A young student meets a man at a nightclub and, one thing leading to another, ends up going home with him. The two spend the night together, drunkenly enjoying each other's company. In the morning they wake up with twin headaches, and quickly part company. The girl's embarrassed more than anything, so she doesn't mention the encounter to any of her friends. It was a stupid, alcohol-fuelled decision. Worst of all, she fears she might have caught something. She's itching horribly down there.
A week passes and, despite her hopes, the itching doesn't go away on its own. The girl makes an appointment at her local clinic and submits herself to her inspection. The diagnosis comes back: she has a colony of "corpse worms" living inside of her. It's treatable but, since the only place you can get corpse worms if off a dead body, the police will be wanting to speak to her.
She's taken down to the station and interviewed. There in the featureless interrogation room the whole humiliating story comes out. She tells them about the guy, and gives them his address. The police head off to investigate.
A week or so later, after she's been in and out of hospital a couple of times to be treated, she receives a follow-up call from the police. A young officer, barely hiding his disgust, explains that the guy she slept with was a hospital worker. It turned out that he'd been abusing the bodies entrusted to his care. At the time of their liaison he was, it seemed, a practicing necrophiliac.
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