Chapter 3: The Line Grows

I told myself it was probably some bored troll. But as I scrolled through his messages, a knot twisted in my gut. Was this just late-night paranoia, or was there something real here? I wiped my hands on my pajamas, trying to shake it off.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I crept quietly into the bedroom, like a teenager sneaking in after curfew. My wife was just a shape under the covers, breathing slow and deep.

She was already asleep. I tiptoed over and shined my phone’s flashlight on her neck, trying to keep my hand steady. The beam landed on her skin, and I squinted, heart hammering.

If I hadn’t looked, I’d have slept easy. But when I did, my knees nearly gave out.

The line wasn’t just red. It looked raw, like a fresh scratch that hadn’t scabbed over. It almost pulsed with her breath, as if it were alive. I felt a wave of nausea and nearly dropped my phone.

Hands shaking, I opened the group chat: “Dude, it really does look like that. What’s going on?”

He shot back: “If I’m right, your wife’s got something inside her—a parasite, feeding on you. When it’s done, so are you.”

It sounded like a bad urban legend, but his certainty made my skin crawl. I read it again, heart thumping.

The rest of the group heckled:

“Dude, that’s straight-up nightmare fuel.”

“Who tells ghost stories about worms? Where are the snakes and spirits?”

“Maybe he’s just making it up, bro.”

Memes flooded in—GIFs of wriggling worms, fake horror movie posters. I couldn’t look away from the guy’s last words.

I replied, serious: “But I really saw the line get darker and thicker.”

For the first time, the chat went quiet. The moment hung heavy.

One guy tried to lighten it: “Maybe you’re just seeing things, man. Or maybe it’s just her allergies getting worse. Let’s not freak out.”

But the mysterious guy snapped back: “You people, just because you haven’t seen it, you call it fake. Ask him—does his wife ever act weird? Like, does she bury herself in dirt? Always want to go out in the rain?”

His tone was sharper, mocking, but it sent a chill through me.

The group exploded: “Sleeping in dirt? What is she, some kind of goth gardening queen?”

Someone dropped a Wednesday Addams meme. The chat howled. I felt sick.

My legs weak, I went to the balcony and snapped a photo of the soil she kept out there. Under the porch light, it looked normal—except now it felt sinister, freshly turned.

“My wife says it’s a tradition from her hometown. Sleeping in soil every day helps her regain energy. Most folks here plant tomatoes, not themselves.”

My thumbs hesitated, but I hit send. The silence in the chat was deafening as the picture loaded.

“Whoa!”

“Holy crap, there really is dirt!”

“Somebody call the admin—these two are pulling the weirdest prank ever.”

I protested, “I’m telling the truth! I don’t even know this guy!”

It was lost in a flood of eye-roll emojis and GIFs. I might as well have been yelling into a hurricane.

But nobody listened. A minute later, I got the notification: I’d been kicked out of the group chat.

The silence afterward was crushing. The blue glow of my phone seemed colder than ever.