A grey-white in colour, with a kite-shaped opening and six shell plates. Often found along rocky shores and sometimes found attached to a whale's skin and the shell of a turtle. They are not a hindrance nor a parasite, but they sure are giving a heavy load to the host they tend to stick to. And if you are careless enough to not be wary of your surroundings when swimming freely in the ocean, it will be way more painful to get injured by these pointy crustaceans. And it seems that they are rather greedy than just a hindrance.
Amie Collins, a first-year student, had earned a reputation for being nosy—sticky as a barnacle clinging to a ship's hull. She eavesdropped on everyone, absorbed secrets, and spread gossip like wildfire across campus. Greedy for attention, she thrived on drama, earning herself the infamous nickname: the "Tattle Wh*re."
Her motto? "You can gossip about others, but never if it's about yourself."
But Amie had learned quickly that attention could be a tool. By her second year, she had secured the position of student council treasurer. With the title came new opportunities: control of funds, influence over events, and a closer view of the inner workings of student politics. To outsiders, she appeared diligent and generous—keeping meticulous records, announcing fundraising totals with charm, and handing out small rewards to classmates. But behind her warm smile, Amie calculated. Every peso allocated, every favor granted, every public acknowledgment was a move in her silent game of influence.
Amie's rise was subtle but unmistakable. During assemblies, she presented the council's initiatives with enthusiasm, always careful to highlight her contributions. When a donation drive exceeded expectations, Amie controlled how the funds were reported. Numbers were adjusted slightly—just enough to provide her with discretionary perks: a snack for friends, a token prize, and a clever "thank you" that ensured loyalty. Her peers admired her generosity, but they didn't see the strategy beneath it. Like a barnacle, she clung to her position, drawing strength and influence from the ship of student leadership while remaining almost invisible in her subtle manipulations.
Rumors occasionally surfaced: missing funds, uneven distributions, or promises unfulfilled. Amie had mastered the art of distraction and charm—redirecting conversations, framing gossip to her advantage, and ensuring her image remained untarnished. Her reputation as a clever and persuasive treasurer made it easy to mask ambition as service.
But, during a final debate, a fellow council member who is running for president challenged her.
"Amie speaks of success," said Mariel Santos, " but where were the missing funds from last year's drive? The ledger shows discrepancies, yet the events appear polished and perfect. Leadership isn't about controlling appearances—it's about serving honestly. After all, a barnacle feeds on the ship it clings to.
Amie's smile faltered for a brief moment. The barnacle metaphor rang true: she had clung tightly to her position, drawing power and influence, but now the ship's integrity was at stake. Still, she recovered quickly, twisting words, charming the audience, and spinning doubt away. She knew perception was her ally and that influence was a currency more potent than money.
In the end, Amie Collins remained a force to be reckoned with: sticky, observant, and cunning. She understood envy, ambition, and the delicate balance of loyalty and power. As treasurer, she had learned how to manipulate systems quietly, how to turn whispers into tools, and how to rise while appearing to serve. In the world of student politics, she was more than a gossip—she was a strategist, a barnacle clinging to power, ready to weather any storm, and always watching for the next opportunity to bloom.
Mammon had surely possessed her whole.
Last Monday, to their surprise, Amie was not speaking at all—now that is some gossip to talk about. And it gets even weirder when she had not attended classes yesterday and had only heard of her that she was already in the hospital. "A rare skin disease.", "Karma, she deserved it" they said.
Rumours and gossip had already spread like wildfire, and everyone was curious about what had actually happened to Amie. Oh, how the tables have turned—Amie was once the person who stuck her nose into someone else's business, and now her problem was attracting all of the school's attention. They are now the barnacle that's sticking on Amies' skin.
A close friend of hers, Yannah Cruz, had decided to pay her a visit at the hospital to see how she was doing. She went to the information area and asked the receptionist for Amies' room—the nurse was somehow worriedly sweating and just gave Yannah the room number.
"Room 248, second floor."
She arrived and reached for the doorknob, took a heavy breath, and slowly opened the door. Cold sweats had covered Yannah the moment she saw Amie lying down with machines attached to her body. Amie lies exposed, her stomach bare and grotesquely visible. The flesh surrounding her abdomen is a disturbing bluish-black, with patches of skin so thin that the outlines of her bones are nearly discernible beneath the surface. Her epidermis is marred by angry red welts, remnants of contact with spiky-thorny rocks that have embedded themselves into her skin.
Strange, kite-shaped shells cling to her limbs, face, and half of her arms, creating a bizarre and horrifying tapestry of nature's cruelty. These shells seem to pulse with life, their sharp edges digging into her flesh and causing her immense pain. Tears stream down Amie's cheeks, glistening in the faint light, as she struggles to comprehend her nightmarish reality.
Yannah stands nearby, her expression one of disbelief and horror as she witnesses the grotesque transformation of her friend. Amie's voice is barely a whisper, weak and strained, as if each word costs her dearly. The machines surrounding Amie emit a soft hum, their mechanical presence the only thing keeping her alive amidst the chaos of her suffering
Yannah fights to maintain her composure, overwhelmed by the sight before her—and to make everyone believe her, Yannah took a photo of Amies' situation and calmly left the room. That was the most unrealistic and uncanny thing that she had witnessed in her own entire life, (even weirder than the elves she saw outside of her house). The night had passed, and she still couldn't stop thinking about what had happened to Amie. This made her get up and search for the disease that Amie has. It has been minutes, and she had not found any cases relating to Amie.
What she found, though, was the thing that is sticking onto Amies' skin. A barnacle.
Questions had lurked inside Yannahs' mind.
"What really happened to Amie?"
"Why did it get to that kind of situation?"
Is karma sticking onto her?
Several days later, the photo had spread throughout the school campus, and gossip now swirled like a hungry storm, feeding on the horror of Amie Collins' condition. Whispers followed her name, but no one dared speak to her directly. Those who had tried—nurses, teachers, even her own parents—had been driven away by the repulsive sight and an unbearable, briny stench that clung to her like rot.
By the seventh day, Amie could no longer speak. Her mouth had begun to seal, covered by the hard, wet ridges of the barnacles that multiplied with every heartbeat. Her skin was no longer recognizable as human—layered now in jagged shell formations, their points twitching and clicking as though feeding off her. Her eyes, once tearful and searching, had turned a milky gray, forever frozen in a wide, paralyzed stare.
She was no longer in the ward.
They had moved her—quietly and without announcement—to the cold, dimly lit, and damp morgue no one wants to be in. It was the only place left where the smell wouldn't spread, where her muffled gurgles wouldn't be heard at night. Machines had stopped humming. No more IVs. No more hope.
Yannah returned once.
Only once.
She stood in the doorway, staring at what used to be Amie. A mass of wet, glistening, coral-like flesh twitched beneath the hospital gown. Barnacles now jutted from Amie's eyes, her chest, and even the roof of her mouth. She no longer looked in pain—just empty, like something else had taken over. Something patient. Something is watching.
And then, just as Yannah turned to flee, she heard a sound—faint but distinct—a high-pitched clicking, like thousands of tiny shells grinding together in laughter.
That night, Yannah destroyed the original photo. She deleted it from her phone, from her laptop, and from the cloud.
But it was too late.
It had already been copied. Already posted.
Already passed along.
The story of Amie Collins, the girl consumed by barnacles, became an urban legend. A warning. A curse. Some say she still breathes, that beneath the school's floorboards, you can hear her clicking—waiting.
And every now and then, someone new wakes up with a strange itch on their skin…right where the first barnacle would grow.