I never imagined that the loss of my dog would usher in a cascade of nightmarish sleepless nights, slowly eroding the sanctuary of my mind with each passing day.
It all began In the early morning of the forest, my tent stood as a sanctuary, a flicker of civilization. I had taken countless trips there, my loyal dog always at my side, sharing the same tent. It was our tradition, our bond. But that morning, an unsettling silence replaced his familiar wake-up nuzzles. I was completely alone in my tent. The moment I emerged, the cold breath of the wilderness brushed my face. Open was the tent flap, a foreboding entrance.
My heart raced, memories of my dog’s past escapes flashing before me. He was a curious soul, often straying but always returning.
Except now, as dread crept up my spine, my eyes fixed on a sight I never thought I’d see.
Just a few steps away from the tent, my dog laid on the ground motionless. My once beacon of joy and warmth, now a motionless corpse.
Amidst a whirlwind of disbelief and sorrow, my thoughts clawed for rationale. The suddenness of Max’s death bewildered me. How had he managed to leave our tent and then… just perish? It made no sense.
Carrying the remnants of my once spirited companion, I settled him gently in the car’s backseat. Each mile homeward was a journey through tears, the weight of memories tugging at every heartbeat. The swiftness of it all left me breathless; no forewarning, nothing could have braced me for this.
Once inside my home, I laid Max’s body onto the floor. Lost in this heavy fog of emotion, a haunting yelp from the recesses of my memory punctured through. My fingers, almost instinctively, grazed the dried residue on Max’s snout. As if trying to comfort him, I hadn’t even noticed the transferred saliva. Now, from that very spot, an eerie prickling sensation spread on my hand.
I went and grabbed my phone, desperate to unearth any hint, any clue to the mystery of his death.
Among the deluge of possibilities I saw on my phone, a name surfaced - Dr. Quentin Rourke, renowned for his expertise on animals and most notably autopsy’s. Quentin was my best shot at discovering this mystery.
When I finally mustered the courage to dial Quentin’s number, he responded with genuine compassion, suggesting an autopsy to, at the very least, satiate my burgeoning need for answers.
The act of carrying Max’s limp body, then gently enclosing him within my car, tore at my soul. Each movement felt like I was erasing a chapter of our shared memories, leaving only echoes of laughter and joy behind.
As I drove towards Quentin’s lab, an overwhelming sentiment enveloped me: no rationale or consoling words would ever bridge the void Max’s death had carved within me.
Quentin worked meticulously on the autopsy. When he emerged, his face carried an unsettling pallor, revealing that what he’d found was disturbing, even to his experienced eyes.
Although he assured me results would take time, his demeanor spoke volumes. I remained silent, without pressing him for immediate answers.
Grief is a peculiar thing; it manifests uniquely in each of us. When my mother passed away in a tragic accident, days became a blur, and every meal felt like consuming mere dust and shadow. But the aftermath of Max’s death was different, an unsettling relentless hunger gripped me, and it gripped me tight. It felt as though countless hungers writhed within me, each clamoring for its own fulfillment, like voices in a crowd, growing louder and more desperate.
Perhaps it was my mind’s way of grappling with the loss, seeking some form of solace in the act of eating. I clung to the hope that the autopsy results might bring a sense of closure, though such a concept felt increasingly elusive. Can we ever truly find peace with the mysteries of existence? I began to doubt it.
Oddly enough, despite my voracious eating, a gnawing emptiness persisted within me. My family, seeing my gaunt face and skeletal frame, whispered their concerns. To them, my drastic change was a byproduct of the pain of losing Max. They weren’t privy to the darker, more unsettling thought that haunted me — the idea that this insatiable hunger wasn’t confined to my stomach.
My eating habits turned peculiar. Foods I’d previously disliked, now became obsessions. Even worms I’d see in the woods, now held an irresistible allure. Late at night, I’d find myself drawn to their texture, often contemplating the thought of consuming them. The act of eating had transformed from pleasure to sheer necessity.
Contrarily, even with my ravenous appetite, my body continued to wither. I became a recluse, shrouding my house in darkness, drawing the blinds tight. The world outside faded to a distant memory, a blurry past, while my insatiable hunger became the defining rhythm of my life.
The rare occasions I did sleep, my sleep would be accompanied by nightmarish visions.
Oftentimes, a tumultuous grumble from deep within my body would pull me from my restless dreams, compelling me toward the kitchen.
Whether it was a container of aging soup, forgotten food stiffening in the freezer, or an overripe orange on the edge of decay, I devoured it all, including those reprehensible worms. Flavor and joy in eating had become foreign concepts; I was driven by a raw, primal need.
The physical toll was evident. My complexion took on a ghostly hue, eyes sunken deep beneath dark shadows.
The gnawing thought, as inscrutable as the unending hunger, tormented me in the sleepless hours of the night.
A piercing agony jolted me awake, its intensity unfamiliar and beyond comprehension. Frantically, I sat up. My breath caught in my throat as the chilling realization dawned — the source was from within me.
Every inhale felt labored as the gruesome reality, still clouded in mystery, enveloped me. My emotions, teetering on the edge of despair, culminated in a mournful cry, echoing the injustice, the torment, and the bewildering cruelty of the moment.
In the midst of my weeping, a ring pierced the heavy silence, emanating from the phone beside my bed. It was Quentin’s number lighting up the screen.
It was late so I was a bit surprised Quentin called me, he must’ve sensed the depth of my torment, knowing I awaited a sliver of clarity.
Through the line, Quentin’s voice came, wearied by the weight of his findings.
“Sorry for calling so late, I just wanted to let you know the results are in.”
“What is it?” I asked, while trying to mask the constant pain I was in.
“The results are disturbing,” Quentin began with a weight in his voice.
“Xylogyrus Terroxi.”
“Xylo… WHAT?” I responded.
The word felt like a jagged stone in my mouth.
Quentin continued…
“It’s a serious disease. I’m not sure how your dog contracted it, but he did. This disease spreads relentlessly within the body, consuming whatever the host does. It can alter the host’s behavior, compelling them to fulfill its insatiable hunger, until all that remains is an empty corpse.”
A cold shiver coursed through me, threatening to encase my very soul in ice. Gathering every ounce of courage, I asked,
“Is it contagious?”
Quentin hesitated,
“It’s highly contagious. Just touching someone or something infected, like your dog, can transmit it. Given that you’ve had contact with your dog, it’s likely you’re infected. And, as much as I hate to say it, there’s not much that can be done now.”
In sheer horror and disbelief, I through my phone to the floor not wanting to hear another word.
The instant the phone met the ground, an agonizing surge of pain erupted from deep within me, feeling as though I was being shredded from the inside. Every fiber of my body felt ablaze.
Hour upon agonizing hour, I sat, silent tears and choked sobs being my only companion. Until an unfamiliar noise interrupted.
A soft, almost imperceptible hiss, like a release of pent-up steam. The eeriness grew as it began to vocalize. An unearthly voice, dripping with malice, whispered,
“Hello James.”
Was I officially descending into madness?
Who the hell just called my name?
Oh but this was anything but madness. This was the malevolent song of the disease, serenading me, eating away my essence, until all that remained would be a void.
A chilling whisper, distinct from my own thoughts, began to speak. “I dwell within you,” it declared, “and have no plans of vacating. Your very core, this vessel you call a body, is now my domain. I feast on what you cherish, flourishing as you wane. Before long, every fiber of your being, down to the hidden corridors of your psyche, will answer to me. You’ll be naught but a marionette, a voided husk.”
A sudden, agonizing pain surged within my head. And then, with a clarity that sent shivers down my spine, the disease, that malevolent entity inside, delivered its final decree, an echo that would haunt me till my end:
“I will consume you, until you’re nothing left.”