Dan wipes the sweat off his brow and looks at the partially-built stone wall. A few more days, and it should be finished. He's the youngest one on the construction team, fresh out of high school and dragging his heels before college, but he's pulled his weight. He knows intimately the heft and bulk of many of these stones, and much of the wall stands firmly because of him.
The sun is beginning to go down now, time for them to go home and finish this tomorrow. Dan looks around for his shirt; he removed it after his lunch break, when the sun was at its hottest. He finds it lying across the back of Jerry's truck bed, and snags it. As he does so, Jerry approaches him and claps him on the shoulder.
"Good work today," the older man says, his small gray mustache crinkling as he grins. "You'll be around tomorrow?"
"Sure," says Dan, "I was counting on it."
"Good, good," says Jerry. "By the way, nice tattoo."
"Huh?" says Dan, confused.
"The one on your back," says Jerry. "Where'd you get it? I don't remember seeing it last week."
"What tattoo?" Dan tries to look over his shoulder, with limited success; he sees some kind of dark shape, but can't make out much more. His eyes widen. When did he get a tattoo?
"Funny," says Jerry. "No seriously, when did you get a tattoo like that? Must've hurt, one that big."
"Uh, yeah..." Dan attempts nonchalance. "It was a couple of days ago. Uh, over the weekend. This place at the mall. I just thought, you know, it looked cool."
"Sure does," says Jerry appreciatively. "I'm surprised it healed up so fast. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, huh?"
"Yeah," says Dan, off-balance. "Yeah. Yes." He puts on his shirt and walks to his car. Seeing his side-view mirrors, he takes off his shirt again and attempts to get a view of the tattoo, but all he can manage are a few fragments of jagged black and purple, before he is forced to give up and head home.
The drive back is tense. Hundreds of possible explanations flood through Dan's head, each more ridiculous than the last. He hasn't been drunk enough to get a tattoo and then forget about it any time in the last year or so. And even then, surely it would have hurt so much the next day, he would have noticed. So what is it? A fake tattoo? Did someone paint on him while he was sleeping? A really elaborate bruise, maybe? He wracks his brain for a possible explanation, but nothing is forthcoming.
Dan lives in a small apartment above a store in town. He moved out of his parents' house when he was sixteen, and the store's owner, the mother of a friend of his, was kind enough to overlook his age to rent him the room. In a small town like this, everyone knew everyone else's story, and she knew better than to send him back to that house.
She's not in as he dashes up the stairs, and Dan is somewhat thankful for this. He doesn't want to have to stop and make small-talk with her right now. He charges down the hall and into his bedroom, wrenching open the closet door with the full-length mirror hanging on the back. Finally he can turn around, and see what has been wrought on his back.
The tattoo is huge. It stretches from shoulderblade to shoulderblade in width and from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back, just above his buttocks. It is a fearsome design, jagged black and purple shapes emanating from the center of his back, like the legs of some fearsome arachnid pressing against his sides in preparation for levering some huge chitinous body out of his rib cage. Spines and spikes ornament the design, thrusting out from the main shapes and from the center at odd, incongruous angles. The final effect is darkly beautiful, but in some way profoundly disturbing. Dan rubs at it, but it shows no sign of coming off. It does indeed look like a real tattoo.
Unable to believe it, Dan showers, doing his best to scrub the thing from his skin. But though he rubs and scratches until the surrounding skin is red from the abrasion, the tattoo stays put exactly as it is. Dan finds himself sitting on his bed, in the clutches of a cold sweat.
What has happened to him? He can't remember anything like this. Who would he ask? No one sees him without a shirt on except his construction buddies, and he only sees them at work. He doubts anyone could have done this to him there without him noticing. He has friends, but he hasn't hung out with any of them in weeks, and according to Jerry, this mark wasn't there last week. The shop is locked up at night, so there's little chance of someone having snuck in, and even if they did, why do something this elaborate and not steal anything? He is at a loss, cold and scared. But there seems to be nothing he can do except sleep, and so he does.
Or tries to, anyway. His fear keeps him tossing and turning, and when he does finally drift off, he is plagued by strange, disturbing dreams. He feels spiders crawling all over his body, and a pulsing, squirming thing with claws and horns ripping its way from his back.
He wakes feeling nauseous and runs to the bathroom to retch over the toilet. He can still feel his skin crawling from the dream. He leans his forehead against the cool porcelain while he waits for his breathing to slow. Blond bangs fall into his eyes; he's been meaning to have his hair cut again, but hasn't gotten around to it.
Unable to stomach breakfast, Dan makes his way out to his car and over to the construction site. The itchy, crawling feeling in his skin hasn't stopped, and he has to keep himself from scratching his arms. His back is still tender where he scrubbed it yesterday, and it hurts to lean back against the driver's seat.
Dan decides that for now, the best thing he can do is put this all out of his mind and get on with his life. Maybe if he has some time to calm down, the solution will present itself to him. If not, he'll have to schedule a visit to a doctor. Or maybe a psychiatrist. Or go to the police. Having come to this conclusion, he feels a little better, and even manages a small smile for his co-workers when he arrives at the construction site.
He sets himself back to working on the wall, but finds he is plagued by insects. He can't see them, but every now and again he feels a light brush on his arm or side, and slaps at it. He never manages to get them, but the feeling will disappear for a minute or two, before returning later somewhere else.
Dan begins to suspect that someone might be playing a trick on him, but everyone else is involved in their own work, and no one seems to be paying him much attention. He remains vigilant, but sees no one else anywhere near him. Which makes it even stranger when the light flutter against his skin becomes stronger, turning into the gentle caress of a hand against his bare arm.
Dan whirls around, but there is no one remotely close enough to have done this, and nowhere convenient that someone could be hiding. And yet, he was sure he felt someone touch him. As he's looking around, the touch comes again, this time like a finger gently trailing down his back. Dan shudders, and slaps at the offending spot, but his hand meets no resistance, and he only smacks his own skin.
Dan waits, but the touch doesn't come again. Confused, Dan turns back to his work. About ten minutes later he has just set a large stone in place when he feels a pair of hands come to rest on his waist, just above his hips.
He whirls around once more, but again there is no one. There is no one, and yet he still feels the hands on his hips, although he can move freely. He cranes over his shoulder, tries placing his own hands over the spot where he feels the touch, but nothing changes it. The phantom sensation is still there, hands resting lightly upon him, occasionally caressing upwards or downwards. Dan's own hands dig into his hips, nearly drawing blood as his nails mark little crescents into his skin. But though he can feel his own hands, he can also feel the other hands distinctly, a strange double-sensation.
Suddenly there is a pressure against his back, as though someone is pressing up against him from behind. Dan spins around and around, but sees no one and feels intimately the press of warm flesh against him. He turns to place his back against the stone wall, sitting flush with it in such a way as to crush anything on his back. But while his shoulderblades can feel the cool sensation of the stone through his thin shirt, the pressure nevertheless remains.
The hands that were on his hips rise and caress Dan's arms. Dan yelps, slapping at his arms, but to no effect. The invisible touch pets softly up and down his arms and then drifts across his torso, one hand coming to rest in the center of his chest, the other just above his navel. It is as though his shirt doesn't exist; he feels the sensations clearly against his bare skin, as though he were sitting naked.
One of his co-workers, Andrew, stops in front of him and squats down, looking concerned. "You okay there, Dan?" he asks.
Dan shakes his head frantically. "There's... there's something on me... There's something on my skin..." he pants.
Andrew looks curiously up and down Dan's bare arms. "I don't see anything..."
"I can feel it!" Dan hisses. "Someone keeps touching me! I can feel it!"
Andrew frowns. "Maybe you'd better go home and lie down, Dan. You don't look too hot."
Dan nods. Maybe he should. Maybe he's hallucinating. The touch seems lighter now, anyway. Maybe he's just imagining it. It could be the lack of sleep and the weird dreams from last night. Maybe he should just go home and rest. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, okay. I'm gonna do that. Can you tell Jerry for me?"
"Sure," says Andrew. "I hope you feel better."
Dan nods again vaguely and heads to his car. He sits down in the driver's seat and then leaps up again—he has sat on someone. But... no, there's no one there. He must be hallucinating again. He really needs to sleep. Gritting his teeth, Dan gets into the car, ignoring the feeling of sitting down on someone's lap, and ignoring the way the invisible person's arms come up around his torso once again. He buckles his seatbelt and heads home.
It's a wonder he doesn't crash the car. The second he starts moving, the hands begin to roam around his body. One reaches up and starts pinching his left nipple, and the sharp pain of it makes Dan wonder if he really is hallucinating—it feels quite real. The other hand delves down into his lap and begins to fondle him, which completely destroys Dan's concentration. He keeps one hand on the wheel, and uses the other to bat ineffectually against the invisible molester. As before, his actions have no effect.
The worst part is the erection he can feel burgeoning underneath him. It presses hot and firm against his buttocks, and though he's never touched someone else's, he knows from the feel exactly what it is. It does not move against him, but sits there expectantly, nestled between his buttocks, like a promise.
Dan pulls into the lot behind the shop and practically leaps out of the car, bounding up the stairs to his bedroom. He dives into the bed, still fully clothed, and pulls a pillow over his head, trying to drown out the outside world. Sleep. Sleep. He needs to sleep.
But the touch does not leave him. Dan is lying on his stomach, and finds he can no longer turn over. The invisible body has become a firm weight on top of him, and the phantom hands are kneading his buttocks through his clothing. Dan whimpers and squirms, but the touch is relentless. Sharp fingers reach down into the crevice between his buttocks and tease around the outside of his anus, pushing softly against the ring of muscle as though testing its stability. Dan attempts to writhe away, but it is no use. Two fingers, thumbs perhaps, spear into him and draw his anus wide open. Dan's hips buck backwards unintentionally.
The movement brings his splayed anus into contact with something stiff, and Dan's eyes widen. He thrusts his arms behind him and covers his entrance with both hands, but it has absolutely no effect. The invisible erection moves forward as though his hands are nothing more than air, and slips deftly inside of him. Dan groans, trying to press his butt cheeks shut, trying to do anything to shut out the sudden pain of the thick member that slides deeper and deeper inside him.
Whatever it is, it can't possibly be a real penis. It's far too long. It slides in and in and in, until Dan wonders if he'll be able to taste it if he swallows. And then it starts to move and the real pain begins. Dan's hands drop from his buttocks in favor of clenching the sheets, holding on desperately as his body his slammed forward by the force of the thrusts. He can feel the friction of the sheets burning his chest and stomach as the phantom cock rams into him, but try as he might, he cannot shift his hips or torso in the slightest. It is as though something heavy sits on top of his back, pinning him immobile.
Dan cranes his head to the side, and his eyes widen as he realizes that something IS in fact on top of him. The strange arachnid legs from his tattoo are no longer mere lines on his skin but full, hard, spidery appendages digging into his sides, holding his body down and keeping it still. He can't turn his head far enough to see the body belonging to the legs, but there seems to be another figure behind it, something humanoid, something black and made of sharp points and angles.
The thrusts go on and on. Dan can feel himself bleeding, and it is almost a relief, as the lubrication eases the fiery friction with which the cock spears him over and over. It goes on so long that Dan passes out, only to wake up to continued thrusting, and feel the pain hit him all over again. His throat is hoarse from screaming, and he quickly runs out of tears.
He gets little warning before the monstrous humanoid being comes, only a quick speeding up of the thrusts, and then suddenly the spider-creature's legs dig into his sides, their points painfully piercing his flesh, drawing blood. At the same time, he feels a hot liquid begin to flood his anus, and relief floods him with it. Perhaps now it will be over.
He looks to the side once more and nearly screams again; the points of the spider-thing's legs have actually sunk into his body, and around them a dark, inky substance bubbles up, bleeding out of him. It does not drip like a normal liquid, but seeps into his skin, staining it and turning it black. The color diffuses throughout his flesh, running across him like an oil spill, until his fingers turn black, and he can feel the strange moisture of it entering his face. His entire body seems to fill with the darkness like a vessel, and he manages one last scream before it claims him fully.
The dark demon, still seated firmly inside the boy, vanishes with his conquest, leaving not a trace of the young man's encounter. All that is left behind is a small spider in the center of the bed, which quickly scuttles to the wall and disappears into a small hole in the siding.