A man stands in the doorway, his hips resting gently upon one side of the oak frame, smiling at his son as he hurriedly prepares for bed. While he is watching, his son runs with delight as he accomplishes every last one of the chores his father had given him before he was to go “nighty night”. He had brushed his teeth, rinsed with mouthwash, flossed, and was now completely ready. As such, he sprinted for the bed, tumbling wildly on top of it as he did.
“You know what I told you about jumping on that ol’ bed of yours,” his father interjected with a stern voice, “eventually you’re going to make it collapse if you keep doing that.”
“I’m sorry” Daimon responded to his father, but it was not an authentic apology, and his father knew it. But it did not matter much to him, and so he gave his son a hug goodnight.
As he left his bedroom, he took one last glance at Daimon. He was growing up fast, and it was hard for him to imagine whom he would grow up to be. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” He exclaims, as he walks down the hallway. They’re ferocious this time of year.
From his distant room, “Daddy! Daddy!” High-pitched laughter ensues, and Daimon squeals with delight. “It tickles! Daddy, it tickles!” More laughter.
“What could that be?” the father questions under his breath as he walks back down the hallway and to his son’s room. “What tickles?”
“The bed bugs!” Even more laughter, quite unlike anything he has ever heard before. “It tickles! The bed bugs, Daddy!”
Daimon wriggles in his bed, and the sheets move wildly as his feet kick rapidly. “What? The bed bugs? Daimon, you know those aren’t real.” Or are they?
He walks over to his son, curious, for his son is still laughing uncontrollably, and he wonders what could possibly make a child so instantaneously happy. He lifts up the blankets Daimon sleeps under. What he sees is horrific. He screams, filled with terror. He takes two steps backward, stumbling over a pair of shoes as he does so. His hand covers his mouth and he screams once more.
His son is grossly disfigured, and not like the healthy child he left in bed a few minutes earlier. It appears as though something is eating him alive. His feet have simply disappeared, the skin on his legs up to the knee is left in shreds. His muscles on his legs still cling to the bones, but they are bleeding profusely and receding rapidly. His white shinbones jut out from the bloody mess; as he is watching, they slowly disappear.
He looks at his son’s face, and something has started to erode his left cheek, just below the eye. His round eyeball can be seen in full, a perfect sphere set in what used to be a socket.
Even more laughter. “It tickles Daddy, it tickles! Make it stop! It tickles!” And the delighted squeals continue.
The man takes one more look of longing at his only son. Tears well under his eyes. The last look shared between them explains everything; the shock, the horror, the sorrow. He then leaves the room in a hurry, running for his wife.
Laughter still comes from the room.
In the distance, “It tickles.”
It tickles.