on work-related stress. But the hunger attacks started happening every day and were stronger as time went on. Before long, the unease turned into a gnawing void that accompanied him everywhere. Eating provided only a fleeting solace from the insatiable hunger before it returned.

He genuinely observed a procession of doctors. Results from endoscopies, X-rays, and blood tests were all normal. The physicians drew generalizations about stress and IBS, but none of them addressed the feeling deep down in Arthur's gut that he claimed felt like a cold, slithering sensation. He would often have nightmares about a pallid, segmented creature writhing in his stomach with its eyeless head trying to find a way out.

His desperation led him to the internet, a rabbit hole full with websites promoting alternative medicine and questionable medical forums. He discovered the terrifying parasite Taenia Solium, also known as the Pork Tapeworm, there among the snake oil and miraculous remedies. The symptoms were all in perfect alignment: a constant, gnawing hunger, weight loss despite an increase in appetite, and a sensation of something moving inside.

A terrifying realization struck. He had eaten a sizzling skewer of something vaguely meaty from a street vendor in Hong Kong when he was feeling particularly adventurously hungry. The recollection tasted of regret now.

A stringent diet and a number of drugs were part of the treatment, but the hunger pains persisted. In his stomach, Arthur felt the parasite lash out in response. The thing in his mind's eye became more defined during the night, and his nightmares became more vivid. It had a hooked head that seemed to pulsate with a malignant intelligence. It was pallid, long, and segmented.

Something changed one evening. The gnawing turned into a searing pain that made him double over. His clothing were soaked in sweat as he writhed on the floor, his screams muffled by a cushion. Just as the pain eased, he was overcome with a dreadful certainty. It was in motion.

He started to see pieces of the worm in his toilet bowl—pale, squishy parts that horrifyingly resembled each other in dreams. Every sighting was more terrifying than the last, a physical reminder of the monstrosity inside of him.

Finally persuaded of the parasite's presence, his doctor recommended a more potent treatment. This provided a brief respite, but the cravings came again, stronger this time. He began buying food in excess, replacing his well planned grocery list with mountains and mountains of meat and cheese and everything else he could eat to feed the ravenous beast inside of him.

The flat turned into a battlefield. Arthur fought the beast at night and consumed food during the day. His neighbors glanced at him in concern as he heard groans and thumps coming from his apartment. Arthur was close to insanity, malnourished, and felt he had to take action.

Desperate to get rid of the parasite without using the slow-acting drug, he looked into other therapies. A fringe website described a folk cure that involved mixing bitter herbs with purgatives to expel the worm. Though it was a last-ditch effort, Arthur had no other choice.

The smell of the foul-tasting mixture filled the air as he brewed it. His body erupted the instant he took a drink of it. His insides were twisting and churning as he spent the next few hours in an excruciating state of purgation. Finally, weak and shivering, it receded, and he peered into the toilet bowl.

A terrifying sight was coiled among the ejected contents there. It was a segment of the worm, at least a foot long, with a strange glow pulsating from its segmented body. Arthur let out a primal scream that was a terrifying combination of elation and horror.

By no means was the "cleansing" complete. Arthur kept up the herbal mixture every day, letting go violently each time, driving out more of the thing. However, the procedure has a cost. With his eyes haunting, his skin sallow, he was a skeleton of the man he once was. He sensed the thing growing weaker, that its resistance was ebbing, but his was too.

One evening, following yet another excruciating cleaning session, Arthur peered into the toilet bowl. This time, however, there was merely a long, dead ribbon of pale flesh instead of a writhing creature. He had prevailed. Had he?

The incessant gnawing was replaced with a feeling of emptiness. The fear faded and was replaced by a bone-deep tiredness. Arthur, though, was always aware that he was being observed. There was a faint uneasiness, a persistent prickling sensation on the nape of his neck.

He made an attempt to get back into his normal habit, but the food was no longer appealing. The act of eating itself felt improper, like a betrayal of his body after so long of conflict. He began to have sleep problems, tormented by fragmentary visions of pulsing organs and writhing flesh.

He woke up one night feeling sticky and moist on his arm. Heart pounding, he jerked to consciousness and turned on the light. The sheets had nothing on them. He felt a wave of relief, but it passed quickly. There was a slight scratching noise coming from under the bed. Arthur stopped, staring down at the shadowy area under the dusty box spring.

He reached for a flashlight, pointing it beneath the bed with a shaky beam. All that was visible were dust bunnies and the darkened underbelly of the metal structure. And yet the scratching continued, steady and repetitive.

Fear tore at his throat. Was it returning? The idea was excruciating. He paced for the remainder of the night, the sound serving as a continual reminder of the terror he had experienced.

He made the morbid curiosity-driven decision to reposition the box spring the following morning. A sickening stench hit him as he raised it. The strong light revealed a massive, throbbing mass that slithered out of the dark crevice.

It was not the silky, divided tapeworm he'd kicked out. There was something unusual about this creature. It looked like a huge grub, divided into sickly yellow segments. Its head was a gaping maw of razor-sharp fangs, and it pulsed with a ghastly light.

Arthur scrambled back, screaming. The thing seemed to scent the air as it twitched, its maw expanding and closing. Arthur realized a terrifying fact from that hideous exhibit: it wasn't the worm's head he'd ejected. It was a kid.

He felt a surge of sickness sweep over him. This wasn't the end. Instead of facing just one parasite, he was up against a writhing swarm that had turned him into a breeding ground. It had only been the first wave of his victory.

The creature surged forward, moving very quickly due to its segmented structure. Arthur leaped backward, just missing the snapping mouth. The smell of rotting flesh pricked his nose as the room whirled. He had to get away, he had to alert someone.

The animal was unrelenting. With unusual quickness, it skittered across the floor, leaving a slimy path on the carpet with its pale body. Arthur stumbled in the direction of the bedroom door, his heart thumping hard inside him.

Throwing open the door, he discovered another grub obstructing his escape, its maw oozing a putrid slime. He found himself confined.

A whimper leaked out of his throat as tears ran down his face. He was no longer the creature of comfort and the man of regularity. He was vulnerable, surrounded, and worn out.

He glanced around the room in desperation, and his eyes landed on the overturned lamp on the nightstand. Grabbing it, he smashed it on the ground in an attempt to divert the animals' attention.

It was the abrupt noise that worked. The two grubs turned, staring at the sparking bulb with their maws clicking. Arthur recognized his opportunity.

With a forceful thrust, he threw his weight on the rear door. It creaked open, a flicker of light piercing the hallway's gloom. He hurried out and slammed the door behind him without thinking.

With his bare feet smacking the chilly tile floor, he ran down the corridor. He just knew he had to get away from his flat as quickly as possible, but he had no idea where he was heading.

With a nice shock to his system, the cool night air, he leaped out of the building. He felt a chill of dread as he raced and looked back at his darkened apartment window. He was certain he saw a small, pulsating light coming from inside.

Even though he had no idea what horrors were inside, he knew that this wasn't the end. The infestation had permanently stained him, making him a marked man. Even when the parasite was driven out, anxiety and the awareness of what was inside him would follow him everywhere. He would always have the scar—not just on his body, but deep within his spirit.

Once a creature of habit, Arthur now welcomed the uncharted. He realized that his former life was unreachable. His world had turned into a battlefield, and he was a soldier, constantly alert for the enemy that lurked in the shadows and may materialize at any time.

The plot does not conclude with a resounding triumph. Arthur lives, but he is traumatized for life. He travels the world scarred by the atrocities he has seen, serving as a continual reminder that sometimes the monsters we dread aren't actually hiding in the shadows; rather, they are hiding deep within, waiting for the ideal chance to surface.