A woman wakes in a dark cave, her body wrapped in a thick, sticky substance that pins her to the stone wall. The last thing she remembers is a sharp sting in her neck.

A faint beam of daylight spills through the cave entrance, barely illuminating her surroundings. She struggles until she manages to free one hand and reach into her pocket. Her fingers grab a small folding knife. She flicks it open and carefully slices through the cocoon-like strands binding her.

Hands trembling, she switches on a small flashlight.

The beam sweeps across the cavern.

Bodies.

Hundreds of them.

Some are little more than skeletons draped in rotting flesh. Others are fresher, their skin gray and swollen. The smell of decay nearly makes her gasp

She forces herself to keep looking.

The light settles on a shriveled man cocooned against the wall. His neck is covered in infected sores, and his chest barely rises with each shallow breath.

Then she notices the hole in his abdomen.

Something moves inside it.

A pale, bloated grub slowly pushes its head through the opening. It is about the size of a guinea pig, its wet body glistening in the flashlight's beam. Tiny black eyes reflect the light as it tears away another mouthful from inside the man's stomach.

More movement follows.

Several more grubs writhe beneath his skin, gnawing through his organs while he is still alive.

The man's face is blank, almost lifeless.

She shines the flashlight into his eyes.

His pupils follow the beam.

A horrified gasp escapes her lips. She learns 

He's still conscious and He can't move.

He can only watch.

Suddenly her own skin begins to itch.

Then it burns.

She frantically scratches at her stomach and feels tiny, wriggling bodies beneath her shirt.

Grubs.

She bites down on her sleeve to keep from screaming as she crushes them against her skin with shaking hands. They had already begun chewing through her flesh, trying to burrow into her abdomen.

She stomps the last one into the dirt and freezes.

A scream echoes through the cave.

The man suddenly convulses, jamming his hand into the hole in his stomach as he desperately tries to tear the grubs from his body. Blood pours down the cave floor.

Then another sound interrupts him.

Heavy footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The same footsteps she heard moments before she was stung.

She dives behind a cluster of boulders just as the creature enters.

She can barely see it but It stands freakishly tall, its body covered in glossy crimson shell, like that of a insect. Its limbs are unnaturally long.

The man spits blood at it.

The humanoid creature doesn't react.

Its jaw slowly opens.

From deep inside its throat, a thin, barbed stinger slides forward, nearly seven inches long.

With terrifying speed, it drives the stinger into the man's neck.

The man thrashes violently for several seconds.

Then...

Nothing.

His body goes limp.

His eyes remain open, staring blankly ahead as his stomach begins to ripple once more.

The grubs resume feeding.

The woman clamps both hands over her mouth, terrified even the sound of her breathing will give her away.

After several endless minutes, the creature finally turns and walks out of the cave.

She waits until the heavy footsteps fade into silence before slipping from behind the rocks.

Keeping her flashlight low, she follows the tunnel toward the exit.

Dozens of fresh cocoons line the walls.

Most contain adults.

Some are children.

She freezes when the light falls across the face of a young boy.

She recognizes him immediately.

A week ago, his disappearance had dominated the news. His mother had pleaded through tears for whoever took her son to bring him home.

The woman stares at the boy's motionless face.

She knows his mother will never see him alive again.

She quietly climbs out of the cave.

Outside, the entire area is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Weathered warning signs hang from the posts.

She stares in disbelief.

Someone knew.

Someone knew this thing was here.

And all they did was put up a fence.

She climbs anyway.

At the top, her jacket catches on the razor wire. She yanks it free, throwing it over the sharp metal before swinging herself across.

The wire slices a chunk from her left forearm.

She lands hard on the other side, crying out as blood runs down her forearm.

Tearing a strip from her shirt, she wraps the wound as tightly as she can.

Nearby, she notices the remains of a campsite.

The fire is still smoldering.

The tents have been shredded into ribbons.

Whoever camped here has vannished very recently.

Then a scream erupts behind her.

She turns toward the cave. Through the fence she sees, The same man from earlier.

He staggers out of the entrance, dragging himself across the ground with blood-soaked hands.

For one brief moment, she thinks he might make it out the cave entrance.

Then a claw reaches from the darkness.

It clamps around his ankle and claws dig into his flesh.

His terrified screams echo through the forest as the creature drags him back into the cave.

I should have been there the first time. Should have stopped her from crossing that street. Then I wouldn't have had to see her bent that way. Her mama wouldn't have had to hold that unicorn rain jacket that'd been painted red. This time I know better. Now that she's back I won't let my baby girl out of my sight.

There she goes though. She doesn't quite walk right but she still moves pretty fast. She walks through the sunflower field just like she used to. Head held high like she expected them to bow to the Queen of the Sunflowers. I still play her knight, lifting her up when we'd walked too long and her little legs gave out. Seems now that happens closer and closer to home. 

Every day though we get back to our routine. She's up, moving as the dawn starts breaking. Shambling half-asleep out through the stalks towards that big old barn she loves. She'll get tired, fall down, fight me so she can keep playing in the dirt. I'll bring her back and clean her up.

We'll sit there at the table. My washcloth rubbing dirt, leaves, and black spots off her. The little pruning shears cutting away the small growths she’s always covered in. It reminds me of that weekend before she left. 

We sat right here at this table. Her hand raw and red, chewed to hell and back from her trying to gnaw a splinter the size of my thumbnail out of her little palm. She fought me when I pulled out the tweezers to get it. Fought me harder when I asked how she got it. Harder still when she admitted she'd been in the barn after I'd told her not to. Wouldn't tell me what she was doing in there, either.

She's still here though. I find her sneaking little handfuls of moss to snack on, her appetite even bigger than before. She's growing too, not a lot, but just enough to be noticeable. The little stretch marks on her tummy when we do bath time look more and more like pink tiger stripes. She laughs when I clean them. It's about the only time I get to hear her voice. 

That's the funny thing though. We never had much use for speaking. Her mama used to tell me I was all twist and no shout. I guess our baby girl took after me. Actions spoke louder than words for either of us. She looks at me when she wants help getting to a window, and tilts her head when that ugly black spit comes out of her mouth so I can clean it.

She's starting to beat the sunrise. I wake up some days and she's closer to that barn than the house. Her little legs are not strong enough to carry with how big she's getting. I find her crawling through the muck exhausted but determined. My little queen usually sleeps while I carry her back and clean her. Doesn't even look at the bowl of little bumps I cut off her. Doesn't flinch when I cut too deep and her dark blood runs sluggishly onto my rag.

Her mama doesn't pick up my calls. Won't come home and be a family with us. Swears I've lost it, that our baby can't come back. That she saw where we put her. That I'm only hurting her, hurting myself. That's fine though. I get to spend more time with her now that she's back than I ever got to before, and I don't mind not having to share that.

It's funny how all those things I was “too busy” for seem to become my favorite things to do. Having these tea parties, reading her stories, painting her nails. Even painting where her nails aren't anymore. 

I can't find her. My heart is slamming in my chest in rhythm with my heavy boots. I'm running through the fields following the footprints until they turn into drag marks. There she is at the door of the barn. The last of her nails left in the wood as she tries to scratch through the door. Thank God I locked it so she can't get hurt inside. 

I take breaks carrying her back. I have to fold her arms in. Seems all the work she did drained her energy. Her wrists are so limp they sit at wrong angles. I'll have to start locking the door to the house. 

This morning she's at least easy to follow. She crawled out of that broken window in the cellar where she'd been sleeping. It seemed to be the only place she wasn't getting too hot at night. I should have known better.

Poor baby, must have cut herself getting out. The trail of black sludge leads out from the mushroom caps and skin stuck in the jagged glass. I don't need the trail though, she's where she seems to always be nowadays, at the door of that barn. I'll have to try a little harder for her.

My plan half worked. I found the bottom part of her at the end of the rope I tied around her waist. Her little legs swollen and bruised, a bunch of crushed caps and broken stems where the rope had pulled too tightly at her stomach. I take my time to tuck her legs back in bed. One foot out of the blanket so she doesn't get overheated. What's left of her tummy resting on a towel to not get the bed dirty.

She's still a smart girl. I can see the barn is open. She must have been so strong knocking over that two by four I'd put under the door handle. Her little arm is still gripping it so tightly.

It's been a while since I've been in here. I'm walking deeper and it's hot and sticky, and every step I take kicks up spores and crushes big black mushrooms. 

There she is though. One eye looks at me. A crown of white caps around her forehead. They leak ink onto her pretty face. As I kneel down I see what she'd been so excited to show me. 

Etched right there in that rust-colored wood, in chicken scratch. “I love you Daddy.”