This, from vomiting
Imagine an earthworm crawling over the fragile metacarpal bones of the decomposing body of Emily Dickinson. Or through the ilium of Jane Austen. Or along the intermediate cuniform bone of Louisa May Alcott. [Oh, Miss Alcott. "Is it not meningitis?" you asked, then promptly died. You must have been sweet].
Imagine that happening right at this moment.