A narcissist cursed by jilted lovers to feel worms crawling under his skin spirals into madness, ending up permanently in a mental hospital.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
Rhett Maddox was used to living life on his own terms—bed partners, friendships, jobs—all disposable, with only one true commitment: his boundless desire to feel admired, adored, and envied.
But things started to feel off after he ghosted Isabelle, his last serious partner. His charm seemed to fail him in ways it hadn’t before. Lovers became suspicious, friends got colder, and strange things began to happen: the faintest tickle in his skin, the feeling of something moving beneath his flesh.
Then came the nightmares—teeming, writhing swarms that left him sweating and shaky, clawing at his arms in the dark.
With Isabelle gone, trying to get her life together on her spiritual healing journey, Rhett found himself craving her attention again. Only now, reaching her wasn’t as easy as it once had been. But he was Rhett Maddox; he never doubted he could get someone back.
However, as he picked up the phone to try once more, Rhett was unaware that the people he’d hurt, the ones left stewing in his wake, had just begun to take their revenge.
***
Rhett had what he called the “perfect blend” of qualities: a rakish smile, a charm that could melt anyone into submission, and just enough aloofness to make everyone feel they’d never really figured him out.
Even his flaws, as he saw them, worked to his advantage. People adored his bad-boy unpredictability, how he’d leave in the middle of a party or not return a text for three days. There was nothing more exhilarating to Rhett than having people chase after him.
But recently, he’d hit a dry spell. Calls went unanswered. Nights spent prowling the bars left him empty-handed. People who once sought his company didn’t seem to notice him anymore. He’d catch himself scratching absentmindedly at his forearms, feeling the slight shift of something crawling, then dismissing it as stress.
***
Maggie and Julian met by accident, bonded by their shared bitterness. Both had tangled with Rhett, each burned in their own way.
Maggie had known him through her cousin, a whirlwind affair that left her feeling humiliated and angry. She’d overlooked countless red flags, all for his intoxicating confidence and those quiet, simmering glances he’d save just for her.
Julian, a writer with a habit of falling for “the wrong kind of guy,” had spent months trying to decipher Rhett’s mind, obsessed with each cryptic text message and prolonged silence, only to be discarded with the same cold indifference.
One night, the two found themselves at a bar near Rhett’s apartment. Maggie, no stranger to tarot and occult practices, suggested they do something drastic, something that would finally get Rhett’s attention.
They spent hours concocting a plan, more out of revenge than magic, imagining spells that could capture the very worst of his own vices and turn them back on him. A curse of sorts, crafted from their shared anger and resentment.
It was a night of drunken laughter and lingering glances, a “spell” cast in the heat of betrayal and heartache. But as they left that bar, each felt an eerie satisfaction, a cold certainty that something had begun to shift. And soon, Rhett would too.
***
Days after Maggie and Julian’s “curse,” Rhett felt the first unmistakable sign of movement under his skin. He’d been sitting alone, scrolling through Isabelle’s social media.
He felt the familiar itch, that faint crawling under his forearm, and scratched at it absentmindedly. This time, the sensation didn’t fade; it spread, creeping up his arm, along his shoulder. It was as though invisible, wriggling creatures burrowed just beneath his flesh. The itch turned to a fierce burn.
“Get a grip, Maddox,” he muttered, slamming his laptop shut.
That night, sleep was nearly impossible. He tossed and turned, haunted by dreams of dirt and worms, of writhing masses curling around his limbs, tunneling into his skin, pulling him deeper into the dark earth.
Each time he awoke, drenched in sweat, the crawling sensation was worse, so vivid he could swear he felt tiny bodies pushing their way to the surface.
***
Isabelle had moved on. After months of therapy, meditation, and solo retreats, she was making progress. Her “temple path,” as she liked to call it, was sacred.
Rhett had tried calling her a few times, but she had blocked him. When he appeared at her doorstep one rainy night, twitching, sweating, looking thoroughly unhinged, and babbling about “worms under his skin,” she watched him with pity and grim satisfaction.
It was as if he were finally being forced to confront all the rot he’d hidden under his mask of easy confidence. “Isabelle,” he gasped, scratching furiously at his arms, his cheeks, anywhere he felt that awful creeping sensation. “You have to help me.”
“No, Rhett. I don’t,” she replied coldly, slamming the door in his face with a finality that shook him.
***
Overcome by guilt and remorse, Rhett’s hallucinations worsened. He started seeing the worms in the most innocuous places — a coil slipping out of his morning coffee, a writhing mass under his pillow. He’d go to parties, only to be haunted by slick trails gliding down the walls.
It was no longer just an itch; he could feel them burrowing into his skin, squirming just under his flesh, leaving trails of slime and grit. People would see him clawing at his arms in public, hands bloody from scratching, and shift away.
He called Maggie and Julian separately, accusing them in fits of rage. Both, of course, denied any involvement, with Julian simply smirking and Maggie feigning surprise. “Maybe it’s karma,” she suggested with a dangerous glint in her eye.
***
Rhett had lost all control. He was pale, trembling, covered in bruises and raw patches from where he’d scratched himself bloody. His reality twisted between waking and dreaming, and he couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep, only that the worms had consumed every part of him.
Hallucinations overwhelmed him: creatures slithering across his vision, endless trails of grime under his nails. His last moments of lucidity were spent curled in the corner of his room, staring at his reflection in a broken mirror. His skin was alive, crawling with movement just beneath the surface.
As he sobbed, feeling them wriggle inside his veins, something snapped. He screamed, scratching wildly, raking his fingernails across his arms, his face, even his neck, desperate to be free of the creatures overtaking him.
The neighbors heard him shrieking, and when the paramedics finally arrived, he was unresponsive, eyes wide and vacant.
***
Maggie and Julian kept tabs on Rhett, mostly out of morbid curiosity. They learned he’d been moved to a psychiatric facility, listed under permanent care.
Occasionally, they’d hear rumors about him from mutual friends — that he’d scream about worms, tear at his skin, mumble about shadows lurking under his flesh. The “spell,” if one could even call it that, had worked, though neither could quite explain why.
In his final moments of lucidity, Rhett would claw at his bed, muttering Isabelle’s name like a prayer, haunted by memories of those he’d wronged. But all he had left now were his hallucinations, his demons, and the unending sensation of worms crawling under his skin, forever trapped in a prison he’d built for himself.
***
