I spent a couple of nights at my friend’s previous apartment and didn’t think much of it at first.
The place was old but charming—creaky floors, high ceilings, the kind of building that smelled faintly of dust and history. My friend joked about it being “quirky,” and I laughed along. The couch was uncomfortable, the sheets a little rough, but it was only for a weekend.
The first morning, I noticed a few red bumps on my arm.
I assumed mosquitoes. Summer had been brutal, and I’d slept with the window cracked open. By the second morning, there were more—on my legs, my other arm, clustered in strange little patterns. They didn’t itch much at first, just felt warm, tight.
By the third day, they were everywhere.
That’s when the itching started—deep, relentless, the kind that crawls under your skin and won’t let go. I stared at my arms and legs in the bathroom mirror, panic creeping in as I noticed the symmetry. Lines. Groups. Too deliberate to be random.
I sent my friend a photo.
There was a long pause before they replied.
“Hey… so I didn’t want to freak you out,” the message read, “but the reason I moved out wasn’t the rent.”
My stomach dropped.
They told me about the nights they’d felt watched. About waking up with new marks every morning. About management dismissing it as “allergies” while quietly scheduling exterminators for other units. About the neighbor who’d left furniture on the curb wrapped in plastic at three in the morning.
I tore apart the couch cushions. Checked the seams of the mattress.
That’s when I saw them.
Tiny. Flat. Hiding in the folds like they belonged there.
I left immediately—clothes sealed in bags, shoes tied together, phone wiped down like evidence. At home, I washed everything on the hottest setting and sat on my bathroom floor, shaking, scratching, furious at how something so small could make you feel so violated.
The bumps faded after weeks. The itching eventually stopped.
But even now, sometimes in the middle of the night, I wake up convinced something is crawling on me—proof that some places don’t just leave marks on your skin.
They follow you home in your nerves.
