Bogleech.com's 2013 Horror Write-off:
Submitted by Anonymous
Snails. I've always hated them. My family liked to joke about it and say it was because it were snails who destroyed my first little garden when I was a kid, a patch in our back yard I had planted with various vegetables. That is part of the equation, obviously. But it runs way deeper than that. Not only do I hate what snails do, I hate what they ARE. In cartoons and jokes, snails being "slow" is supposed to be cute, a source of humor. Me, I'm creeped out. They're PERSISTENT. They're DETERMINED. I even suspect they like to stretch it out, to advance in the pace of a glacier, playing with my nerves, my disgust. Even if they had a means to reach a salad leaf in a fraction of the time, they'd still go extra slow, like little tongues tasting every centimetre of the way, not caring whether they starve before they reach their destination. Can you even begin to imagine the mind of a creature like that?
Don't get me started on their freaky telescope eyes, and the way they retract into their shells, or retract into a slimy little blob in the case of slugs. They're like disembodied, alien genetalia, exploring the world for twisted pleasures.
I once saw my older brother caressing one of them. Massaging a half-retracted snail with his tumb until it regained its confidence, looking around to see to who it owed the sugar. Stimulated. Naked. Slimy. Horny. They're hermaphrodites. They can mate with everything.
No person in this world has ever despised them as much as I do.
That's why I don't think this is a coincidence. It had been coming for me. Maybe it had travelled for ages, slowly, persistently.
I should have seen it coming, yet somehow I didn't. Somehow, it managed to sneak up on me.
I am lying on my belly, and I cannot turn my head. But I know what it is. I sure do.
I was sunbathing in our back yard, not far from the spot where my little garden used to be. Lying on my towel, with my sunglasses on, I fell asleep.
Now I cannot move, and I feel it slowy advancing over my body. It is big. It is heavy. Its underbelly is so very moist and cool, swallowing the summer sun. It is going to bury me completely underneath it.
Oh, the blunt satisfaction radiated by its filthy flesh.
The nerve endings in my skin are just as active as ever, and so I can savor every inch of its slimy conquest. So very slow. Time itself is starting to lose all meaning. And I cannot scream.