Pain in the neck

A body horror short.

Hurray - I now have over 200 subscribers (or 222 followers, not sure what the difference is?) However you choose to follow this strange writing corner, I thank you.

I’ve been busy procrastinating writing and here are a few bits I’ve been working on.

• Last month I did my writing group’s February short story challenge, writing seven new pieces - now I just have the challenge of editing them all.

• I’m currently editing an epistolary AI sci fi story I’ve been working on (about AI, not written by AI - ChatGPT is too scary).

• I’m also trying to fix another sci fi story that won’t stay under the 6k mark (hits with editing hammer).

Now onto the fun bit.

This is an old story I wrote in 2015 - nearly ten years ago! Let me know your thoughts in the comments.

---

Sandra was attacking her hair in the mirror, fending off last night’s assault by duvet with a plastic comb, when she noticed the thin black thread on her neck. It looked like a short hair. She tried to brush it off. It hurt.

Not a hair, then. A splinter?

She looked closer. One end was firmly sunk into her neck while the rest flapped free. When she tried to flick it, it only increased the pain. She could feel something biting through with microscopic teeth.

Probably nothing. Just a weird random skin growth.

After brushing her hair and doing her face, the thread was barely noticeable. But like most barely noticeable things, once you'd seen it, it couldn't be unseen.

"Matt!” She banged on the ceiling. “Come down a minute, please?”

After several minutes and a series of muted thuds, Sandra’s good for nothing housemate burst through the bedroom door, dried spit encrusting around his mouth. He burped quietly, creating a bubble of stench that drifted towards her in a lazy yet unmalicious fashion.

“This had better be serious,” he drawled. “Like, life threatening."

It's eight thirty on a Tuesday morning, you lazy bastard. “Do you know what this is?” She pointed at her neck. The thing was limp now, a piece of black cotton.

“Your neck?” He scratched an eyebrow. “Looks fine to me. Not even a bit like a chicken’s.”

“On my neck, you idiot.”

In her attempt to point at the thing, she accidentally touched it, sending white hot pain up her throat. Oblivious to her agony, Matt scratched his other eyebrow and shrugged.

“Please Matt, look properly. I’m worried.”

Matt rubbed his eyes with theatrical exhaustion and leaned toward her neck. The bubbling stench of his morning breath wafted ever closer and she resisted the urge to recoil.

“It’s nothing,” he said, far too close to her face. “Probably a beauty spot or something.”

Of course it wasn’t a spot; it looked nothing like a spot. Only now she felt less sure. Maybe she really was fretting over nothing.

“I'm going back to bed,” Matt announced, scratching another part of his body. He staggered from the room, leaving Sandra to frantically examine her neck in the full length mirror.

Don’t Google your symptoms, she told herself, phone already in hand. But what else was she supposed to do? Asking her housemate before midday had been as much good as asking the doorknob.

She typed in "black thread on neck”. The outcome was a whole bunch of random and rather colourful results that told her nothing at all.

Best not to think about it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Maybe it would go away on its own.

#

Sandra didn’t think about the thread until a couple of days later. She was waiting on a cold, windy platform for her morning train, which had been delayed again, when something sharped stabbed the bottom right of her neck near the collar bone. Thinking it was a stray clothing tag, she adjusted her scarf but that only made it worse. Her finger touched the little throbbing circle where the pain centred.

It was still there after all.

Catching sight of a tiny black thread was difficult from this angle, so she pulled out her phone and, after checking no one was watching, tried to get a photo.

The image was blurry. But it really did look like the little black thread, albeit slightly bigger than before. Though perhaps she was imagining that part.

She pulled her scarf tighter. Nothing to do about it now. Maybe she’d go to the doctor’s tomorrow.

The pain came and went throughout the day, an embedded nettle barb went deeper if knocked. She kept the scarf on out of self consciousness, but in the toilets she took it off and measured the black thread against her thumb. It was in reality much smaller than it had appeared in the photograph. That should have been comforting, but it wasn't.

She wanted to ask someone about it - no, not exactly. What she really wanted was someone to say, “What’s that on your neck, Sandra?”, even though the very idea of someone noticing something awry with her body was mortifying. But no one said anything. They focused on their desks and their screens and their petty office gossip, while she tried to look at figures and thought only of the thing attached to her skin.

By 5pm, Sandra had had enough. She had to know what was wrong, one way or another.

‘Hey, Dave, excuse me—?’

Dave grunted. Her boss was wearing his hat and coat and already halfway out the door, something she’d never get away with as a lowly junior accountant. Downing tools on time was basically seen as skivving, unless you were management.

‘Sorry to ask after 5, but would it be OK if I came in a little late tomorrow? I need to see a GP and I promise I’ll make the time up…’

She trailed off. Her boss huffed and sighed and sucked air through his teeth like a builder who is just about to present you with a hefty quote.

“Is it really urgent? It’s just I’d hoped we could go through budgets first thing.”

Of course. How stupid of her. Why had she even asked?

“It’s fine, I’ll go on Friday. Don’t worry.”

“Great.” He was gone before she could say anything more.

#

When Friday morning came, and Sandra had by some minor miracle managed to obtain an appointment. Yet she was still dithering. Did she still really need to go, for what in all honesty was probably just a strangely shaped mole? Besides, how would it look on her record? She could not bear the thought of facing her colleagues when she walked in at half ten, their judgement hidden behind their monitors, whispering about her over coffee.

Dr Rahman smiled in deep sympathy when she told him her symptoms, or symptom, because there was really only one. The more she spoke, the more ridiculous she felt. What did she sound like? A hypochondriac, no doubt. She had certainly felt like one in the waiting room, huddled over her free newspaper but really looking at everyone around her, the grey faced mothers and their snivelling kids, old people complaining loudly and quite graphically about their various ailments, the woman who kept shaking uncontrollably.

It had been awful enough then. But sitting in front of Dr Rahman, who nodded and smiled politely and made no indication at all that he was judging her in any way, made her feel worse than ever.

“Have you had any other symptoms?” he asked. “Swelling, nausea, headaches, tiredness?”

“No not really. Just an itch. Well not an itch. More like a bite. I don’t know. But I think it's getting bigger. Can you cut it off or something?”

He shook his head. "I wouldn't advise it. Best monitor it over the next week or two. You could try the pharmacist for some cream.”

A pharmacist. That meant it was nothing.

“Is it a skin growth?” she asked, almost hopefully, because the word growth at least sounded vaguely medical.

“Possibly, possibly.” The doctor typed something into his computer, which had been sitting dormant. “Come back in a couple of weeks. Take paracetamol for the pain if it gets too much. We’ll see how it is then.”

He smiled to conclude the session. She saw the implications behind the smile. Sick people, properly sick people, were being held up. And all because of her.

#

A week passed. Sandra never went to the pharmacist, never mentioned anything to anyone else, because the thought of doing so was so mortifying. Instead, she started wearing the scarf all the time, because the growth (it was easier to think of it as a growth) was definitely bigger now. The sharp pain that came whenever she touched her neck had shifted into generalised throb near the collar bone.

Despite her best efforts to disguise her suffering, her colleagues must have noticed some change. They kept asking her if she was ‘all right’, which was funny, because she had so wanted them to ask, and now she wished they’d go away. “Yes,” she said, “I’m fine.” And they nodded and went away, just as she had wished they would, and she touched her neck frequently, because she so afraid they might notice it, pulsing there.

Getting up in the mornings was getting more difficult. Once Matt actually had to knock on her door and she ran out the house, still wearing pyjamas, before coming to her senses halfway down the road.

On Sunday evening, her mother called uncharacteristically.

“You sound run down,” she said. “Are they working you hard?”

“A bit. I do feel run down.”

“Oh dear.” Her mother paused. She was not used to comforting these days. Her retired life was mostly spent pottering about, ambling freely from activity to activity. “What you should do, dear, is get some exercise. They said it was good for endorphins, on the telly.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“I’m going to an over 50s exercise class on Tuesdays. The man who runs it is lovely. He’s got these tight leggings and such a fantastic ars–”

“Sorry Mum, got to go!”

She put the phone on the bed. She’d been there most of the day, trying and failing to get up and get on with things. But now she was going to do something. She was going to have a bath.

Sandra went to the bathroom and ran the water hot enough to burn. She hadn’t a proper bath or shower for several days, simply washing below the neck without looking, not wanting to know. Now she looked in the mirror, sensing the thing pulling at her from beneath the scarf, its teeth lengthening into fangs. The mustiness of the unwashed scarf mixed with the smell of her own sweat.

Here goes nothing, Sandra thought, pulling at the material. But it wouldn’t come off. Biting her tongue to stop herself crying out, she tried again. It felt like something slimy was stuck to the material. Do it like a plaster, she thought, and yanked hard.

The black slug on her neck was half an inch thick. It had a ring around the skin where it attached itself, brown red and crusting up. She breathed out hard, and it hurt.

“Oh my god…”

The thing moved a bit. It was not quite black, more a very dark grey, and over an inch long, maybe even two inches.

“I will get in the bath, and it will go away,” she said out loud. She stared into the rising steam coming off the bathwater. It was almost scalding, as she’d hoped. Perhaps the heat would kill the thing. She shut her eyes and dropped fully into the water, submerging herself completely.

The pain faded away. It was a lovely feeling, a melting emptiness.

Eventually, she had to come up for air. The thing was still there, hanging from her neck, as she had always known it would be. A sad wet thing, clinging onto existence.

After an hour, Sandra got out of the bath, dried herself and put the scarf back on. Then she went to her bedroom and searched for ‘leech’.

The images were disgusting. They were worse than the thing itself. She typed, ‘get rid of leech’.

Bleach. Salt water.

That isn’t too hard, she thought, getting dressed for the first time that day. She went to the kitchen, tipped a spoon of salt into some warm water, then another, then tipped in half the container.

Just in case. I want it to be definitely dead.

The water sucked in the salt. Now what? Should she pour it over her neck? Or did you leave your neck in the water? In the end she elected for pouring salt water over her neck in the sink. She waited for the thing to die.

It did not die.

She got a washing up bowl and filled it was water and bleach. Then she leant over and stuck her neck in it.

Her skin prickled. “Come on, kill it.” The prickling turned to burning and in the end she had to pull away. The leech stuck onto her neck, the pain was worse than ever.

“Why don’t you die?” she screamed. “Why don’t you just die?”

She could hear Matt coming down the stairs. Of all the people to see her like this…

She grabbed the scarf and flung it round her neck just as he entered the room. For the first time in many days, he was properly dressed, his hair waxed into spikes.

“Is everything OK – hey, what’s all this stuff?”

There was salt and bleach everywhere. Slopped liquid dripped onto the floor.

“I… I was cleaning.”

He looked at her. “With salt?”

“Yeah… it’s a… natural cleaner. Better for the environment.”

His eyes went to the bleach, but said nothing. “The bleach is for the tough stains,” she added desperately.

He nodded, still looking at the bleach, not at her. “OK. But can you wipe it off before I cook? I’ve got my girlfriend round tonight.”

“Sure. I’ll do it now.” The scarf was firmly on, her hands tying the knot tight, too tight. Her neck throbbed, and she winced, trying to turn it into a smile. “Thank you.”

Matt gave her a funny look as he left.

She leaned over the counter, fighting back tears. Then she got out the sponge and began to scrub.

#

Sandra was ‘not herself’. Everyone said so. “You aren’t yourself, Sandra,” they told her, as if it was her fault. Perhaps she was deliberately hiding herself away, replacing it with a new one who avoided them. Perhaps they thought if they told her so, her real self might pop back again. Only it didn’t.

She spent her days going through motions, thinking about the leech. Initially, she thought knowing what it was would help her. But it only made it worse, and anything and everything triggered off thinking about it. Even strangers in the street kept asking if she was ‘feeling ill.’ “I’m fine”, she said, “I just have a cold. I’m run down.”

Even Dave, a boss so absent he might as well be a ghost, pulled her into his office. “Your productivity has gone downhill. It’s not like you. Is everything OK?”

“Oh yes.” It was the only thing she knew how to say. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.

“Alright.” It did not sound all right. “Perhaps you should take time off.”

Time off. Time off so you can ‘let me go’.

“No, no. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

She’d gone home that night and gone straight to bed. The sleep had done nothing; the second she’d opened her eyes she’d been smashed out by the pain. There no way of fighting it. She could only lie there, utterly spent.

With the last of her strength, Sandra picked her phone and called her boss. Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but her boss’s voice was wrung dry of sympathy. “Get well soon,” he told her, the implication being, you’d better.

The phone fell onto the bed, and Sandra lay back, eyes half closed. The leech was now an inch and a half wide. Everything had a strange quality, like it was half there. Her scarf lay beside her, pooling at the edge of the bed. After a minute, she thought she heard something creaking outside.

“Sandra? Are you OK?”

Oh God. Matt.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was weak and small; a parody of her.

“You sound bad.”

“Really, I’m OK–” The K became a cough, which hurt so badly that she screamed without air and without energy.

“I’m coming in.”

No. Please God, no.

“I’m … contagious…”

Her voice was so quiet, she was terrified he wouldn’t hear. But the door paused.

“Contagious?”

“Yes. Some kind of flu.” Please go, please go, please go. “Just need to sleep. I’ll call if I need anything.”

“If you’re sure.” The invisible hand shut the door and the person outside shuffled away.

Sandra shut her eyes. At last she was alone.

But how could she be alone? The leech was there. It was always there, in every hand and foot and leg and arm. It sat on her chest, her lungs. She reached up and touched it, and it did not flinch away; the leech was the one thing that never judged her, never asked anything of her. It simply was.

She began to stroke its body, so soft and wet and full of blood. It did not hide from her and that was something like comfort. It took her as she was.