The once-thriving town of Duskholm sat beneath an oppressive sky, where the light of the night was absent, swallowed by a thick shroud of clouds.
Shadows stretched unnaturally long under the flickering lanterns, their dim glow barely enough to keep the night at bay. The cobblestone streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of dry leaves swept along by the cold wind.
Few dared to remain outside at this hour. The town had changed in recent weeks. A heavy unease clung to the air, an unspoken fear etched into the weary faces of its people.
Rumors spread like wildfire—people disappearing without a trace, screams in the dead of night, twisted figures glimpsed in the fog. Yet, no one could explain what was happening.
Some claimed it was the work of bandits or dark sorcery. Others whispered of things not meant for mortal eyes, lurking beyond the veil of human understanding.
Recently, An information from the Dusk Council circulated. That the cause of the eeire things were in fact a horde of bug-like Insectoids. As such people should close any entrances to their homes and stay put inside without making any movement.
Currently the kingdom was searching for any possible help provided by other realms. The citizens were advised to stay vigilant and safe until the horde persists.
But in one home, within the heart of Duskholm, a nightmare was about to unfold.
…
Inside a modest wooden house, built from sturdy planks yet unable to keep out the creeping dread of the night, a couple sat in their humble living room. The fireplace crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
The man, Gareth, leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, his tired eyes staring into the flames. His wife, Elara, stood by the window, gazing at the darkness outside.
A long, heavy silence lingered between them.
Then—a hum.
Soft at first, almost like a lullaby.
Gareth blinked. "Elara?"
She didn't respond.
The humming grew louder, warping into a distorted, off-key melody—a sound that made his gut twist in unnatural discomfort. It was her voice, yet… it wasn't.
"Elara?" He stepped closer, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs. A strange unease crept up to him, sweats dripped from his temples.
Her shoulders trembled slightly, and her hands gripped the windowsill too tightly, knuckles turning white.
"Elara, are you feeling alri—?"
BAM!
She turned.
Gareth froze, his breath catching in his throat.
What stood before him was not his wife.
Her face—no, her entire head—had split open like a grotesque, fleshy flower, revealing a writhing mass of sinew and tendrils, twitching and pulsating. Two tiny, beady eyes stared at him from deep within the unnatural opening, blinking independently, as if studying him.
A wet, gurgling screech erupted from the cavern of flesh where her mouth had once been.
Gareth stumbled backward, his chair crashing to the floor. His mind screamed at him to run, but his legs refused to obey.
Then—
BOOM!
Elara's body detonated in a gruesome explosion of viscera. Bits of her flesh splattered across the room, painting the walls and ceiling in deep crimson.
A sickening, squelching sound filled the air as something crawled out of the shredded remains—a mass of twisted muscle, sinew, and bone, vaguely humanoid but unmistakably wrong. Its tiny, milky-white eyes locked onto Gareth.
A single heartbeat passed.
Then—his skin began to crawl.
Literally.
…..
Gareth gasped as a horrifying sensation spread across his body. His arms, his chest, his very flesh—it squirmed and writhed beneath his clothes, as if something was moving inside.
He clawed at his skin, panic consuming him. "No… no, no, NO!"
He stumbled toward the fireplace, desperate for warmth, for anything to stop the thing inside him. But as he moved, he caught sight of something in the window's reflection.
His own face was changing.
The skin on his cheeks bulged and twisted, his features warping unnaturally. The familiar visage he had known his whole life split open like a blossoming flower, revealing the same grotesque amalgamation of flesh and tendrils.
He wanted to scream, cry, hear his agonizing voice.
BUT
he couldn't do anything, not a single tear dropped from his eyes, not a single node of sound entered his ear.
He opened his mouth to scream but couldn't. The horrifying part, he didn't feel any pain, discomfort or irritation.
The pulsing flower on his head seemed as if it was his body part—completely natural.
A single, fleeting thought passed through what remained of his mind—
This is not death.
This is worse.
Then—
BOOM!
His body erupted, just as Elara's had.
The room was left in utter carnage, the wooden floor now a slick, pulpy mess of ruined flesh and shattered bone.
Silence.
Then—movement.
The mass of flesh reformed, shifting, twisting, taking shape.
A new figure rose from the pile of organic remains—a perfect copy of Gareth.
No, not a copy.
It was him.
Or at least, it had all his memories.
It turned toward the door, sniffing the air.
A moment later, it bolted out the window, disappearing into the darkness—seeking its next prey.
…
Outside, the streets remained eerily quiet.
A lone streetlamp flickered, casting dim, wavering light across the cobblestones. A stray cat hissed, its fur bristling, before darting into the shadows.
Somewhere in the distance, another home's window creaked open.
And a soft, distorted humming filled the air once more.
The surrounding house's people closed there house's door, shut their windows, knocked any entrance to their home.
Hoping that the Insectoids don't enter their home. Unbeknownst to them, the real horror was something else.
And it was currently devouring their own people, growning itself in the process.