“My ear hurts,” my roommate said, when he got back from Peru.
He’d gone on a three week trip for an adventure, eating the local food, wearing shirts made from Alpaca wool, and finally bushwhacking through the dense jungle of the Amazon the last week.
“That’s pretty normal,” I said, “You did just get off a plane.”
But the pain in his ear didn’t go away with the passing days, it only got worse.
“This is killing me man,” he said a couple days later. “I think I’ve come down with some kind of Peruvian ear disease or something.”
I told him he probably just had an infection, and to go see a doctor.
“I don’t trust doctors,” he said. “But it hurts real bad. Tomorrow I’ll go, it’s too late today.”
And he went to bed.
I heard him calling out in the night in pain, and wondered if I should offer to drive him to Emergency – but then the sounds of his suffering subsided, and I fell asleep.
The next morning he wasn’t in the kitchen having a cup of herbal tea like he normally did. I entered his room, concerned. He still lay in bed, turned on his side.
“Hey man, are you alright?” I reached out and shook his shoulder.
I recoiled in horror, as millions of tiny black spiders erupted from his ear and covered his dead body. They ravenously devoured it, their first meal, the one in which their eggs were laid back in the darkness of the Amazonian jungle.