An excerpt from my grandma’s written stories.
My dad worked out in a small processing plant a couple miles away, a gray, gritty blot on the otherwise lush landscape of town. Every morning, around 5 or so, I’d hear him grunt his way out of bed, ready himself, then be out the door by 5:30 sharp. Mom would be up not too far after, bustling down the hall to me and my brother’s rooms to wake us for school. He’d always come home when we were asleep (or at least pretending to be), so we never got to see him tons, but when we did he was happy and huge and his beard shook along with his belly whenever he laughed. His skin always had blotches of red baked into it, probably from the exertion it took to handle all that meat they processed at his job. He never really talked about it, just vague statements about processing beef and things and a mumble about keeping things under control (he was a “chief manager”, I was told by Mom). Never really mattered, though, ‘cause we usually got onto other things like school or music or whatever.
He’d occasionally bring a few of his work friends home with him to have a drink and chatter loudly around a game of cards or the television, loud enough I could hear it muffled through the floor of my room. I knew some of them by name; there was Mr. Dan, who was a bouncing, thick man who once patted my head with enough force that I thought my neck would snap; there was Mr. Phil, a wrinkled older man who was deceptively slim for how strong he really was (Dad said so); and Mr. Tom, who always seemed to have some portion of food to share with me if I happened to venture downstairs during one of their games (I liked him best because of this). Their presence was usually announced by a tinkling of the wind chimes that hung on our door, as well as a general ruckus. I’d slink downstairs and stare timidly at the four men, huge, silhouetted in the warm light from the porch, throwing shadows over the entire kitchen. They’d eventually spot me and Dad would hurry me off to bed, but I’d sometimes stay awake, sneak back down and Mr. Tom would find a way to sneak me something if he saw me peeking around the stairs.
One night, maybe mid-October, I heard the light tinkle of the chimes as the door from the porch swung open and several pairs of footsteps padded their way through the kitchen. I scurried down the steps, hoping to get palmed something from Mr. Tom or another pat on the head from Mr. Dan or a warm grin from Mr. Phil or a hug from Dad.
They were standing silhouetted in the light from the porch, three of them, minus Phil. I scooted to a halt at the base of the staircase and hid in the shadow cast by the dividing wall. The men turned immediately to my direction. Something was off. It was like their eyes glowed in the dark, for a second, two glinting coins in each of the massive shapes in front of me.
“Go to bed, honey.” Dad made an attempt at a warm smile from the stormy expression clouding his face. It looked so forced that, out of context, it would have looked like someone was threatening him to do it. I looked at Mr. Tom, expecting something in his hands, but his fists were clenched so hard they were dripping blood onto the carpet.
He didn’t have to tell me twice, especially looking at everyone else, their features stark and drained. I trotted upstairs and laid my ear to the floor. I could hear talking, more faint than usual, muffled beyond comprehension. I was gonna have to sneak down again.
“…Well, you were with him when it happened, so what happened?” “Well, we got into containment, and…” Dad grimaced, an ugly contortion. He sighed. “Poor guy. I guess his mind’s been going lately, and he forgot to seal himself off before we made contact. He stuck his arm into one of the holes, to drain the excess juice, and it sucked him right down. Guess he’s down there now.” He took a look at his bottle, almost unrecognizable from the Dad I knew. “Shoulda checked him before we went in. It’s my fault.” “No, it’s not.” Dad banged on the table, stood for a moment, reconsidered, and sat back down. “As soon as I heard his bones cracking, the squelch of that fucking thing eating him, it was over, I had to get out. I didn’t even get to process it.” His cheeks were wet. “I hate it there, so fuckin’ much. It hadn’t been fed in months, now it’s gonna grow and want more, and we don’t even know what it’s gonna do now that it has more material to work with. I mean when you really think about it, it’s awful, right? A big fucking throbbing, glistening, pile of,”
He stopped.
Suddenly he was directly in front of me, hellish against the porch light.
“Go to bed. Now.”
A week later, we had burgers for dinner, fresh from the factory, according to Mom.