She sat in the doctor’s office, her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Her bottom foot tapped the floor, the sound echoing off the white walls. The quiet was deafening. She started to hum under her breath to keep the intrusive thoughts from taking over.

You know what they’re going to say.

Did she? She tapped her fingers against her purse and bit her lip. The other three doctors had said only one thing. Would this fourth doctor say anything different? A knock on the door brought her back to the present, and she made an affirmative noise for them to enter. A woman with graying hair and glasses on a chain came in, adjusting a mask over the bottom of her face.

“Hello, Ora Batt? I’m Doctor Jephcots. Could you please verify your date of birth?”

“October fifth, 1990,” she mumbled, fiddling with her purse strap. She was ready to leave. The doctor sat across from her and started flipping through her papers. She made little noises and faces that Ora could barely understand. “Please, just tell me what’s going on.”

“First, why don’t you tell me what you’re feeling?” The doctor pulled her pen out and set the tip on her notepad. Ora scratched at her finger, a creeping fear starting to bubble in the pit of her stomach.

“I’ve been dealing with chronic nausea and heavy vaginal bleeding for a while now,” she began. The doctor wrote down some notes and Ora winced at a twang of pain in her abdomen. “I get terrible cramps that lay me up for hours, sometimes days.”

“I see. It sounds like this has been very difficult for you,” Dr. Jephcots said. “It’s benign, but it has grown since you last saw a doctor.” She leaned forward, holding Ora’s patient file in one hand. “Look, there’s just not a lot we can do with it. We can start to shrink it with medication, that would be my first step. If it doesn’t respond, we can check into surgical options.”

Ora took a deep breath—this was the first time someone had offered any options. Dr. Jephcots’ response thrilled her, and it showed in her wide smile.

“It’s a process,” the doctor started, pulling out her prescription pad. “But I think the medication will be beneficial. I’ll prescribe something for nausea as well, just in case.” She wrote down the information and handed the paper to Ora, who took it and looked at the names. They were so hard to pronounce, and none of them looked familiar. “Take that to the clinic pharmacy and they’ll have them ready in fifteen minutes.”

Oh, we’re going to try medication now?

“Thank you, Dr. Jephcots.” Ora stood from the chair, catching herself on the wall as she stumbled. She hadn’t realized her legs had fallen asleep. Heat began to creep up her neck to her cheeks. The doctor reached out and patted her arm sympathetically.

“If you experience any adverse side effects, go to the hospital immediately. Otherwise, I’ll see you back here in a month to run some more tests. The front desk will make the appointment for you.”

“Thank you again,” Ora said, ducking out of the room. She hurried down the hall to the front desk, where she rushed through making an appointment. The pharmacy was on the other side of the building, so she dashed over there. She handed her prescriptions to the technician. The doctor had been correct: Fifteen minutes later, Ora Batt was leaving the clinic for the bus stop down the road with a little brown bag of pills tucked into her purse. She slipped her headphones into her ears and turned her classical music playlist on. Gnossienne No. 3 spilled softly into her ears.

You can’t get rid of me that easily. You know that.

Ora grimaced at the thought. She had never been able to get away from them. They were constantly with her, no matter what she did. She looked down at her abdomen, where her uterus was, and poked at the area a few times in frustration. Hopefully, the medicine would work and she could get back to a normal existence. The window was cool on her flushed cheek as she rested against it and watched the streets pass by. When the bus neared her stop, she signaled for it to pull over. She stood on the pavement, alone in the fading light.

Her apartment was minimalistic, with very little in the way of decoration or frivolous trinkets. There was a black and white painting on the wall over her secondhand black couch, and a vase of flowers on the two-seater dining room table. She walked in and dropped her purse atop the counter, surveying the sparse living space. She beelined for her stereo and plugged in her phone, turning up the volume as she scrolled through her playlists. “Southern Gothic” sounded like a winner. As “Beat the Devil’s Tattoo” came over the speakers, she melted into the music and danced back into the kitchen.

Her stomach let out a loud growl—she hadn’t eaten all day. The fridge was bare, a single salad left in its plastic packaging on the top shelf waiting for her. She grabbed her food and a drink, then settled into her chair at the table. The sun had dipped low beneath the horizon by the time she started eating. The street lamps were already flickering to life, but the one outside her window wouldn’t stop blinking. A mist began to gather across the street, leaking over the pavement onto the inky black road like a slow-moving wave. And still, the light flickered.

You know the medication won’t work . . .

The voice rang out in the silence, then trailed off. Ora watched the street below as the light went out. From the darkness came a figure, walking slowly, white eyes turned up to focus on her. They stared at each other for a moment before she pushed away from the table and broke eye contact, shivers running down her back and arms. Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to focus on the kitchen faucet across the room. When she had calmed her breathing, she turned back to see the lamp was on and the figure was gone. With a deep breath, she settled back into her chair and finished her salad. As she finished her food, she stood from the table and tossed the container in the trash. She dropped the fork in the sink and pulled out the little brown bag of pills.

There were three new medications she needed to take, twice a day with food and a full glass of water. She picked each one out of its bottle and set them on the counter. Two of them were so large she’d have to cut them in half, which she did after retrieving her pill cutter from the cupboard above the sink. As she stood over the medication, a tightness started in her lower abdomen. It quickly turned into a stomach-churning cramp as she doubled over and let out a shriek.

Oh, you poor thing! It just isn’t worth it, you know.

Ora reached up and grabbed the pills and stuffed them in her mouth, then took a long drink of water in protest. This had to work—the thing growing inside her needed to go away. Forever. She hoisted herself up using the counter, balancing on shaking legs. She moved around to the dining room and then through the rest of the apartment to her bedroom. Once in her tiny bathroom, she stripped and stepped into the shower, and let the hot water fall on her sore muscles. She stood under the stream for forty-five minutes before she remembered she needed to wash. When all the soap was gone, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in her softest towel, heading to bed. Her eyes were heavy from the long day of appointments and she was ready to snuggle up under the covers.

Then her eyes snapped open to darkness and she wondered who turned off the lights. She tried to focus on something, anything, but the streetlamp cast dancing shadows through her curtains. She saw fingers reaching and grabbing at her as she struggled to move under her comforter. She was rooted to the spot, paralyzed, and as her eyes darted around the room, they stopped on a figure in the far corner. Wide, white eyes stared at her from an inky black face. Ora realized it was made entirely of shadows as it took a step toward her. It continued its slow approach, then placed all its weight on either side of her legs. She watched the figure crawl onto the bed, up her body, until its face was square with hers. There were no features aside from the glowing white eyes, but she had the feeling it was smiling down at her.

You can’t get rid of me, Ora.

She tried to scream as the figure plunged a dark hand into her lower abdomen and twisted until Ora felt like her innards were being pulled out. Bile rose in her throat, and she fought to keep her mouth closed. She found she was able to throw herself off the bed and landed on her hands and knees. She expelled the contents of her stomach onto the floor in one violent rush. When she was finished heaving, she crawled to the bathroom and lifted herself to her feet using the sink. She looked at herself in the mirror and the urge to cry was so strong that she had to bite her lip. She turned the water on and leaned down to splash her face and wash her mouth out. The cool liquid soothed her fevered skin and dry throat. When she felt prepared to clean up her mess, she grabbed a couple of towels from the shelves over her toilet. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself as she slopped up the goop and tossed the towels in the dirty laundry bin. She climbed back under the covers and settled into her pillows, but sleep did not find her again that night.

🦇🦇🦇

She watched the sun rise from behind her lace curtains. Patterns dotted the floor and bed in the early morning light. She traced designs in the shadows out of boredom, her eyes drifting to the corner where the figure had been standing. What had that been? It must have been a nightmare, sleep paralysis, or something like that.

It was me, Ora.

She ignored the voice echoing between her ears. She’d have to make a note of it for the doctor. Later, when she was awake—after coffee. She stretched her arms over her head and swung her legs out from the comforter, letting her bare feet touch the floor. It was cool in her apartment, which she liked. It always got too warm in the afternoon—mornings were nice and calm and cool, and she could handle things.

The coffee pot was almost full when she walked out of her room rubbing her eyes. Ora was grateful for the automatic setting, but she couldn’t remember setting it up the night before. She started some toast and pulled out the butter and jam. She prepared her food and cup of coffee, sitting down to eat in silence. The street below appeared to be peaceful with passersby walking their dogs or riding bikes. Nothing like the night before.

When she had finished and washed everything up, she grabbed her medication and a fresh bottle of water from the fridge.

You should really look into the side effects of these new medications, Ora.

The voice was right, she really should. The previous evening’s experience was traumatic enough—she didn’t exactly want it to happen again. She downed the pills and half the bottle of water, then grabbed her phone off the counter. She pulled up Google and typed in the name of the first medication. Nausea and nightmares were possible side effects. One of the other medications was for nausea, and its side effects were dizziness, fatigue, loss of appetite—a laundry list. The final medication was like the first. Ora took a deep breath and leaned back on the couch, resting her head against the wall.

As she finished the water, she looked down at her hand and saw her cuticles . . . had turned black? With her hand lifted to her face, she inspected her fingers and noticed one of her nails was crooked. She picked at it and peeled it back—it gave some resistance, but with a yank, she was able to remove it. She held it up to the light and examined it closely, her mouth twisted into a grimace. Upon tossing the nail in the garbage, she saw another nail coming off. She went to the bathroom, grabbed her first aid kit, and started cleaning and bandaging her fingers. Whatever had stained her cuticles was stuck there. She looked at her hands in disgust, unsure what to do about them. The blackness was spreading down her fingers to her hand and wrist, moving through her veins like poison. Should she go to the hospital?

What are they going to do for you, Ora? They won’t do anything.

The voice was right. They never seemed to help her in the past, what would make this time any different? She looked at herself in the mirror, and in her reflection, she noticed bruises forming on her arms and chest. When she went to touch them, the areas were tender and sore. How had she gotten all these? She went to her room and pulled on an oversized turtleneck sweater and pair of leggings. A second cup of coffee called her name, so she went back to the kitchen to make it.

As she sipped, she contemplated the other possible side effects of the medication. She had the feeling that she should call Dr. Jephcots. As she looked at the landline sitting on her counter, she shuddered at the thought of calling and complaining. It was likely nothing—her nails would grow back and the bruises were probably from the violent nightmare she’d had. She nodded, trying to assure herself that she was correct.

🦇🦇🦇

Over the next week, Ora Batt took her medication as prescribed and noted all the side effects—nausea, dizziness, hair loss, nightmares. The bruises multiplied and got worse, turning black and yellow and green. They began creeping up her neck, and they covered her abdomen and back in sensitive multi-colored spots. Even the bags under her eyes had gotten worse—a deep purplish-black rimmed them. She planned to call Dr. Jephcots, but as she had waited until the last minute on Friday evening and the office was closed, she decided she’d do it Monday morning. A few extra days of observation wouldn’t hurt.

🦇🦇🦇

She sat on her couch, a glass of wine in her bandaged hand, her laptop open to a streaming service. She scrolled through the available movies, found one that interested her, and then pressed play. As she settled back into the cushions, she laid her hand on her belly. Something wasn’t right. Putting her glass down beside the laptop, she used both hands to feel around her abdomen, pushing her fingers in. A hard lump, larger than a baseball, resisted the pressure. She looked down at her belly and gripped the tumor. She wanted to vomit as it squirmed between her fingers like a living thing. It pulsed with her heartbeat and she swore she could feel it breathing every time she took a breath. Letting out a shriek, she drew her hands away and covered her mouth to keep herself silent.

You can’t get rid of me, Ora.

She grabbed her glass and downed the wine, then went to pour herself another one. When that was empty, and she felt a light buzz starting behind her eyes, she settled back into the couch and tried to focus on the movie. Everything sounded like static in her ears. Whispers echoed around her as if there were a crowd of people in the room. She struggled to understand what they were saying until one voice came through above all the others:

I’ll eat you alive.

Something was wrong. Ora doubled over in pain, holding her stomach, a scream escaping her lips. Dozens of knives stabbed into her uterus as she tried to make her way to the bathroom. They ripped through the organ and the muscle until there was nothing left but shredded tissue and blood pouring out from between her legs. She slipped on the puddle forming beneath her as she struggled forward. Crawling into the bathroom and climbing up the wall, leaving a trail of blood on the white tile, she looked down at her red-streaked legs. She lurched forward, expelling vomit into the toilet. There was too much blood—she needed to go to the hospital.

When she was sure her stomach had settled, she turned around and sat on the toilet. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, letting the coolness of the paint soothe her into sleep.

🦇🦇🦇

She awoke to the phone ringing in the other room. What time was it? Where was she? She rubbed her eyes and grimaced at the metallic smell coming from her fingers. She remembered all the blood; she remembered the pain. She stood from the toilet and went to wipe herself, realizing that she would need to take a shower to get clean. The answering machine could pick up the call.

The warm water washed over her, carrying the dried blood down the drain. She loaded her luffa with rosemary-scented soap and started to scrub away at the more caked-on spots, careful not to push too hard on her bruises. When the water ran clear, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a plush towel. The steam had fogged up the mirror, so she wiped a streak across the glass to see her face. As she peered at her bruises, she looked closer and noticed strange little holes dotting the black, green, and yellow hues coloring her skin. It looked like someone had taken a pencil and stabbed her repeatedly all over her body. She was able to dig into the holes with her fingers and come out with a black, foul-smelling puss. She gagged at the odor and washed her hands in the sink.

Unsure of what to do next, she went to her wardrobe, pulled out another high-necked sweater and comfortable leggings. She couldn’t leave the house with these new sores dotting her face and body.

You don’t need to leave the house. You have everything right here.

She went back to the bathroom and rummaged through her makeup box, looking for anything that might be able to conceal the holes. As she tried to cover them up, the makeup just settled into the pits, accentuating their depth. With an exasperated sigh, she washed her face and went back to the living room and her wine.

🦇🦇🦇

The rest of the day was spent in front of her laptop, researching possible diseases that could present with pits and sores on bruises. Nothing came up matching the criteria, but cancer was never far behind in the list of answers for her other symptoms. She wondered if the tumor had become malignant. She made more notes about what was happening to her body for Dr. Jephcots.

🦇🦇🦇

As she drifted in and out of sleep while dim twilight streamed through the living room, she thought she saw a figure standing in the far corner, shrouded in shadows. Too tired to care, she curled up on the couch and turned her back to the room. After a few moments of peaceful sleep, a loud crash jolted her awake and she sat up straight. The vase on the dining room table had crashed to the floor. Water and ceramic shards littered the ground. With a sigh, she got up to grab a washcloth and start cleaning.

Watch out.

She stopped. Someone was in the room with her. She turned, slowly, and looked back at the corner where the figure had been standing. It was the same being that had attacked her before. She screamed and went for the knife block, grabbing the largest weapon she could find. The thing didn’t lunge for her, it just watched her as she moved around the counter and backed away toward her bedroom. As she neared the door, it started inching closer, slowly at first, then it broke into a run and she turned to sprint for her room. As she slammed the door in its face, the thing pounded on it, forcing it open. She rushed to move her dresser in front of the door, and the creature continue to pound until the wood began to splinter under the force of its fists. Ora backed away and climbed onto her bed, the knife gripped tightly in her fingers. Whatever was attacking the door scratched and banged on it until Ora could no longer fight off her exhaustion, despite the loud noise.

🦇🦇🦇

When she woke to the sun drifting through the curtains, there was no more noise from the other side of the door. The creature had either given up and left, or it was waiting silently for her to come out. But she needed to use the restroom and get something to eat. With the knife clutched in her hand, she pushed the dresser out of the way. The creature had torn the door apart. Deep gouges from long claws were dug into the outside. Was she hallucinating that as well, or were they actually there? She touched the ruts lightly and felt the roughness of the broken wood. Definitely real.

As she sat on the toilet and relieved herself, she felt something splash into the water. Splash. Splash. Splash. Something was wrong. She reached between her legs and felt her thighs—her flesh was coming off in chunks as she poked and prodded. She screamed as her fingers came away covered in hunks of skin and muscle. She fell forward, off the toilet, and tried to crawl to the door leading to the living room but was too weak to move. She was so tired, she needed to rest again.

Just rest, let me take care of things . . .

The tumor in her uterus pulsed and vibrated and Ora closed her eyes to the pain in her abdomen as the creature inside her continued to grow. She lay there until there was nothing left for her to do but close her eyes. She was done with everything: the pain, the medication, the bleeding. It was all over. Let it take over, let it live her life. She just wanted to sleep.