Psychiatric Horror: Bugs Swarm Shady Pines

It started with a whisper and a crunch.
“Ezra, no,” I said, crouching beside the boy with his hand cupped over something. “We don’t eat bugs, remember?”
He grinned, wide-eyed and mischievous, then squeezed.
Crunch.
I flinched, instinctively pulling my hand back. A smear of legs and iridescent goo oozed between his fingers. Ezra beamed like he’d won a prize. I stood up, wiping my palms on my scrubs as my coworker, Mateo, snorted from behind the desk.
“You gonna start a collection?” he teased, pushing his glasses up his nose without looking up from his monitor.
“Don’t tempt him,” I muttered. “Honestly, I think he would if he had a jar.”
Mateo grinned, still typing. “Weird thing is, you’re not the only one. A couple of the residents said they’ve been seeing more bugs around. Like, a lot more.”
I frowned. “That normal for this time of year?”
He shrugged. “This place is old. Bugs love old.”
I turned toward the hallway, unease prickling at my neck. Shady Pines Psychiatric was a century-old behemoth of red brick and moaning pipes wedged between a forgotten forest and a county road no one remembered paving. I loved my job—I really did—but sometimes the building breathed too loud.
I checked the chart. Daryl Harrow, room 212. Time for his midday dose of clozapine. I grabbed the sealed blister pack and signed it, nodding to the pharmacy tech behind the glass. On my way, I passed the community room, where three patients were sprawled across a foam mat, eyes closed, listening to old jazz on a dusty boombox.
The hallway hummed quietly, peaceful even.
Then, a shriek sliced through the calm.
I froze. Room 205. Ms. Lin.
I rushed in. “Hey! Ms. Lin, what happened?”
She pointed to the floor, her hands trembling. “They’re crawling up the walls,” she whispered.
I followed her gaze. Ants. Hundreds of them. Not in a line like they’re supposed to be—no, these ants writhed over each other, scrambling, circling, like they didn’t know where they were going.
I backed out and jogged toward the nurse’s station. Mateo looked up as I grabbed the industrial bug spray from the cabinet.
“Oh no,” he said, smirking. “The six-legged uprising has begun.”
“Not funny,” I said, walking away. “They’re everywhere in 205.”
I returned to Ms. Lin’s room and sprayed the baseboard. The ants scattered toward a jagged seam in the corner, disappearing as if the wall had swallowed them whole. I ran a hand along the plaster, expecting a crack, but it was smooth.
Too smooth.
Still, I shook it off. Just bugs. Old building. End of story.
I delivered Daryl’s medication without incident, whispering gently so I didn’t startle him. His hands shook as he took the cup of water, but his eyes met mine, steady and lucid. That was rare.
I was about to leave when I heard shouting from two rooms down. Room 214.
Benji.
He was one of our long-term residents—young, maybe early twenties, but deeply unwell. He spent hours sketching beetles and centipedes in his notebook. Said they told him things. Most days, he was quiet. So the screaming had me sprinting.
“Benji?” I knocked. No response.
I pushed the door open.
And froze.
The floor was alive.
Cockroaches, earwigs, beetles, ants, silverfish. They poured across the tiles, writhing over each other, covering Benji’s mattress, the walls, and the ceiling. The stench of musk and rot hit me like a slap.
Benji stood on his bed, screaming, arms flailing. Insects clung to his legs, his shoulders disappearing into the folds of his clothes. I stepped back, bile rising in my throat.
Then they swarmed.
Out of the doorway, into the hall, skittering over my shoes and up my legs. I slapped them away, heart jackhammering.
Mateo rounded the corner and skidded to a stop.
“What the—?” he started.
Then he saw.
He ran to the alarm and yanked it. The building howled with shrill bells and flashing red lights. Behind me, doors slammed open. Panic spread like fire.
Patients screamed, scattering. Some curled into corners, others ran in circles, swatting at invisible threats. Bugs were everywhere. Crawling out of vents. Bursting from the cracks beneath the baseboards. One of the lights on the ceiling popped, and the glass rained down.
I couldn’t think.
I could only move.
I grabbed Ms. Lin, pulling her from her doorway as a centipede dropped from the frame and wriggled over my shoulder. I passed her to Mateo, who wrapped his scarf around his mouth and dove back into the corridor.
Benji was still in his room. I reached him, but the bed was submerged—bugs moved like liquid now. He wasn’t screaming anymore. Just staring, open-mouthed, eyes glazed. I pulled him off the mattress, barely registering the insects crawling up my arms.
That’s when the wall collapsed.
Not just cracked—collapsed.
Thousands of insects poured out, and a churning black wave swallowed the hallway. They hit me with force, knocking me backward. I hit the floor, arms flailing, mouth open.
Big mistake.
They poured in.
Down my throat.
Into my ears.
Up my nose.
I gagged, choked, and tried to scream. I couldn’t. I was drowning in them. My vision blurred. My skin felt like it was boiling. Something bit my ankle. Something else burrowed under my collar.
I clawed at my face, at my neck, but it didn’t matter.
Everything was bugged.
I felt hands grab me—Mateo? I didn’t know. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear anything over the drone of wings and the screeching alarm. I tried to stand, but my legs gave out. I hit the ground again.
Then darkness.
Not unconsciousness.
Just...
A quiet. Like I’d been pulled beneath the floor.
I heard nothing.
Felt nothing.
Then, finally, the softest of whispers:
“We’ve always been here.”
And just like that, I knew. The building hadn’t aged poorly. It hadn’t been rotting. It had been growing. Feeding.
And it was still hungry.