FrankenCon Story: The Splinter

The Splinter

     It started with a prick. Then bruising. The skin reddened, inflamed and irritated. It throbbed with every movement.

     Determined to get through the day, he made his way to the bathroom, fumbling through the cabinets, and wincing as he searched. No tweezers.

      Irritated, he left the bathroom and stepped into the hallway. A rolltop desk sat lonesome, covered in dust and knick-knacks. He rolled it open with a sputtering sound. An old tin can—butter cookies. A lie. He popped the lid. Inside, spools of thread, an unraveled mess, and a single silver pair of scissors.

     He rummaged carefully.

     At last—the pack of needles.

     One prick and he’d bleed like he was draining his entire body.

     He pulled a needle from the plastic sleeve and tossed the rest back into the can. Then, he walked into the kitchen and sat at the table, his palm throbbing.

      So dumb, he thought. Just from carrying wood. And now this disaster.

      Gloves. This is why you wear gloves. His wife's voice nagged in his head.

     He placed his injured hand flat on the table, gripping the needle in the other. He leaned in, examining the splinter. It was almost parasitic, leeching off him, numbing him. The pain was still there—tender, dull—but spreading. Slowly. Like an infection.

     He pressed his fingers together, pinching the needle, carefully hovering over the splinter jutting from his skin. He scraped at it, the sharp tip brushing against the wood buried deep.

     A sharp throb shot up his arm.

     He winced but kept going.

     Another scrape. A bit deeper this time. He picked at it, trying to slip the needle under the wood. Missing. Again. Again. Frustration built, but he refused to stop.

     Maybe it’ll work itself out, he thought. Maybe not.

     His mind was insistent.

     He had to get it out.

     He scooted his chair in, belly pressing against the table. Leaned in. Eyes locked on the splinter, his brows knitted in concentration.

     Holding his breath, he pressed the needle to his palm, just above the embedded wood. Slowly, he slid it beneath the splinter, angling it just right, digging ever so slightly.

     A small lift.

     Then a wiggle.

     Then—

     Success.

     He dropped the needle and pinched the exposed splinter between his nails.

     Now, to finish the job.

     One small pull.

     And then another.

     Another.

     He held his breath. This was longer than he thought. His heart pounded. How deep had it gone? No wonder it was so irritated. He should sanitize it—immediately.

     But he kept pulling.

     An inch now. Black. Thick. Slick with blood.

     His stomach turned.

     With every tug, it grew—not just in length, but in girth. His fingers trembled. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t wood. It wasn’t anything that should be inside him.

     His skin crawled. The thing slithered beneath it, dragging against muscle and tendons as it emerged. It was wet. Glistening. Coated in a thick, oozing film that clung to his skin, mixing with the blood. Each pull came with a sickening schlick, a wet, sucking sound like something being born.

     He wanted to stop. But he couldn’t.

     It kept coming.

     It was a foot long now.

     His stomach clenched. His throat tightened. His head came in a fog.

     How embedded was this? Was it ever wood to begin with? Or had something buried itself inside him—hidden in the pile of kilns, eating off the insides of his body?

     His hand shook violently. His breathing got heavy in choked, heavy breaths.

     He shot to his feet, still holding the thing—still attached to him. His skin burned, the flesh was pulled back on his palm. The thick, black thread twitched between his fingers.

     No. Not thread. Splinter. It had to be a splinter.

     Didn’t it?

     Staggering to the sink, he slammed his hand under the faucet, letting the water cascade over him. The blood and clear, slimy fluid ran in streams, pooling in the basin, and swirling down the drain in heavy strands.

     His stomach churned.

     The infected skin pulsed.

     No—moved.

     His eyes widened. Fear clenched in his chest.

     He yanked his hand back, flinging it away in a violent, uncontrollable reflex. A choked breath tore from his chest, a tight knot of panic swelling in his throat as his heart thundered in his ears.

     It slithered.

     Or was it just the water making it look that way?

     He slowly reached down with his free hand, the water splashing violently against the sink’s sides. His fingers trembled as they brushed over the slick, quivering strand. His throat tightened, and an instant wave of nausea twisted inside his gut. The taste of bile in his mouth, while it watered uncontrollably.

     Hesitation.

     A breath in.

     One… two… three—

     He yanked.

     Pain exploded through him.

     The pull came from deep beneath his palm, rising through his wrist, twisting up his arm like an unraveling sleeve of flesh. It felt sickening—tearing, tugging, as though something was crawling under his skin, dragging his insides with it. With each pull scraped against his bones, each inch a new wave of horror came to mind.

     His brows creased in confusion. Terror.

     What was this?

     It felt like a thick thread, but as more emerged, the truth became unbearable. It wasn’t stopping.

     It stretched past his forearm.

     Longer.

     Thicker.

     A violent spasm seized his stomach. He could feel it rising—the urge to vomit creeping up his throat. The taste hit him, sour, with an acidic, burning sensation that followed.

     He panted, gasping for breath. His body heaved, drenched in a cold sweat.

     Terror.

     The world around him seemed to fade. Blood loss, or was it pure, mind-shattering terror? He couldn’t tell anymore. His legs buckled, unable to support him, and he slowly collapsed to the floor, his breathing heavy. His fingers, trembling violently, still clutched the splinter—this grotesque, parasitic thread that seemed to drag him toward some unfathomable, horrific end. The cold seeped into his skin, and his pulse raced with the sickening realization that he wasn’t just losing blood—he was losing himself.

     His breath shuddered in and out.

     Holding.

     Waiting.

     He inhaled sharply, held it, and then exhaled slowly, dragging it out like it might be his last.

     And then he pulled.

     Hard.

     The thing tore free another inch, dragging a sickening, wet scrape through his flesh. His blood spewed in thick, gushing splatters, forming warm, sticky pools beneath him where he sat. The room spun. His vision blurred, the edges fading into a dark haze.

     No more hesitation.

     No more waiting.

     If it was inside him, he would tear it out—every last inch.

     He wrapped the strand around his hand, tightening the grip, making sure it was secured and would hold strong.

     He slammed his head back against the cabinet door—a desperate attempt to push himself into action. His mind was struggling to process the horror unraveling before him.

     He closed his eyes.

     One…

     Two…

     Three—

     Pull.

     As he pulled, it felt as though this thing knew—it knew he was trying to force it out. His fingers burned from the friction, his grip slippery with sweat and blood. The splinter—no, it wasn't a splinter anymore—stuck. It resisted. Something deep inside, just beneath the surface of his skin, fought against him.

     He lowered his head in disbelief, pain coursing through him. He looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Maybe he needed help. He couldn’t do this alone. He thought of calling out to his wife, who was outside in the garden. He’d have to endure her nagging, but it would be better than the self-inflicted hell he’d put himself through.

     Then again, she’d just make him go to the emergency room. Another unnecessary bill to add to their growing stack.

     He inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a moment before slowly releasing it.

     He counted again, banging his head a few more times on the cabinet. This was it. It was all or nothing.

      One…

     Two…

     Three…

     One long, silent, final pull.

     And then—

     Stillness.

     His head lulled a violent shudder convulsing through his body. His muscles seized, limbs twitching uncontrollably. An unsettling crunch echoed as they broke simultaneously. The world blurred, darkening at the edges, pulling him under.

     A wet, nauseating tear, flesh splitting with a grotesque, gushing slosh. Something thick and warm spilled over his lap, blood pouring out. His breath seized in a gurgling choke as his ribs caved inward, flesh splitting, organs sloughing free in pulsing, glistening ropes soaked in blood.

     And there—there was nothing.

     Nothing left but the dark greeting from death that consumed him.