fluorescent light in the minuscule bathroom was overbright. It hid nothing and Sil nearly shrieked as she saw her own face. It was teeming with movement, hundreds of bumps sliding across her forehead and cheeks, too many dangerously close to her eyes. Panicking, she ripped at one of the bulges, digging a red furrow from the bridge of her nose down her cheek. Terror rocketed through her as a wormlike creature thrust through the scratch, followed promptly by another, then another. Pain blossomed throughout her body as thousands more burst through the fragile skin without assistance, like being stung by a hive full of wasps.
Wailing with fear, she gagged and tried to pull them loose, felt herself retch harder as she realized they were no longer the tiny, maggotlike things she’d first seen. They had stretched and bonded together; now they were long worms, still thin but a pallid white, like nearly translucent ropes twining about her in every direction, growing and slithering from her body on up to the ceiling. She fought uselessly, struggling to free herself as they grew stronger and wrapped around her torso and limbs, melding together in an impossibly sturdy net. Sobbing helplessly, Sil felt her feet lift off the floor as the worm net began to hoist her upward, tugging steadily until she bumped against the ceiling and hung there, twisting in vain as the creatures began to weave a web of shining, sticky threads. Her voice became hoarse and lost its volume as the strands embraced her chest and hindered her breathing, and was cut off completely when the glistening filaments sheathed her mouth and melted together across the rest of her face.
And Sil was silent at last, wrapped in the glasslike sheen of the chrysalis as it dried.
N othing moved in the sleeping compartment except for the image on the small television, some rerun of a 1968 episode of The Prisoner starring Patrick McGoohan with the volume going full blast. Not loud enough to make the passengers in the compartments on either side complain, it did catch the attention of Angela Cardoza, the conductor, as she passed through the car. She knocked, not too loudly since she didn’t want to startle the girl. Kids nowadays could fall asleep with the television or stereo blaring right in their ears, but banging on the door in the middle of the night would scare the heck out of anyone.
“Hello?” she called. “You awake in there, honey? A little late for TV, you know.” When no one answered, she automatically tried the door. It swung open without resistance; so much for her earlier instruction to keep it locked. “Hel—oh, for crying out loud. What a mess!”
The only light inside the compartment was the shifting blue white from a little television on one of the seats, the portable kind made for kids and people whom Angela thought were too lazy to read anymore. She picked it up and found its volume wheel, turning it down to a manageable level. If the girl was here, that ought to get her attention. Annoyed, Angela used her feet to shuffle a space through the crumpled food wrappings and empty containers so she could get to the bathroom. Squashed milk cartons and other trash littered every surface of the seats and floor, and if the strange kid had taken off and was hiding in another compartment, guess who’d have to clean everything up?
Already accepting that the girl was gone, Angela nonetheless tilted her head around the wall and through the bathroom door, then pushed all the way in just to see if the girl was lurking in the shower cubicle. The lavatory was half the size of the other room and she almost bumped her head on something hanging over the toilet, plastered in place at the juncture of the wall and ceiling.
Angela pulled back in shock. As she did, her shadow passed across the surface of the object, making it seem as though something inside was doing a restless dance. “What the hell is this?” Angela whispered aloud.
Whatever it was, there was nothing
Wailing with fear, she gagged and tried to pull them loose, felt herself retch harder as she realized they were no longer the tiny, maggotlike things she’d first seen. They had stretched and bonded together; now they were long worms, still thin but a pallid white, like nearly translucent ropes twining about her in every direction, growing and slithering from her body on up to the ceiling. She fought uselessly, struggling to free herself as they grew stronger and wrapped around her torso and limbs, melding together in an impossibly sturdy net. Sobbing helplessly, Sil felt her feet lift off the floor as the worm net began to hoist her upward, tugging steadily until she bumped against the ceiling and hung there, twisting in vain as the creatures began to weave a web of shining, sticky threads. Her voice became hoarse and lost its volume as the strands embraced her chest and hindered her breathing, and was cut off completely when the glistening filaments sheathed her mouth and melted together across the rest of her face.
And Sil was silent at last, wrapped in the glasslike sheen of the chrysalis as it dried.
N othing moved in the sleeping compartment except for the image on the small television, some rerun of a 1968 episode of The Prisoner starring Patrick McGoohan with the volume going full blast. Not loud enough to make the passengers in the compartments on either side complain, it did catch the attention of Angela Cardoza, the conductor, as she passed through the car. She knocked, not too loudly since she didn’t want to startle the girl. Kids nowadays could fall asleep with the television or stereo blaring right in their ears, but banging on the door in the middle of the night would scare the heck out of anyone.
“Hello?” she called. “You awake in there, honey? A little late for TV, you know.” When no one answered, she automatically tried the door. It swung open without resistance; so much for her earlier instruction to keep it locked. “Hel—oh, for crying out loud. What a mess!”
The only light inside the compartment was the shifting blue white from a little television on one of the seats, the portable kind made for kids and people whom Angela thought were too lazy to read anymore. She picked it up and found its volume wheel, turning it down to a manageable level. If the girl was here, that ought to get her attention. Annoyed, Angela used her feet to shuffle a space through the crumpled food wrappings and empty containers so she could get to the bathroom. Squashed milk cartons and other trash littered every surface of the seats and floor, and if the strange kid had taken off and was hiding in another compartment, guess who’d have to clean everything up?
Already accepting that the girl was gone, Angela nonetheless tilted her head around the wall and through the bathroom door, then pushed all the way in just to see if the girl was lurking in the shower cubicle. The lavatory was half the size of the other room and she almost bumped her head on something hanging over the toilet, plastered in place at the juncture of the wall and ceiling.
Angela pulled back in shock. As she did, her shadow passed across the surface of the object, making it seem as though something inside was doing a restless dance. “What the hell is this?” Angela whispered aloud.
Whatever it was, there was nothing
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