It was itching his body. Not just a simple, fleeting sensation but a constant, maddening itch that seemed to spread with each passing minute. At first, he dismissed it, thinking it was nothing serious. Perhaps an allergic reaction to something he had eaten, or maybe a new detergent that had irritated his skin. He tried to ignore it, but the more he focused on other things, the more aware he became of the crawling, burning sensation beneath his skin. It was as if invisible insects were moving just under the surface, tickling, biting, and teasing him without mercy.

He scratched at his arms until red lines appeared, raw and angry, but the relief was short-lived. The itch returned stronger each time, spreading across his chest, his back, his scalp, even the soles of his feet. No part of him was spared. He tried cold water, hoping it would soothe him, but the chill only intensified the feeling. The itch was not something that could be washed away. It was deeper, almost alive.

By evening, he had stripped down to his underwear, pacing his small apartment in frustration. Every few seconds he would stop to dig his nails into some new spot, desperate for a moment of peace. His mirror reflected a stranger, a man with red welts and haunted eyes. He muttered to himself, trying to rationalize it, but the words felt hollow. He took antihistamines, slathered lotion over his body, and even tried to meditate, yet nothing worked. The itching had become a living thing, something that owned him.

When night came, he could not sleep. The sheets brushed against his skin like sandpaper, and he tossed them aside. His nails had begun to hurt from overuse, yet he kept scratching. The more he scratched, the more his skin burned. He began to think something was wrong inside him, something that no cream or pill could touch. Every nerve seemed alive, buzzing and pulsing. The sensation was almost electric.

He went to the bathroom and turned on the bright light. His reflection shocked him. His skin was covered in small scabs and faint lines of blood. He leaned closer, convinced he saw something moving beneath the surface, a faint ripple, like something trying to escape. He blinked hard, then splashed water on his face, telling himself he was imagining it. But when he looked again, he could have sworn he saw the same movement.

A deep sense of dread settled over him. He felt trapped inside his own body, powerless to stop whatever was happening. He tried to sleep again, curling up on the floor, afraid to touch his own skin. Hours passed. The itch did not fade. Instead, it seemed to grow heavier, denser, as though it had taken root inside him.

By dawn, he could barely think. His mind was filled only with the need to scratch. Every sound, every breath, every beat of his heart was drowned out by that one consuming sensation. It was no longer just itching. It was a whispering presence, something unseen that had claimed him entirely.