W.M. Peregrine
Listen to W.M. read their story
There’s a man rotting in my apartment building. He waits at my front door, the sweet scent of him infusing the nooks and crannies of my living room. Like a steak that’s oxygenated, brown with rot, its plastic home swollen with sickness.
‘I wanted to see you,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to be lonely.’
His words make my cheeks prickle, my skin longing for any kind of touch so violently that it leaves me nauseated. He doesn’t understand. It’s safer this way.
‘You don’t have to be lonely.’ He inhales on a wet wheeze. ‘I just want to see you.’
I fight the urge to reply. Even the people who deliver my groceries haven’t seen me in months. My friends found it easy to leave me behind. My brother tried hard not to – he was always tenacious.
There’s the wet thud of meat hitting the tiled floor outside, and I swallow down bile. My chest constricts, so I look up the symptoms of a heart attack, just to be on the safe side.
What’s the harm in talking to this man?
‘Please let me in,’ he says.
Instead, I open the blinds of my living room to let the sun in. I’ve learned too much about contagion, about parasites, bacteria, mould. Mould doesn’t like the sun, but it doesn’t care about bleach. My brother taught me that. He helped me change the rule I have about hand-washing, too – no bleach, no boiling water, and I can only do it twice. I use vinegar because it’s a powerful cleaning agent. I don’t use antibacterial wipes because I don’t want that 0.01% of bacteria developing an immunity. I’ve learned too much about bacteria.
The rotting man might make it harder for delivery drivers to drop off my groceries, but I don’t like leaving the house. People are such efficient disease vectors. I used to see them sneezing and coughing without covering their mouths. Touching tables and chairs in public and then eating with their hands. They infect people who can’t afford to be sick, who bring that sickness into hospitals where it gets people killed. Even the most tenacious person can’t tell chemo not to fuck with their immune system.
I didn’t kill him, I was so careful not to kill him, but he died anyway.
I’m crying. I get a glass of water, and stare at it for too long. Are those dust particles, or parasites? I had a water filter installed earlier this year, there shouldn’t be anything in there that might make a home in me.
Maybe I should ask the man. He could tell me the water’s safe to drink, and then I could drink it. Would I be able to believe him?
‘I’m not sick,’ says the man.
I put the glass down, still full. He’s lying. There’s no way a rotting man isn’t sick. I look up what conditions might make a person’s flesh fall off and learn too much about lepers. They’re not contagious, apparently, not without direct and prolonged contact, but it doesn’t make my skin feel better. I follow skin down a rabbit hole and learn too much about bodies. I learn that humans are crawling with demodex mites.
I take a too-hot shower, throw up, then spend an hour scrubbing the bathroom with bleach. It makes me dizzy, and my hands turn red, but I can’t leave things like this. When I’m done, he’s still at my door. Does he care about me? Does he know I talk to the videos I put on, so I can feel like there’s someone with me?
‘You don’t have to be alone,’ the man says gently.
The rot is thick, an almost physical thing forcing its way into my sinuses. My eyes water, and I’m trembling. Each swallow hurts, my throat as dry as if I’ve run the aircon for too long. Am I getting sick?
‘Why are you here?’ I sob.
‘You’re lonely,’ the man explains. Something snaps, and his next sentence sounds strained. ‘You need a friend. You can’t keep hurting yourself.’
‘Go away!’
Maybe his infection is airborne. Should I have plugged the gaps in the doors? Patches of my skin itch and I can’t stop myself from scratching. The brief, ecstatic relief brought by my nails gives way to irritation and pain. I keep scratching.
‘This isn’t fair!’
‘It’s okay,’ the man says. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
My door is porous, spongy, and there’s an indent of his hand as he presses against the rotting wood. Mould creeps through my walls in venous patterns, and I can’t do anything to stop it. It isn’t possible for mould to spread this fast. The walls shouldn’t move like that, and the man shouldn’t be able to push through my door like it was made of wet paper. But he does, just in time for me to watch the skin slough from his hand, leaving behind slimy yellow fat and refulgent red muscle.
‘It’s okay,’ he says.
There’s that damp smell of wood swollen by rain, and the floor beneath my feet is soft. Thousands of mites crawl over my flesh and I can’t see them, but I feel them. The stinging points of their microscopic legs, the pinching of their mouthparts as they feast on my skin.
‘You won’t be lonely,’ he promises. ‘I love you so much.’
He’s crawling with something, just like I am. Things move through him, eating him, speeding along his decomposition. His broken nails are filthy, any skin that remains on his hands is coated in earth. Tetanus, helminthiasis, botulism – so much sickness lurks in the soil.
My heart overflows when I see his face, and I fall into his arms. He’s soft, his flesh gives way as I hold him, but I don’t want to let go. He came all this way to make sure I wouldn’t be alone.
My brother always was tenacious.
W.M. Peregrine is a writer based in Meanjin, Australia. They live with two dogs, a cat, and a visual artist. W.M. Peregrine enjoys writing weird fiction, horror, and metafiction. They use writing as an opportunity to explore more personal horrors, and aim to do so without judgement. While generally inactive online, they can be found on Substack
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