Urticaria
I’ll tell you, but don’t tell anyone
Word spread like wildfire. The whole town found out that deceased relatives and friends were by our side when we felt the slightest itching sensation. The dead touched and the living felt. And we scratched. Some wanted to rub them as never before in life and others to shy away from those who imprisoned them. In any case, the villagers put all their efforts into scratching, forgetting their chores. They scratched their arms, legs and heads. Their skin was reddening and thickening. They scratched the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet, and their backs against the wall. They no longer used keys for locks or wrenches for nuts. Nor knives for eating. They rubbed their eyes until they lost their vision, they scraped their tongues until they vomited blood, they brushed their genitals until they mutilated themselves. Such were the cuts that they reached the stomach, the intestines and the heart.
The next day the rooster crowed, but the only adult who woke up was me. The streets, an ostentatious banquet for scavengers, were stained red. Only the cries of intact children could be heard. That was enough for me to take the car to the next town and start spreading the same rumor.