At the beginning of April, about a month ago, my previously widowered son was found dead and cannibalized raw. He is survived by his special needs son, my grandson, Benjamin.
I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy when the police officers came to break the news. It was a cool evening for this time of year, and I could feel the chill creeping into my weary body. I slowly rose from the chair, the joints in my knees protesting at the sudden movement, and made my way to the door.
As I opened it, I was greeted by two grim-faced police officers, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and sorrow. The sight of them made my heart skip a beat, and I could feel a clammy hand clench my gut. I knew that they had come bearing terrible news, and I braced myself for the worst.
“Ma’am, are you Margaret Funke?” the taller officer asked.
I nodded, “Yes, what’s this about?”
“Your son, ma’am. May we come in?” questioned the same officer, his voice gentle but firm. I hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside to let them in. As they entered my house, I couldn’t help but notice how they glanced around the room, as if searching for something to rest their eyes on. I wondered if they could see the remnants of my life, the memories of times that still clung to these walls like matted cobwebs.
The officers asked me to sit down, motioning back to my La-Z-Boy. I sat on the edge, my frail heart beginning to pound.
“Ma’am, I am deputy Lennard Skees, and this is my partner, Bobby Darden. We’re here to inform you about a terrible incident involving your son. We’re so sorry, but he was found dead in his home earlier today. His body was… cannibalized.”
I sunk deeper into my La-Z-Boy, a great breath escaping my lips. The rest of the evening went by in a blur of gentle, painful questions. The officers informed me that they would send someone over in the morning with a few things to follow up on, and that would be that.
I asked about Benjamin, telling them that he was special needs and that he would need someone to look after him. The officers told me he was being held in custody for a few days until the jaw prints on my son’s bones were analyzed and he was cleared.
A few days later, Benjamin was released into my care. At 30 years old, he is somewhat functioning but definitely not independent. He needs a little direction, someone to tell him what and when to do things. Even tasks like brushing his teeth or taking a shower— he can do those things himself, he just needs someone to tell him to do it. He’s much like a child, in that regard.
Since he’s moved in with me, I kept seeing our memories together from before my son’s death. They fill me with both great joy and great sadness. I remember our afternoons spent watching his favorite movies, reciting lines and laughing together. Benjamin had a way of making the room feel brighter, his laughter contagious and his excitement palpable.
One of my most cherished memories with him is the countless times we spent watching the classic film, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Benjamin would light up every time the factory gates opened, revealing a world of pure imagination. He was particularly fond of the Oompa Loompas and their silly songs, and we would often find ourselves dancing and singing along with them. I remember one afternoon, we even attempted to make our own candy creations in the kitchen, laughing as we tried to replicate Wonka’s sugary concoctions. Some of them actually turned out pretty good, but for some reason Benjamin could not fathom, we couldn’t get the Everlasting Gobstopper be quite as everlasting as the movie depicted.
Indeed, there are sad memories as well as joyful ones. One of those memories was when I received the news of my son’s wife, Elizabeth, passing away. She had been battling cancer for a while, and although we knew her time was limited, the reality of her loss struck us deeply.
I remember that day vividly. The sky was overcast, and a gentle rain fell outside, as if the Good Lord himself was mourning her passing. My son was devastated. He tried to maintain a brave face for young Benjamin, but I could see the pain in his eyes and could hear it in his voice. It broke my heart to see them both struggling with such immense grief.
As for Benjamin, he found it difficult to process his mother’s death. He would often ask when she was coming back, unable to comprehend the permanence of her absence. Whether it was his youth or mental capabilities preventing this comprehension is unbeknownst to me. My son and I tried our best to explain it to him, but the concept was beyond his grasp. Once, I tried explaining it to him like the Everlasting Gobstoppers we couldn’t make everlasting— even if we want something to last forever, sometimes things don’t work out like we want. That didn’t work, though, and each time he asked about Elizabeth, I could see the pain resurface in my son’s eyes, as he fought back tears and was forced to provide comfort for his special needs child.
During those dark days, the three of us found solace in each other’s company. We spent evenings huddled together on the couch, watching Benjamin’s favorite movies to distract ourselves from the sadness that enveloped our lives. While the films could not erase grief, they provided a temporary escape and a reminder of the joy we could still find in each other.
As time went on, we slowly began to heal. My son found new strength in being both a mother and father to Benjamin, and together, we navigated the challenges of life without Elizabeth.
About a year after Elizabeth’s passing, when Benjamin was about 12 years old, the Good Lord threw us another haymaker. The doctors found a tumor in Benjamin’s stomach during one of his checkups. They assured us it was nothing like Elizabeth’s cancer, that it was actually unrelated and not genetically passed on at all.
The doctors promised that Benjamin would be alright, that although it was a rare tumor, it was more or less harmless but would need surgery to remove. They explained that what Benjamin had was called a teratoma tumor— the kind that could grow organs in places they shouldn’t be. I made the mistake of looking up “teratoma tumor” on the new thing back then called Google Images, which I can not in good conscience recommend anyone else to do.
Even with the doctor’s assurances, Benjamin was still frightened by the word “cancer”. He knew that cancer is why his mother wasn’t coming back, and he didn’t want to leave us as well. It was a hard time for us all, bringing back painful memories that had only just begun to heal.
Benjamin’s surgery went well, and the doctors were able to take out the bad clump of cells. They told us that they removed 5 teeth, as well as two small eyes that were beginning to form. After the surgery, Benjamin needed time to recover both physically and emotionally. We brought him home from the hospital, and filled his room with get-well-soon cards, balloons, and his favorite movies on DVD to help lift his spirits. I made sure to be there for him, offering to watch movies with him whenever he was feeling bad.
To help Benjamin better understand what had happened to him, we found books that explained medical conditions and surgeries in an easy way for children. We read them together and answered his questions, which seemed to ease his mind a little. After a few short weeks, he was back up to par, laughing and giggling with the surgery all but forgotten.
On a happier note, in the past few years, life had been swell. One summer, when Benjamin was in his mid 20’s, my son decided to take us to the beach. My son and Benjamin swung by early in the morning to pick me up for the beach day. The sun was shining, and the smell of the sea called to us. Benjamin was excited, but as we approached the water, he grew quiet and self-conscious. I could see the worry in his eyes as he looked at the other beachgoers, their bodies exposed and carefree.
He had always been self-conscious about his body, especially after gaining weight to the point of morbid obesity. He refused to take off his shirt in front of anyone, and the beach was no exception. It was one of his little rules: no one was allowed to see him with his shirt off. That day, he said that he wished he was a girl so he would never have to take off his shirt. I remember sitting next to him on the sand, feeling his anxiety and wishing I could put him at ease.
“Benjamin, sweetheart, don’t worry about what anyone else thinks,” I told him. “You are here to enjoy yourself, and that’s what matters most.”
He looked at me, hesitant at first, but then a small smile crept onto his face. He decided to stay in his shirt, keeping his massive belly and surgery scars hidden. Together we built sandcastles and searched for seashells, smelling the ocean’s briney breeze. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was a day we all spent together, making the most of it.
Sometimes, it’s hard to see Benjamin as anything other than a child, as he still acts like such an innocent child, even now.
A few weeks ago, just before my son’s death, my physical health began rapidly deteriorating. When Benjamin moved in with me, it was actually a blessing. At first, I only needed his help with small things, like taking out the trash or washing dishes. In the past few weeks, my health has become an actual concern.
I haven’t been able to get out of bed since two weeks ago, and I’ve needed Benjamin’s help with nearly everything since then.
I liked to think of Benjamin and me like that pair in China— one man with no arms and one man with no eyes, still able to plant thousands of trees, each using each other’s abilities. What I’m lacking, Benjamin has, what he’s lacking, I have. He has an able body and I have an able mind. I’ve been telling him what to do, and he’s been doing it. Without me, he might not remember to use the restroom. Without him, I could never empty my own bedpan.
I have an appointment with my doctor toward the middle of May, which Benjamin helped me set up. Without him, I don’t think I would have been able to reach the landline, much less make an appointment.
A week and a half ago, a few days after my bedridden state began, I heard Benjamin talking to someone in the parlor. When Benjamin moved in, I told him that he was welcome to have guests over, but to just make sure and tell me beforehand. The guest was being quiet and respectful, though, so I wasn’t too upset. I was just glad he had friends, that he had someone other than me to talk to.
I waited a few minutes after I heard no more talking before calling out to Benjamin. When he entered my room, I asked him about who he had over. He laughed, bless his heart, and said that he didn’t have anyone else over. I told him that I heard him talking to someone, and I heard someone else’s voice in the house. He said he was just watching a movie.
I found this very strange, so I just reminded him that he’s welcome to have guests, but just to let me know beforehand, as it’s my house.
Despite this reminder, he continued to have the same person over each day, sometimes multiple times. Once, last Thursday, I tried to get up and see who it was, but I only succeeded in falling out of bed and knocking over my bedpan. Benjamin, the sweet soul, never angry, helped me back into bed and cleaned up my mess.
I lost my voice on Saturday. It’s amazing what things I used to take for granted. Now I have no voice, not even a whisper remains. Even a week ago, I could talk just fine. Now I have to write out instructions for Benjamin on this stupid laptop he gave me.
After I lost my voice, I gave up reminding him of my guest rule. He clearly didn’t remember or didn’t care, and they were quiet and respectful enough for me to let it go. They never talked loud enough for me to hear what they were saying, as the bones in this old house are good and thick, preventing sounds from carrying.
Early this Monday morning, in the wee minutes between 3 and 4 AM, I awoke to Benjamin’s lumbering form standing by my bedside in the darkness. He wasn’t moving, only breathing heavily, his massive shoulders rising and falling in rhythm.
When I stirred, he jumped, stumbling over my oxygen tank.
I fumbled around for my glasses and laptop and typed, “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“I was just checking to see if you were okay, Grandma,” he replied, nervously wringing his hands in the glow cast by my stupid laptop.
“I’m okay, Benjamin, don’t worry. Go back to bed.”
He waddled off, and we both went back to bed.
I didn’t say anything about it the morning when he brought me breakfast from the front door (DoorDash is a wonderful thing). We ate together in my room and watched Back to the Future, another one of his favorite films.
Suddenly, when the film was about to end, Benjamin blurted out, “Grandma, my friend said he wants to meet you soon.”
I had my laptop open and ready, typing out my responses.
“That’s great, dear. Is it the one you’ve been having over?”
Benjamin giggled, “No, Grandma, you’re silly. I said I wasn’t having anyone over.”
I thought for a moment.
“Is this one of your games, Benjamin?”
“No, no, no,” he explained, “you just don’t get it. He’s a special friend. A very special friend.”
In that moment, I was scared he was gay. I know times are changing, but the Good Word doesn’t change. In that moment, I feared for my grandson’s soul. I sent a prayer to God and Jesus, begging on behalf of Benjamin, begging the Lord to have mercy, as Benjamin is mentally incapable, and has the sweet innocence of a child.
“How special, Benjamin?”
“He’s like my best friend ever. He’s been there for me for years now, and he even goes everywhere I go with me!”
I could see him beaming with excitement, and I realized that this friend must be imaginary. My son never mentioned anyone like this, and I’ve spent much time with Benjamin and my son, never hearing or seeing anyone “always around” like this at all.
“I see. How long have you been friends? You said years. That’s a really long time!”
Benjamin nodded his head vigorously, sending his rolls of fat jiggling in waves.
“It’s been about 15 years. He’s really cool, and we even watch movies together sometimes. I’m really excited for you to meet him.”
I noticed that this was only a few years after his mother’s passing and his own traumatic surgery. I reasoned he probably made up this imaginary friend to cope during that hard time.
“He sounds wonderful. Let him know that I’d be happy to meet him any time he wants!”
When I finished typing, Benjamin gave me a thumbs up and slyly exclaimed, “Awesome sauce!”
We finished our movie and Benjamin left. Shortly after, I heard them talking again. I didn’t really know what to make of this imaginary friend. Should I feed into his delusions? Is it good for him to have someone, knowing that I’ll probably pass soon myself?
I wrestled with the thought for the rest of the day, toiling over what would be best for Benjamin as the TV played in the background. I decided to pray then sleep on it and listen for the Lord’s guidance before deciding anything. At my direction, Benjamin later brought me lunch and dinner, not mentioning his friend again on Monday.
Early the next morning, I again woke to Benjamin towering by my bedside. When I stirred, he jumped, squealing and turning around.
“DON’T LOOK, GRANDMA!” he shouted, startling me wide awake, “MY SHIRT IS OFF GRANDMA PLEASE DON’T LOOK.”
I kept my eyes closed, disoriented and still half-dreaming but wanting to be respectful. Moments later, he spoke in a much softer voice.
“I’m sorry for yelling, Grandma. I put my shirt on now, you can open your eyes.”
He handed me my glasses and laptop.
I typed, “Good heavens, Benjamin! You need to stop doing this. I need my rest, and you startled me.”
Benjamin looked at me sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I just woke up and my friend thought he might want to meet you this morning, so I came in to check on you first. He got shy, though.”
“It’s 5:30 AM, Benjamin. Don’t you think it’s a little early for that?”
“Yes, Grandma,” he mumbled, still sheepish, “I’ll go back to bed.”
He waddled back out again, but I wasn’t able to go back to sleep. After a few moments, I heard Benjamin talking to his imaginary friend. I listened intently, trying to make out what he was saying, but I was still unable to even decipher one word. Soon enough he stopped talking to himself, and promptly fell back asleep.
A couple of restless hours later, I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door.
“Grandma?” Benjamin called, “I’m coming in.”
When the door opened, my room filled with the glorious scent of eggs, bacon, and biscuits.
“I brought you some breakfast,” he explained, beaming, “I ordered it all by myself. My friend told me to bring it to you, and that he was sorry for waking you up so early.”
I smiled, nodding and motioning for my laptop.
“Thank you,” I typed, “Apology accepted.”
I began to nibble on the breakfast, thinking about the gesture. Maybe his imaginary friend wasn’t so bad after all— never have I ever seen Benjamin take initiative on his own like this. I had never seen him do something without being told. I decided that I could grow to like this imaginary friend.
“I still want to meet your friend.”
“I know, Grandma. He’s very shy. Maybe I could introduce you later?”
“Sure, sweetheart,” I rattled into the keyboard, and dug into my breakfast.
Benjamin left, and I heard him talk to his friend some more. It was funny hearing him do two different voices, but the imaginary friend seemed nice enough. We spent the rest of the day watching movies together— even trying some new films for the first time in a long time.
Then the night came to a close. Around 10 PM, Benjamin left my room to talk to his friend. He returned a few minutes later, grinning from ear to ear.
“He wants to meet you tonight, Grandma!” Benjamin exclaimed.
“That would be nice, dear, only I have to go to bed soon. Could he come tomorrow?”
A timid smile tugged at Benjamin’s lips. “That’s kind of what he wants. I’ll uhh… just stand here by your side with him while you sleep. He’s really, really shy, Grandma, and would like to get to know you without you knowing him first.”
“What a peculiar friend,” I typed out, my words flowing into the screen “why can’t I meet him normally, face to face? You know me, I don’t bite.”
“He knows that, Grandma, but he’s still very shy. He hasn’t met many people before, only Dad. Please, please can you do this for me? I know it’s weird, but he’s my friend and it would mean a lot to me.”
I sighed. Why not?
“Could you at least tell me his name?”
“His name is Ben,” he replied, curt and factual, like he was giving the weather forecast.
I smiled to myself. Of course his imaginary friend would be named Ben.
“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll go to sleep now.”
I found it surprisingly easy to sleep with Benjamin in the room, his presence comforting despite the oddity of the situation. I realized he had taken his shirt off in the darkness as I quickly slipped into a blissful dream.
I rose peacefully to a soft knock on my bedroom door. I yawned, stretching my stiff joints across the bed. Benjamin came in, and again the smell of breakfast followed. He handed me my glasses, and a platter of breakfast tacos came into focus.
“My, my!” I typed, “these look delicious. Where did you get them from?”
“Your favorite place, grandma. Taco Z!” he explained, grinning ear to ear, “I walked there myself and ordered them.”
I was blown away. Had his imaginary friend really made such a difference for him? This was the same person who needed to be told to drink water with every meal. If he’s had this imaginary friend for so long, why is he just now beginning to show initiative? I brushed it off, too hungry to worry over the little things.
“No need to walk, my dear. Just use DoorDash next time.”
Benjamin shook his head. “Ben said I should walk. He said it would be good for my health.”
I nearly choked on my taco. This was amazing. Benjamin was finally growing up in time to function independently, right before he loses me as well.
“I would really like to meet Ben.”
“Let me go talk to him really quick. He feels a lot more comfortable because of last night.”
I had completely forgotten about the oddities of last night until he reminded me. Fleetingly, I wondered if this was an early sign of dementia. I hoped not— having a sharp mind is all I have left at this point.
Benjamin shambled off, talking to Ben. I didn’t even finish the taco I was on before he returned, offering me a high-five.
“Tonight, grandma! He can meet you tonight at 8 o’clock. I’m really excited.”
I smiled, giving him a weak thumbs-up.
8 o’clock rolled around, and Benjamin knocked on my door.
“I’m coming in!” he shouted, voice seething with anticipation.
He burst through, and I scrambled through the bedsheets for my laptop.
“Where’s Ben?” I asked.
“Close your eyes,” he squealed.
I did as I was told, closing my eyes tightly. I heard him squirm a bit, ruffling his clothes. My heart raced, a mix of anticipation and curiosity, as I awaited the introduction.
“Now open them,” Benjamin whispered.
I slowly opened my eyes, and what I saw before me was a sight so grotesque and horrifying that my weakened heart nearly stopped. My breath caught in my throat— I couldn’t even muster the strength to breathe, let alone type.
There, protruding from Benjamin’s belly, was a twisted, misshapen face staring back at me. It was as if the teratoma tumor, supposedly removed all those years ago, had grown back with a vengeance. The monstrous revolting lump of flesh stared back at me with beady, soulless eyes. I realized this, this was Ben— not imaginary, but sickeningly real.
Benjamin’s voice was barely audible. “Ben is a bit shy right now. He won’t talk to you just yet, but that’s okay because you can’t talk either, Grandma.”
I watched in paralyzed horror as the deformed face clicked its teeth together and mashed its lips with a wet smacking. My mind raced, trying to comprehend the hellish amalgamation of human features that had come to life in front of me.
The eyes, two uneven black orbs, seemed to bore into my very soul, their gaze both empty and captivating. Above them, a gnarled, uneven brow furrowed in scowl of madness. The nose, if one could call it that, was a twisted, flattened bubbling lump of flesh, barely recognizable as a human feature.
The mouth was perhaps Ben’s most horrifying attribute. A jagged, mismatched row of teeth protruded from swollen, purplish gums, framed by thin, cracked lips that were pulled into a perpetual grimace. The teeth continued to click together, creating a sickening sound that filled the room, while his tongue slipped in and out, like a serpent testing the air for its prey.
There were patches of coarse, wiry hair sprouting sporadically across the malformed skin, like weeds in a long abandoned lawn. The skin itself was a mottled collage of sickly colors, varying from a pale, almost translucent white to a bruised purple hue. Veins pulsed beneath the surface, giving vitality to the thing that emerged from Benjamin’s belly.
Blackened flesh surrounded the face, as if the tumor had sucked all the life from the cells surrounding it. It looked as if a ring of frostbite surrounded the abomination, a buffer zone between Benjamin’s rolls of fat and Ben’s repulsive, squeaming face.
The room seemed to close in on me as I struggled to process what I was witnessing. I had never felt so helpless in my life, confined to my bed, unable to speak or move. My body shuddered involuntarily, acidic bile threatening to burst from my throat.
My trembling fingers struggled to type out a response. But what could I say? What possible words could I use to convey the terror and revulsion I felt? The screen remained blank, my thoughts a whirlwind of fear.
As I continued to stare at the revolting face, a horrifying thought began to take shape in my mind. My breath caught in my throat, as the unthinkable notion threatened to consume me.
I recalled the gruesome details of my son’s death, how he had been found cannibalized raw. The police had been unable to find the perpetrator so far, leaving it an unresolved tragedy.
And now, as I gazed upon the misshapen face that has life of its own, I began to connect the dots. Could it be possible that this grotesque creature had played a role in my son’s death? Was it responsible for the carnage that had torn my son to pieces?
The creature’s teeth, so sharp and jagged, seemed perfectly suited for tearing flesh from bone.
As the horrifying truth dawned on me, I felt a cold, crushing weight settle on my chest. I would be eaten, too. There is nothing I could do to stop it. I can’t move, I can’t call the police, I can’t even whisper. A wave of despair washed over me, and I realized that the very monstrosity responsible for my son’s death would be my own.
I prayed.
Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…
Benjamin was grinning, downright beaming, watching me with a hopeful intensity. The most I could muster was a small shake of my head as he reached towards my laptop, still open on my thighs.
As he reached, drawing his belly nearer, Ben’s face snarled, extending his tongue and licking my shoulder. I felt the warm, sticky saliva linger for a moment, only for the moisture to evaporate after a few seconds in a repulsively cooling sensation. I gasped, exhaling every bit of air left in my barely functioning lungs.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…
Benjamin closed my laptop and placed it out of reach.
“Ben doesn’t want to talk to you right now, so he said to take away your laptop for tonight. I’ll be right back, gonna grab a chair”
I laid motionless, horrified. I could hear Benjamin struggling with my La-Z-Boy in the living room. He drug it through the hallway, a cacophony of scraping filtering through to my ears.
Moments later, he appeared, huffing and puffing with the big chair. He oriented it so he could face me, plopping down in a sweaty ball of fat. The smell of his sweat followed, clouding my nostrils with a pungent, vomit-inducing aroma.
Give us this day our daily bread…
“I’m tired now, Grandma,” he mumbled between gasps.
On his stomach, Ben’s teeth curled into a grin, the clacking of his teeth intensifying with every passing moment.
“Goodnight, Grandma,” Benjamin whispered, eyes already closed.
And forgive us our tresspasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…
Ben’s beady eyes remained open, boring into me with a chilling fixation. I tried to calm my racing heartbeat, but the sounds that the creature made were impossible to ignore. Ben began to mutter unintelligible words, a guttural whisper than seemed to emanate from everywhere all at once. Between whispers, his teeth would lapse into minutes of clacking, like a rhythmic, grotesque metronome.
And lead us not into temptation…
The seconds turned to minutes, the minutes into hours. Sleep felt like a distant dream, a luxury imbued to only fantastical men and women. My mind filled with the images of my son’s death, his mutilated corpse, the torn up flesh. Suddenly, Benjamin’s refusal to remove his shirt clicked into place. He was hiding Ben, ashamed and possibly manipulated by the beast growing within his stomach. Now the creature was sitting across from me, staring out from my dear grandson’s ripe belly, after living among us for years. I felt like I was suffocating, exposed and naked against the monster’s glare.
But deliver us from evil.
Amen.
After what felt like hours, Ben’s face began to ripple. He tilted from side to side, squeezing his face against the dead, blackened skin that surrounded his face and segregated him from my grandson. Benjamin’s belly seemed to move with him, shifting rolls of fat from side to side. Benjamin sharply breathed in, stirring slightly, and began to softly snore. Ben paused his squirming, waiting for my grandson’s breathing to return to the same, slow pace it was before.
Benjamin’s breathing eventually slowed, and the creature began its sickening work again. It shifted back and forth in all directions, wiggling and whipping its head against the dead flesh surrounding it. Cracks began to appear in the decaying flesh, letting a thick, viscous blood ooze out of the blackened ring of skin. The thick, tar-like blood dribbled out quickly, staining Benjamin’s soft white belly fat and pooling on the floor.
The beast shook more feverishly against Benjamin, its head starting to gain shape as it peeled away from the dead mesh of flesh. Each time its temple would connect with the oozing blood, it would create a suction against the sides of the cavity it was in, filling the room with a sound like boots pounding in deep mud.
Benjamin awoke, shaking his head and sucking in a long breath. He put his hands around his belly, fumbling for the tumor. Ben snapped at his fingers, and Benjamin yelped.
“Ben, what are you doing?” he slurred, still groggy.
The shaking rose to a frenzy, Benjamin’s entire body convulsing with each lunge of the creature. Benjamin screamed, racking his fingers across his torso to no avail.
Benjamin sobbed, “Please, please, stop. You’re hurting me.”
The tumor didn’t pause its onslaught for a moment, despite Benjamin’s frantic pleading. It kept freeing its head little by little, tearing itself away from the fat that enveloped it. The gap between my grandson and Ben’s head was widening with each thrust, blood now gushing freely between them.
Suddenly, two little hands appeared from inside the widening hole, gripping firmly against the rim. It used them as leverage, pulling itself forward from my grandson’s belly.
Benjamin’s vain pleading cut off, replaced with a harsh gurgle. He made wet sucking sounds, his lungs filling with blood as Ben’s struggle turned my grandson’s organs to mush. Moments later, Benjamin went utterly quiet.
Ben paused, sensing Benjamin’s death.
He caulked his now-freed head at me, waving with the tips of his fingers.
With a gagging lurch, Ben pulled himself free from my grandson’s corpse, stumbling off the La-Z-Boy and revealing the rest of his body.
Ben’s size mirrored that of a toddler, yet any semblance of innocence was far removed from the repulsive form before me. His body was sheathed in a glistening film of blood, the aftermath of his violent birth from my grandson’s belly. The blood streamed down Ben’s limbs and torso, quickly mixing with the pool on the floor beneath him. His patchwork skin continued past his face, a sickly fusion of translucent white and purplish bruising, a canvas of deformity that begged my eyes to turn away.
From this grotesque tapestry sprouted uneven clusters of wiry hair, some strands long enough to sweep the bloodied floor with each of Ben’s jerky movements. I quickly realized that most of the patches of white that adorned his flesh were in fact teeth, jutting out at all angles in a disarray of jagged ivory. Interspersed among these were malformed eyes, blinking feverishly and swiveling on their own volition, absorbing their surroundings with a manic curiosity.
A third, stunted arm protruded from Ben’s chest, hanging limply and swaying with his first painstaking step. Its mutated fingers bristled with a near-solid arrangement of teeth, allowing only glimpses of raw pink flesh beneath the prolific profusion of enamel.
His abdomen swelled into a taut, bloated mass, like a woman heavy with child. Veins criss-crossed its surface, pulsating in a macabre dance. A few fingers emerged from his distended stomach, twitching and writhing as if reveling in their newfound freedom.
Supporting this abhorrent form were two uneven legs, the right significantly shorter than the left, forcing Ben to lean precariously in that direction. As I watched in horror, Ben turned around to face my grandson’s corpse.
He ate.
I closed my eyes, unable to watch, forced to listen.
Eventually, I heard an unmistakable burp. I squeezed my eyes open, taking in the scene. Ben sat on my grandson’s lap, stomach now bulging further than I thought possible. I glanced at the chunks of flesh missing from my grandson, immediately vomiting off the side of the bed. My dinner spewed from my throat, mixing with the blood on the floor in a hellish stew.
Ben climbed off the La-Z-Boy and waved at me. He crossed the few feet between us with lurching steps, attempting to climb onto the bed with me. I gripped my bedpan, smacking him as hard as my withering body would allow.
Ben stumbled backwards, letting out a guttural moan. He tried to climb up on my bed again, but again, I smacked him. I realized that his lumpy skin was very sensitive, as my attempts to stop him were feeble at best. Even so, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fend him off forever.
Ben retreated, stumbling through the door frame and into the hallway. I heard his uneven steps echo as he began to search the house for what I assume was a weapon.
Realizing that this might be my only chance, I sent a quick prayer and flopped out of bed. I landed in the mix of vomit and blood, the smell overpowering all other senses. At the sound of my fall, Ben stopped his search. His footsteps began pounding back towards my bedroom. I crawled with all my might, begging the Good Lord for enough strength to reach the door in time.
I made it to the door as Ben rounded the corner to the hallway, knife in hand. We made eye contact as he stumbled towards me, closing the distance. I heaved myself to my knees, tears streaming down my wrinkled cheeks.
Moments before Ben reached me, I slammed the door closed, reaching up to the lock. I felt him thud against the wood, hissing in frustration.
His footsteps clamored off, and I allowed myself a moment to catch my breath. The exertion of crawling across the floor left me winded.
The moment my breathing slowed, I began the journey back to my bed. I didn’t even attempt to get in bed, as I knew I had no chance of standing up. Instead, I saved my strength for what I could do— reach my laptop from my nightstand.