The itch began as a nuisance, a faint prickle beneath the skin of his inner forearm. Elias scratched absently, too tired to even open his eyes. The ceiling fan clicked overhead, casting rhythmic shadows across the darkened bedroom. The bed was warm, his wife Anna breathing softly beside him.
But the itch persisted. It sharpened, becoming a focused, singular point of irritation. He rubbed his arm against the sheet, then clawed at it with his fingernails. The spot was developing a burning pulse, like a tiny coal ember pressed into the dermis. It honestly hurt.
A cold sliver of fear began to worm its way down his spine, depositing dread into his stomach. He forced his right eye open. It took a heavy, deliberate effort. The light was grainy, but he looked down at his forearm, illuminated by the amber glow of the moon through the window.
A single, silver needle was protruding from a small, pale welt. It stood straight up like a metal hair, metallic and impossibly thin. Now fully awake, his heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He watched, mesmerized with horror, as another needle pushed its way through the skin beside the first. It was silent. Painless. The skin dimpled, split, and the tiny spike of steel rose. A third began its slow emergence.
“Anna?” he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. He couldn’t move his legs. Panic, hot and vile, flooded his throat.
He saw a wisp of movement in the corner of his eye. A disembodied human eye, large and sorrowful, stared at him from the hollow between the pillows and the headboard. The socket had no face, just the dangling, complex anatomy of a living eye in the dark. It remained perfectly still, watching