The Itch
Returning from the Amazon was one of the most exhausting and exhilarating experiences of my life. That trip to South America had been the perfect escape from my suffocating routine as a rising attorney in the United States. After years of hard work, I’d secured a solid position at Marston & Associates, and with a recent promotion offer, life finally seemed to be heading in the right direction. But since I returned, something hasn’t felt right. It began with a faint itch on my left arm, just below the elbow. At first, I thought it was just a mosquito bite—inevitable after weeks in the Amazon rainforest. I didn’t pay much attention to it. I applied some ointment, took an antihistamine, and carried on. But the itch wouldn’t go away. Two days later, it worsened. The small red spot on my arm started swelling, throbbing as if something alive was inside. Every touch felt like fire burning beneath my skin. At the office, the situation became unbearable. I shifted constantly in my chair, unable to focus on anything but the desperate need to scratch. I clawed at my arm under the desk, trying to hide it, but it was no use. The fabric of my blouse rubbed against the irritated skin, amplifying the agony. “Elizabeth, are you okay?” Clara, a coworker, asked. “Just an allergy. Nothing serious,” I lied, forcing a smile. She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but didn’t press further. I knew I was drawing attention. My boss, Mr. Marston, frequently walked past my desk, watching me out of the corner of his eye. I couldn’t let this jeopardize my promotion. But the pain was becoming unbearable. When the workday finally ended, I rushed home. I closed the door to my apartment, dropped my bag, and went straight to the bathroom.I looked in the mirror and rolled up my sleeve. My heart froze. Where there had been a small red mark, there was now a dark swelling with a black, hardened center, like tree bark. The skin around it was cracked, oozing a yellowish liquid with a nauseating smell. It was as if my skin was rotting before my eyes. I grabbed the strongest ointment I had, but as soon as I touched the wound, the pain exploded. I screamed, tears streaming down my face. The next morning, I went straight to the hospital. I wasn’t the kind of person to wait until the last minute to seek help. My mother used to say: “Elizabeth, you’re so paranoid you’ll die of old age because nothing will ever catch you off guard.” At the hospital, the doctor examined the wound with a mix of curiosity and discomfort. He called in another doctor, who then called in two more. They all stared at my arm like it was a nightmare brought to life. “It’s a tropical disease,” the doctor said after several long minutes. “We’ll run some tests.” They sent me home with antibiotics and painkillers, but I knew that wasn’t enough. omething was growing inside me. That night, I woke up to excruciating pain. It felt like something was moving under my skin—crawling and digging. I ran to the bathroom mirror and tore off the bandages. The wound was now a deep hole, filled with a gelatinous, yellow substance. In the center, something moved. My hands trembled as I grabbed tweezers and inserted them into the hole. When I pulled, something came out. It was a worm. Small, white, but alive. It writhed between the tweezers, and I threw it into the sink, nearly vomiting. But when I looked back at the wound, I saw there were more. So many more. The days that followed were hell. I woke up drenched in sweat, my head pounding as if it would explode. The pain in my arm was no longer something I could ignore—it consumed my entire body. The wound grew at an alarming rate. Initially, it was just a foul, black, gaping hole. Now, it spread like a cancer, devouring the surrounding flesh, which peeled away in chunks. My clothes clung to my arm, soaked with the viscous liquid that oozed constantly. I spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, inspecting the pit my arm had become. It was as if something inside was alive. Small ripples in the decaying flesh, like waves on a contaminated lake, revealed their presence. By the third day, after pulling out the third worm with tweezers, I realized I was trapped in an endless cycle. I removed them, but more appeared. Always more. I couldn’t sleep. Whenever I closed my eyes, I felt the creatures moving inside me, digging deeper into my flesh. I became obsessed. I spent sleepless nights on the bathroom floor, extracting worms with tweezers, needles—anything that could reach them. My body was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t stop. For every one I removed, two seemed to take its place. And the sound. At first, I thought it was in my head, but it wasn’t. It was a low, wet rustling, coming from my arm. The sound of something scraping against flesh, chewing, burrowing. By the fifth day, the nightmare reached a new level. My left hand went numb. I tried to move my fingers, but they wouldn’t respond. When I looked at my arm, the swelling had spread. The skin around it was translucent, almost see-through, revealing long, white shapes writhing beneath—rivers of larvae flowing through my body. I vomited on the bathroom floor. The stench of bile mixed with the rotting smell of my arm, making the air unbreathable. I knew they were growing. And I knew they wouldn’t stop. It felt like a legion of burning needles was piercing my skin, deeper and deeper each time.The wound was growing alarmingly. At first, it was just a black, fetid hole in the center of the swelling. Now, it spread like cancer, advancing through the surrounding flesh, which was rotting and falling apart in pieces. My clothes started to stick to my arm, soaked with the viscous liquid that kept dripping constantly. The smell was nauseating, a mix of rotten meat and something chemical, acidic, that seemed to burn my nostrils. I spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, inspecting that hole that had become my arm. It was as if something inside it was moving. Small ripples in the rotting flesh, like waves on an infected lake, showed that they were there. On the third day, after pulling out the third worm with tweezers, I realized I was caught in an endless cycle. I would remove them, but more would appear. Always more. I cried out of frustration and disgust. “Get out of me! Get out!” I screamed, my voice hoarse and desperate. But the worms didn’t obey. Each night was worse than the last. I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the creatures moving inside me. The mere thought that they were digging through my flesh kept me awake. I became obsessed. I spent the nights sitting on the bathroom floor, pulling out worms with tweezers, a needle, anything I could reach. My body was exhausted, but my mind never stopped. Every time I pulled one out, it seemed like two more appeared. I began to hear sounds. At first, I thought it was just in my head, but it wasn’t. It was a low rustling noise, like something wet brushing against flesh, gnawing, burrowing. I knew they were growing. On the fifth day, hell reached a new level. My left hand began to tingle. Then, it went numb. I tried to move my fingers, but they wouldn’t respond. When I looked at— My skin was greenish and damp, gleaming with a sickly, oily sheen. I called an Uber to take me to the hospital. When the driver stopped in front of the building, I hesitated for a moment. I tried to cover my arm with a cloth to hide the deplorable state it was in, but the fabric quickly became soaked with the yellowish liquid that leaked incessantly. I got in the car, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Good morning…” I tried to say, but my voice came out hoarse, almost inaudible. The driver, a middle-aged man with a friendly expression, smiled through the rearview mirror, but his expression changed as soon as the smell reached him. “Are you okay?” he asked, wrinkling his nose and cracking the window a bit. “It’s just… an infection. I’m going to the hospital.” He nodded but kept the windows open throughout the entire ride. I saw him rub his nose several times, and his glance in the rearview mirror was filled with distrust. The smell was getting worse. It was the smell of death. When I finally arrived at the hospital, I staggered through the front door. The people in the waiting room instinctively moved away, some covering their mouths, others wrinkling their faces in disgust. I was taken directly to the emergency room. The doctor who attended to me was the same as before, but his serious expression indicated that he knew the situation had gotten out of control. He could barely hide his own reaction to the smell. “Elizabeth… what happened?” he asked, while putting on gloves and a mask. “I… I don’t know. It’s getting worse. It’s… growing.” He looked at my arm, now practically unrecognizable. The wound had turned into a grotesque opening, filled with necrotic flesh and viscous secretions. The center pulsed as if it had a life of its own, and the edges were covered in small worms crawling in and out, as if they were digging tunnels. “We need to act immediately. This is no longer just an ordinary infection,” he said, calling for other doctors. I was rushed into the operating room. The nurses’ faces were a mix of professionalism and horror, as if they were trying not to think about what they were seeing. The room was cold, and the bright lights reflected off the metal surgical instruments. “We’ll need to amputate the arm, Elizabeth,” the doctor said, holding my healthy hand to try to comfort me. “There’s no other option. It’s spreading too quickly.” I simply nodded. I no longer had the strength to protest. All I wanted was for it to stop.They sedated me partially, but I remained conscious enough to feel the first incision. When the scalpel cut into the flesh around the wound, a collective scream echoed through the room. Larvae were raining down. From the cut, a torrent of white worms exploded like a geyser. They were larger than the ones I had seen before, thicker, almost translucent, with quick and frantic movements. The nurses recoiled, some screaming, others dropping instruments. On the floor. “My God…” murmured the doctor, while trying to stay calm. The worms fell to the floor and began to spread throughout the room, crawling in all directions. The stench emanating from them was even stronger, a wet, rotting smell that seemed to fill every corner of the space.The doctor continued cutting, desperate to sever my arm from the rest of my body. But the worms didn’t stop. They appeared from every side, burrowing into my flesh as if they were living roots, connected to my own body. The pain was unbearable, even with the sedatives. I could feel every movement, every bite, every slide of their viscous forms. “We need to finish this now!” the doctor shouted, wielding a surgical saw to cut through the bone. But as he began to saw, more worms came out, this time faster, as if trying to escape. One climbed up his glove, crawling to his wrist. “Get this off me!” he shouted, as another nurse tried to help him. The operating room was in chaos. The floor was covered in blood, pus, and worms. Surgical instruments were scattered around, and the nurses didn’t know where to run. I could feel that this wasn’t going to end there. The arm wasn’t the only place they were. They had already spread throughout my entire body. “Doctor…” I whispered, my voice almost inaudible. “It’s no use. They’re everywhere.” He looked at me, his face pale and filled with horror. For a moment, I thought he was going to pass out. “Elizabeth… I’m so sorry.” And then, my vision darkened. I looked at my hands, but they were no longer mine. My skin was full of holes, and worms were coming in and out as if I were just a vessel. Credit: L.S Benveniste Amazon Please note the author of this Creepypasta does NOT give permission for it to be reproduced in any format Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.