My name is Laura Hayes, and until three weeks ago, I believed I had a normal life — a normal husband, a normal home, and a normal routine in our quiet Knoxville suburb.
I was wrong.
Horribly wrong.
The nightmare began with something so small, so harmless-looking, I almost laughed at myself for worrying.
Almost.
It started with a single red spot. Then three. Then thirty.
My husband Mark came home scratching his back like a madman every night after work.
He blamed construction dust, insulation fibers, “irritation from the new work vest.”
But the marks kept multiplying.
One evening while folding laundry, I saw tiny drops of dried blood on his undershirt — not smears, not scratches… but precise dots, spaced like someone had touched his back with a needle dipped in red ink.
“Mark,” I said, holding up the shirt, “what is this?”
He barely glanced.
“Allergies, babe. Leave it alone.”
And I did. Until the morning everything changed.
The Sunlight Revealed Something I Will Never Unsee
He was sleeping on his stomach.
The first rays of sun fell on his back, and for some reason — call it intuition, call it dread — I lifted his T-shirt.
And I screamed.
They weren’t bites.
They weren’t rashes.
They looked like tiny crimson rings, raised and pulsing — like something beneath the skin was breathing.
Some were fresh and bright.
Some had dark centers.
Some had movement.
I slapped a hand over my mouth before I vomited.
“Mark,” I whispered, shaking uncontrollably, “we’re going to the hospital. Now.”
The Emergency Room Was Quiet… Until It Wasn’t
St. Mary’s was half-empty that morning. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Everything felt cold. Too cold.
Dr. Reynolds entered, polite, calm, reassuring — the perfect doctor for nervous patients like me.
“Let’s take a look,” he said.
Mark lifted his shirt.
And the world stopped.
The Doctor Didn’t Blink. He Didn’t Breathe. Then—
His eyes widened in pure, unmistakable horror.
Not confusion.
Not concern.
Horror.
He stepped back so fast he almost hit the counter.
Then, in a sharp, cracking voice I will never forget, he barked:
“Nurse — seal the room. Do NOT touch him. And call the police. Immediately.”
For a moment, the room was dead silent.
Even the air seemed to freeze.
“The… police?” Mark stammered. “For a rash?”
Dr. Reynolds glared at him like he was looking at a monster wearing my husband’s skin.
He pointed at the circular lesions and said:
“Those aren’t rashes. Those are markers. Someone did this to you.
And whatever was inside them… is missing.”
My heart dropped to the floor.
“Missing?” I whispered. “Missing WHAT?”
The doctor didn’t answer.
He simply whispered to himself:
“I’ve only seen this once. And it wasn’t from an insect.”
My knees buckled.
What was he talking about?
Who had done this?
Why call the police?
And worst of all —
what had been living under my husband’s skin?
