Day 149

I never liked worms.
Not since my dad died.
I hadn't heard from him for over a year which isn't unusual for him.
He was a recluse, you see, not fond of people.

We could tell by the state of his house he'd been dead for some time.
At this point his body was starting to melt.
We decided that while my brother called the police we'd look around
just in case, he may have left a note explaining his death.

Every room in the house was filthy.
There were flies everywhere, fat from the rotting leftovers strewn about.
The only paperwork we found was his old journal, buried underneath a
pile of old magazine subscriptions.

By the time we unearthed his (possibly) last words my brother called out
to us that the police and an ambulance were on their way.
So we sat outside away from the stench of decay and began to read.

His journal was full of some study he'd been doing on the local earthworms.
Apparently he'd been close to making a connection between the deaths of
gardeners scattered about the country and the increasing number of worms
in the area.

It almost seemed plausible.
After the police came, talked to us, wrote things down etcetera the forensics
team began to move my father's body onto a gurney.

Seems he'd been dead for longer than we realised.
The minute they lifted him he just... fell to pieces.
Worms came pouring out of him.
So many worms, so many... and so big.