Jessica Jones

The Man Who Had Ants Coming Out of His Skin

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It was only three days after Colin bought the house. He was finally getting around to unpacking his box of décor, setting knick-knacks from his post-college travel days on the dark shelves above the old wood stove. The stove no longer operated, his realtor had informed him, but its midcentury feel against the warm red bricks of the corner made it a real gem, she added. 

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Colin didn’t understand the meaning of a “midcentury feel” or even particularly care for the stove, just that it was his, finally, and it provided a space for his crystals from his stint in Tanzania, statuettes from France, porcelain dolls from China. A space for photos of his family, now living on the opposite coast, and of his family dog, Happy. He would be starting his new job Monday. It was a largely remote position working for a company owned by a friend of his stepfather, but he’d always wanted to move away from home, so he did. It was that simple. 

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He had bent over to pull a postcard out of the box, the bones in his back popping a bit.

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At first, it was just a slight burning, like when you get a zit under your nose and scratch it accidentally. And then, a stretching and intense, intense pain. He was fully on the floor next to the box, writhing, grabbing himself. He pushed against the carpet like he could dig underneath and bury himself there. Every pore of his skin was opening, he could see it on his hands, his arms, the black spots forming and growing. Every pore, like blackheads. Out of each climbed a stream of ants, yanking themselves free in a steady, pouring line. Colin shrieked and felt a few from above his lip fall into his mouth. 

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When he regained his consciousness, the pain was gone, and he almost believed night to have fallen. He opened his eyes. Ants covered the windows, the furniture, the carpet, the bricks, and the stove. Leaping from the carpet, small black bodies fell from him. He cried out again, throwing himself around, brushing his skin and yanking his clothes to remove the insects. He felt them crunch beneath his feet as he ran to the front door and forced himself to grab the ant-covered handle.

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Outside, he looked at the back of his hands. They showed no sign of their earlier endurance. The sky was fiery and beautiful, and the cul-de-sac was quiet. Across the street, the neighbors’ garden flag waved slightly in the breeze. He continued to shake bugs off, slower now, only stopping when he felt mostly clean. Still, he itched.

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He walked to the end of the drive and then turned around and faced the house. Ants were pouring out slowly through the open door like liquid guilt. He began to cry, shoulders shaking as he searched his phone for an exterminator and called the emergency number. 

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When the man left, with the promise of returning the next day, it was long after sunset. The house was layered in white paste with dead ants stuck inside. The still live ones continued to exit through the door and the now open windows. Colin drove to the nearest store, the one place in town he knew already how to locate, and purchased a pair of tall rubber boots and the largest broom he could find.

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Returning home, he put on his boots and swept clumps of dead and live ants out the open door, avoiding the paste that was still attracting more. He knew they must be spreading through the house, shimmying under the gaps beneath the doors into his bedroom, through the cabinets to his pantry. He shivered with disgust. 

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He slept in his car, without a blanket or pillow. The next morning, he awoke starving. He couldn’t imagine eating ever again but knew he must. He found his way to a breakfast place, picked at a plate of pancakes, took a call from his mother. Told her he was handling things well, he was excited to start his new job tomorrow, the house was lovely, everything was wonderful. 

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He didn’t want to worry her, in fact, he had long made it the great mission of his life to ease her worries. He once paid $30 for a payphone in Machu Picchu to call and let her know that he was doing alright after several days without cell service, and when he had contracted appendicitis in London, he did not let her know until the surgery was over and the hospital was calling for her insurance. For a long part of his life, before his stepfather had come along, it had been just the two of them at home. And even before then, when Colin’s father was around, Colin had been the one to protect her—from worry and, often, from his father. 

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The exterminator returned with extensive backup who vacuumed up more dead ants and placed more paste. Colin swept again, then once more. He slept in his own bed but felt sparks down his skin all night. The next day, exhausted, he retreated to the home office and joined his first conference call.

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The house was treated many more times in the next several months, but the ants never completely went away. Sometimes, more appeared; they were multiplying among themselves. Then Colin would call the exterminator again, and it would die down for a little while. They could be found in unexpected places, a cereal bowl, a bar of soap in the shower, a left shoe. And they had a habit of appearing more, it seemed, when he was already in a bad mood, stressed and homesick and lonely. He never knew when he could expect an unpleasant surprise. 

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At night, he had nightmares that it happened again. It had been a long time since he had dealt with bad dreams. He would wake, panting and scratching his arms until they were bright red. Flipping on the light and checking the back of his hands, he would lie awake all night, unable to return to sleep. During the day, he could not leave his home for long spans of time out of fear that it would occur in public. The anxiety consumed him, ate him up, until he was a shell, until he was nothing but dread itself. The memory of the pain was so vivid that whenever the thought was forced into his consciousness, he could feel the tips of his fingers tingle, though when it did happen again, around four months after, it was not as intense as he recalled. 

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Colin was convinced the house must be cursed. This had never happened until he moved into this house, and, he decided, it would not happen again. The house was treated and cleaned once more, and it was sold within a month. He moved across town, finding a smaller, slightly cheaper duplex. It came furnished, so all he brought with him were his clothes, his computer, and the cardboard box of knick-knacks, all carefully inspected and picked of any residual insects. This time, though, eying the box cautiously, he placed it unopened in the hall closet. 

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When he and his mother had moved out of his father’s house when Colin was eight, his mother had kept a similar box. It contained all of his mother’s life, everything she was allowed to take from his father’s lavish estate, photos, the small casserole dish that had been the one wedding present she received from her parents, a bottle of perfume. She didn’t unpack it until the divorce was final, until her name was her name again and her bank account was overflowing with old money, more than she ever expected to walk away with, more than he ever would have given her. It, along with her new husband’s salary, provided enough to fund her life and much of Colin’s. 

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So, the third time the ants appeared, Colin was able to waste no time in cleaning and selling his house once more, moving several states away. After the next time, in the third house lodged deep in the woods, he sat outside for many hours, staring at the gray clouds overhead. He didn’t bother to call an exterminator. 

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The ant farm took over two months to be delivered and installed, custom-made by a maker far across the globe who requested Colin allow him to put it up for a Guinness world record before shipping. He declined, though it certainly would have won for world’s largest ant farm. It took five men an hour to place it in the corner of his living room, and almost as long for it to be filled with sand.

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As time went by, Colin relaxed. It was still unpleasant, living with the insects, but he no longer found himself repulsed by their presence. When the ritual occurred, he would simply sweep them up and add them to the extensive farm. He planted a garden behind his house, and with only forest around for miles, he did not worry about being seen when the ritual occurred. 

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However, after a few more occasions, many years went by without another incident, so he became, eventually, comfortable. The nightmares and unease subsided. It seemed, finally, over, and though he had no explanation, he did not need one.

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With this burden lifted, he began to do quite well for himself in his career, earning his own glass-wrapped office, and he made a small circle of friends with whom he would take coffee in the mornings. 

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One of these friends was Anna, a short woman with arms so thin that Colin thought she might snap. Her eyes, though, were strong. Often, they would share a look for just a moment too long, and Colin could feel his skin prickling, in a good way this time.

He hadn’t been with anyone since college. Even all the friends he had made during his travels, friends from school and friends from his hometown, all of them had been hard to visit since the ants had moved in, bringing his fear with them. The insects had long become his only bedmate.   

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Soon, the pair began meeting for coffee alone, and sooner still, they were dating. When, months later, Colin finally invited her to his house, she had very little to say. She spoke to him, but her eyes lingered on the ant farm.

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That night in bed, with her chest pressed to his back, Colin could not sleep with the apprehension he might wake to his self-willed body covering her in insects. It was the first night in many nights that he had held this familiar worry, and it was suffocating. Outside, some animal screamed, certainly not helping. Colin jumped slightly at the noise and felt her slender arms snake around him and pull him closer. He relaxed.

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His bed felt much smaller with Anna in it, but it was nothing compared to two people squeezed into the twin sized bed of his old dorm room. He had pissed his roommate off, letting his girlfriend stay over so often, and deep down, he knew that he was right to be angry, but he didn’t care. Sam had been her name, and Colin tried not to think about her. 

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Anna never directly said anything against the ant farm and its imposing presence in the house, but Colin could tell she did not like it. She often invited him to her place, and when she did come to his, her unease was evident. He couldn’t blame her, but it still hurt.

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When the pair had been together over a year, Colin donated the ant farm to the local science museum and asked Anna to move in with him. She had been very kind, he thought, never telling him that the ants bothered her when he knew that they did. She even came to visit him, so that he wouldn’t always have to be the one to leave home, even though he offered. She couldn’t help that it was something that made her uncomfortable, he thought, and she didn’t know why her discomfort would make him feel so bad, of course. And it had been years since there had been an incident. He wouldn’t need the farm anymore. He was done with that. 

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They were in the garden a day after her final box had been unpacked, examining the half-eaten body of a wild rabbit, when the familiar stretching feeling began. Colin could not run, though he wanted to, for the pain. He fell back in the dirt, screaming. Anna was screaming too. 

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Colin was sure that he would lose her. It was the very first thought he had when the pain subsided and he opened his eyes. She was several feet away, eyes fixed on the ants covering the rabbit carcass and streaming through the lines of basil and oregano. She met his gaze before turning around and running to the house. 

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When he told her everything, she tightened her lips into a thin gray line and was silent. Then, she said, “Okay,” and got up to make dinner. Left alone in the living room, Colin stared at the floorboards where the ant farm had been. The wood was warped from the weight and slightly discolored. 

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She didn’t say much more about it until the next time. She had been away, shopping with friends, and he had tried so hard to clean them all up. His breath was jerking out of his body in puffs of adrenaline as he rushed to push the insects out with a broom, his shoes, his hands. Out, out, out. He no longer saw them as bugs or as parts of bugs, just a dark mess to be cleaned. And to be cleaned quickly before Anna arrived home. But he couldn’t do it. She had barely opened the door before she returned to her car with the shopping bags, calling behind for him to follow. 

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The next house was one that Anna picked. The neighborhood was nice, almost unbearably so, and the mailboxes all lined up like soldiers protecting the end of the drives. There was a pool and a large upstairs balcony, and a walk-in pantry adjacent to a cold mausoleum-like garage. Colin would sit up on the balcony and close his eyes, and with the breeze he could almost imagine he was back on his porch at the house in the woods.

They lived there, happily enough, for over a year. The ants were never mentioned, and Colin prayed every night that there would be no reason to mention them ever again. Then, there was one, and another “for sale” sign in the yard. The next place did not have a balcony or a pool. Neither did the next. He quit his job and stayed home, and Anna started working more.

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He was returning from burying a possum in the yard of their third home, Anna just arriving home, when he mentioned to her, finally, that he was tired of moving. She did not have much to say. No, she did not want another ant farm in their house, nor exterminators coming in and judging their mess, she informed him. They would keep moving because they had to keep moving.

No one needed to know. 

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Colin did not know what to do, so he did nothing. 

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His shame grew exponentially over time. Anna would return home, tired to the bone and short-tempered, and he would try and fail at making conversation and pleasing her with dinner. If she was in the room when his pores would stretch open and release their contents, she would quickly leave. The look of disgust on her face hurt worse than any physical pain. He would lay, wherever he was, aching and crying. Alone and covered in ants he didn’t bother to brush off. 

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Colin had no experience with ending a relationship. All he knew was that he didn’t want this one to end. Especially not like it did with Sam. He didn’t want to be alone again, with only the ants. 

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Then, his mother and stepfather came to visit. It had been a few years since Colin had seen them both in person, and though he was terrified that his body might do something to embarrass him, he was glad to see them. They stayed for a week in a bloated and shimmering hotel near Colin and Anna’s new house, and all four of the party went out to eat every night. On the final evening of their stay, however, Anna had a work event, a late meeting with an international client, so Colin and his parents went alone to dinner.

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At the steakhouse, lights dim and music quiet, Colin’s mother told him they were worried about him. He hadn’t informed them about quitting his job or about the frequent moving, but they could tell something was different, and his mother was delicately determined to discover what. She stared deeply into Colin’s sunken gray eyes with marked sincerity and asked about Anna. He assured her everything was fine.

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Colin left earlier than he thought he would, leaving just after dinner with a quick goodbye hug for both his mother and stepfather, no dessert. 

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Upon arriving home, Anna’s car was in the drive, along with a large tuft of gray fur that looked like it once belonged to, or made up, a squirrel. He was surprised to find her home, but glad. When he entered the house, the foyer and the living room were dark.

Light crawled across the floor from under the bedroom door. Without saying anything, he went to the door and opened it, preparing to say hello.

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Anna was in her dark blue nightgown, the lamp light playing through its subtly transparent satin. Her mouth was ringent, wider than natural, and her eyes seemed to bulge. A brown and gray snake was slowly flowing out and down her front to the carpet, then out the open window. Its fat body seemed endless. With the noise of the door opening, Anna’s attention snapped to his direction. For one millisecond, their eyes connected, the scales still slipping out from between her lips.

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Colin was cold fury. Every word she said against him echoed in the space between his forehead and his brain, every quiet dinner, every look of contempt, every time she had forced him to carry his shame, all the while not lifting a finger to support her own. His whole body was alive, but no ants poured out. He clenched his fists. Suddenly, he was very, very afraid.

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His senior year, he had not hit Sam, but he almost had. And after living with his father for fourteen years, that was enough for him. He ended things right then and there.

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“Please, Colin,” Sam had said, pulling at his arm, “I’m sorry I said those things. I didn’t mean it. But I love you, please don’t do this.”

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He never told her what really happened. Never really admitted it to himself. It followed, he guessed, his next partner being Anna. All the comments, the coldness, it was what he had earned. 

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He grabbed his bag, never unpacked, and left immediately, leaving Anna glued to the same spot, her mouth agape. 

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Alone in the car outside the glitzy hotel where his mother and stepfather were staying, he punched the steering wheel, once, then turned the engine off and went inside.

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The next day, they helped him find and afford another place, and he contacted the ant farm maker once more, giving him instructions for an even bigger, more elaborate farm. 

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He started working again, also with his family’s help, and many more years went by. He reacclimated to living with and caring for the ants. Their constant presence became a gift, an inescapable fact of life; even if many months went by between his expelling more, they were always meandering down the wall or dying inside his lamps. 

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Eventually, Colin met someone else, a barista at the local coffee shop. He was hesitant to be with anyone ever again, in fact he had vowed he never would. But he couldn’t help it, Eileen was charming and kind and soon he just couldn’t help it. 

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After dating for a while, she finally confessed that she did not like his house or the imposing ant farm claiming two-thirds of the main room.

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“The bites make me itchy. Is there any way you could secure the lid tighter possibly? How are so many of them getting out after all?”

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He said, “The lid is tight enough, and exterminators are expensive. The ants are just that, ants.”

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They were part of him, and he would not change it. Not again. She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

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Colin thought of Anna often in these times, of how she too had disliked the ant farm. How, all along, she had had something of her own to be ashamed of, something she wouldn’t even tell him about. It was unfair, the way she expected him to change, to hide, to move. He hadn’t deserved it after all. He hadn’t hurt Sam; he was not his father. He didn’t deserve it.

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On her birthday, Colin invited Eileen over again to his place. He had cooked pasta and set the dining room table with round red candles. She wore red lingerie underneath her red dress. When she came in, he immediately took her into his arms and out of her coat. 

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They had barely sat down to eat when Colin felt it happening. He wished, in that second, that he had told her in advance, but he had been convincing himself that he no longer owed anyone any explanation. Though, he supposed now, that an explanation was different from a warning. He would have liked a warning the first time it happened to him too.

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But he didn’t get one, and neither did she.

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He anticipated her screams, but not the choking and wheezing that they morphed into. She had fallen, tripped it seemed, into the ants, and from where he lay on his side, Colin could see that her skin was as red now as the dress and the candles. Her breath was labored, and she scratched at her body, covered in black moving spots. Then, she stopped. 

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It was a moment before the ants subsided from him and Colin could move again to reach her. He brushed off the insects from her heated and swollen flesh and checked where her pulse should be and wasn’t.

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He fell to the floor beside her, crushing hundreds of insects beneath him.

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Jessica Jones is a recent graduate of the creative writing program at UNC Chapel Hill, currently residing in Carrboro, North Carolina. Some of her short fiction can be found online and in print in the Health Humanities Journal and Short Story UNC. Bienvenue à la danse, Jessica.

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