The river in Laos looked like paradise.
Clear, green-tinted water wound through the jungle, reflecting the canopy overhead. Sunlight speared through the leaves, glittering on the surface. To Mark and his younger brother Tyler, it looked like the perfect place to cool off after a day of hiking in the heat.
“Man, this is it,” Tyler said, stripping off his shirt. “Natural swimming pool!”
Mark hesitated, scanning the river. He’d read warnings in their travel guide—don’t drink untreated water, beware of parasites. But Tyler was already diving in with a splash, whooping like a kid.
“Come on!” Tyler shouted, splashing water at the bank.
Mark sighed, dropped his pack, and waded in. The water was blissfully cool, washing sweat and dust from his skin. They swam out to the middle, laughing, dunking each other under.
For a while, it was perfect.
Then Tyler winced. “Ow! Damn—something’s on me.”
Mark turned. “What do you mean ‘on you’?”
Tyler paddled toward the bank, slapping at his leg. By the time he reached shallow water, Mark saw it too—a dark, writhing shape clinging to his calf. Blood seeped into the water, red threads unfurling.
“Leech,” Mark muttered, stomach twisting.
“Get it off!” Tyler shouted, panic rising in his voice.
Mark grabbed a stick, prying at the parasite. It clung stubbornly, its body pulsing as it drank. When it finally tore free, blood gushed from the wound, more than seemed possible from something so small.
Tyler staggered back onto the sand, panting. “What the hell, man? I didn’t even feel it until—”
He froze, looking at his other leg. Two more leeches clung there, black and slick against his skin.
Mark’s heart raced. “Get out of the water. Now.”
They scrambled onto the bank, Tyler swearing, slapping at his arms and legs. Mark looked down at himself and felt his stomach drop—three leeches were crawling up his own thigh, their mouths already latched.
He tore one off, pain lancing through his skin. The thing wriggled in his hand, smeared with his blood, before he flung it away in disgust.
Tyler sat in the sand, shaking, his legs streaked with red. “What if they’ve got diseases? What if—”
Mark cut him off. His own fear twisted into urgency. “We need to clean this. Now.”
The paradise river had become something else entirely—a trap, alive with creatures waiting for blood.
Mark ripped open his pack, hands shaking. The first aid kit tumbled out—gauze, antiseptic wipes, a roll of tape. He grabbed the wipes, kneeling beside Tyler.
“Hold still,” Mark said, scrubbing at the bleeding welts.
Tyler hissed, jerking away. “Damn it, that burns!”
“Better burning than infection,” Mark snapped, pressing gauze hard against the wound. Blood soaked through quickly, but at least it slowed.
When Mark finally looked at his own legs, his stomach twisted. The bites were still bleeding freely, thin streams of red running down his calves. He pressed gauze to them, his head spinning with possibilities—bloodborne parasites, bacteria, worse things he’d read about in the guidebook but had dismissed as exaggeration.
Tyler’s voice wavered. “What if they got inside me? Like… under the skin?”
“They didn’t,” Mark said quickly, though he wasn’t sure. “Leeches just feed and drop off. That’s all.”
Tyler shuddered, pale and sweating. “It felt like… like it was digging into me.”
Mark remembered the pulsing, the sick rhythm of the creature drawing blood. He shook the image away. “Don’t think about it. We just need to keep the wounds clean.”
But the jungle around them suddenly felt heavier, oppressive. The river gurgled innocently, as if mocking them, hiding the silent hunters that had just latched onto their flesh.
Tyler lay back on the sand, staring at the canopy with wide eyes. “I don’t feel so good.”
Mark’s heart skipped. “What do you mean?”
“Lightheaded. Like I’m gonna pass out.”
Mark pressed his hand against his brother’s forehead. Tyler’s skin was clammy, his pulse weak.
Panic clawed at Mark’s throat. How much blood could those parasites have taken? How much more was he losing from the open wounds that refused to clot?
He looked at the river, at the glistening water that had seemed so inviting minutes before. Now it looked alive, dangerous, waiting for the next victim to step in.
Mark clenched his jaw. “We’re not staying here. We need a village, a clinic—something. Now.”
Tyler groaned, trying to sit up, but collapsed against Mark’s arm. His skin was even paler now, lips tinged with gray.
Mark slung his pack over one shoulder, then heaved Tyler up with the other. The younger man’s weight was dead-heavy, but Mark’s fear gave him strength.
The jungle swallowed them as he staggered forward, every step echoing with the memory of those leeches, fat with blood, writhing in the sand.
The jungle pressed in tight, humid and heavy, vines brushing against Mark’s face as he half-carried, half-dragged his brother through the undergrowth. Tyler’s breath was shallow, his head lolling against Mark’s shoulder.
“Stay awake,” Mark urged, voice hoarse. “Just keep your eyes open.”
Tyler groaned faintly. “So… tired…”
Mark gritted his teeth, pushing on. The trail they’d followed earlier was barely visible now, half-swallowed by roots and shadows. Every sound made his nerves jolt—the buzz of insects, the croak of frogs, the distant splash of the cursed river.
His mind wouldn’t stop racing. He remembered reading that some leeches carried parasites—blood flukes that burrowed inside and wreaked havoc on the body. Others left wounds that festered, feeding infections that killed slowly. And now his younger brother was pale, sweating, fading.
Mark’s fear hardened into determination. He refused to let Tyler become another jungle story.
At last, through the trees, he spotted smoke curling above the canopy. A village.
“Tyler,” he whispered fiercely, shaking his brother gently. “We’re close. Just hold on.”
He stumbled into the clearing minutes later, collapsing near a cluster of huts. Villagers appeared quickly—men, women, children, their faces wary. Mark raised his free hand, desperate.
“Help! Please! Medical help!”
An older man stepped forward, speaking rapid Lao. A younger woman translated in broken English: “What happened?”
“River,” Mark gasped. “Leeches. He’s bleeding—he won’t stop.”
The villagers exchanged dark looks. They carried Tyler into one of the huts, laying him on a woven mat. A woman brought a bowl of steaming herbs, the scent sharp and bitter. She pressed the mixture into Tyler’s wounds, binding them with cloth.
Mark hovered, heart hammering. “Is it enough? Will he be okay?”
The translator hesitated. “We clean. We stop blood. But maybe… hospital. Big town. You go tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. The word hit Mark like a stone. He wanted an ambulance, doctors, sterile tools, not herbs and cloth. But this was the jungle. Tomorrow was the best they could offer.
That night, Mark sat by Tyler’s side, listening to the jungle noises creep back—the shrill cries of insects, the murmur of water nearby. He couldn’t sleep, every image of those slick black bodies replaying in his mind.
Tyler stirred once, eyes half-open, whispering weakly, “They’re still on me… I can feel them.”
Mark squeezed his hand tight, his voice breaking. “No, they’re gone. You’re safe now. I swear.”
But even as he said it, he felt a crawling sensation under his own skin where the bites still bled. A fear he couldn’t shake—that maybe the river had taken more from them than just blood.
The night stretched on like a fever dream. Mark sat beside Tyler, brushing mosquitoes from his brother’s face, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Each shallow breath was a lifeline.
The villagers came and went, bringing more herbs, bowls of boiled water, cloths soaked in bitter-smelling mixtures. They worked silently, their expressions serious, their hands sure. Mark wanted to believe in their confidence, but doubt gnawed at him.
Near dawn, Tyler stirred. His eyes cracked open, glazed but aware. “Still here?” he whispered.
Mark swallowed hard, gripping his hand. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time since the river, color returned faintly to Tyler’s face. Relief washed through Mark so powerfully it left him trembling.
When morning came, the villagers helped them onto a narrow wooden boat. The river that had betrayed them now became their road out, the current carrying them toward the nearest town with a clinic.
Mark sat at the bow, holding Tyler upright, every ripple of water making his stomach twist. He couldn’t stop staring at the surface, half-expecting black shapes to rise again, writhing, hungry.
Hours later, the clinic loomed—white walls, a faded sign, but to Mark it looked like salvation itself. Doctors took Tyler inside, working quickly, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds with antiseptic far stronger than jungle herbs. They drew blood, checked vitals, reassured Mark that he had been brought in time.
“He will recover,” one doctor said firmly. “But you both must be careful. The river here… it carries more than fish. Next time, protect yourselves.”
Mark nodded, exhaustion flooding him.
That night, as he finally collapsed on a thin cot beside his brother’s bed, he stared at the ceiling fan turning lazily above and replayed the moment the first leech pulsed against his skin. The helplessness, the disgust, the panic.
He knew one thing for certain: he would never again step into an unfamiliar river without protection.
The jungle had given them beauty, adventure, and memory—but also a lesson carved into their very flesh. A reminder that even the smallest creatures could drain life away, drop by drop