u/Brief-Coyote7753

It started as a gag—a gift from a friend, a “grow your own girlfriend,” crudely wrapped and laid in front of me. A running joke, since I was the only single one left. I laughed it off—an expected gift for Secret Santa. The obvious jokes ensued.

“Hey, Jamie finally got a plus one to the wedding,” one said.
“Try letting her grow to size before sticking your dick in it,” another chirped.

Laughter erupted as typical male banter took over. I laughed with them, though deep down it hurt.

After a few hours of laughter and heavy drinking, I finally stumbled through my flat door and onto my settee. I took a moment, praying the room would stop spinning. I hobbled to the sink and poured some water. While chugging, I looked down toward my left hand. It was clutching the “grow your own girlfriend.”

I looked closer. It read:

“Meet Stacey, a blonde bombshell who loves to serve. Put her in water and watch her grow up to 1000 times her original size! And unlike other women, if she annoys you, just leave her out and watch her shrink away.”

I remember chuckling to myself at the awful description and the crazy claim of her growing a thousand times her size. Still laughing, I thought, fuck it. Opening the package, I filled a bowl with water before giving her a kiss and saying, “Till tomorrow, my love.” I made my way to my room and passed out.

I woke to sunlight hitting my face. Groaning, I sat up. The smell of bacon and sausage from the neighbouring flat made my stomach grumble. Stumbling to the kitchen, I prayed I had something decent to eat. Opening the fridge yielded nothing.

Lost thinking about my neighbours’ breakfast, I was instantly brought back to reality by a low, wet wheeze filling the room. I instantly tensed up, the unfamiliar sound deafening in my otherwise silent flat. Looking around, it didn’t take long to find the cause of the noise.

In the bowl, the “grow your own girlfriend” sat—no, it didn’t sit, it was squashed and moulded into the shape of the bowl. Stacey, still sponge-like, one eye bulging from the water, gasped as if in pain. Her face was mangled against the curve of the bowl, half of it contorted around itself. A quiet plea left her sweet, wet voice.

“Help me.”

Doing the only thing I could think of, I filled the bathtub and carefully transferred her into it. She looked horrid, like a crash test dummy that had been through a horrific wreck. Over the next few days, I untangled her and watched her grow. Her sponge-like texture slowly turned to smooth, buttery skin. Her hair changed from painted strands into silky blonde locks. By the end of week three, she was able to walk and talk on her own.

She was perfection.

That’s how it started. We’d been going on dates and living together for the last six months.

However, our relationship wasn’t without flaws. Every day or so, depending on the temperature, I had to spray her with water to keep her form. The first time was nothing short of horrific. It started with her sensual voice going hoarse, as if she had tried speaking after swallowing sand. Then her face slowly morphed, half of it turning into a sponge-like texture. One eye locked, painted on, while the other bulged from its socket. Her hair shredded. She looked monstrous—uncanny.

I never left without a spray bottle. She slowly became my whole world. I was so happy—somebody who loved me, and someone I could love with every fibre of my being.

Introducing her to my family was a mixture of nerves and excitement, but it went super well. I remember my dad pulling me to one side, saying how nice she was before patting me on the back and adding, “She doesn’t look half bad either.” The mood was so positive…

Until my sister came through the door.

After the usual “how have you been” and introductions, me and my sister hugged. It had been a while since we’d seen each other. That’s when Stacey went quiet and gave my sister a death stare before snapping back to normal.

Later that night, as we left, Stacey exploded at me, telling me how I couldn’t even talk to another woman, let alone hug one. I tried explaining she was my sister, but she fell silent and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.

Around 2 a.m., I heard her leaving the flat.

The next day, I woke to a phone call from my mum. Through sobs, she told me my sister had passed after getting into a car crash in the early hours of the morning. It was deemed an accident… but deep in my gut, I knew different.

But I did nothing.

I loved Stacey.

And she loved me.

It was my fault for touching another woman. I pushed away what she did.

A few more months passed. My sister was buried. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral. I understood.

A couple of nights ago, I caught Stacey crying. I hated her crying—it also dried her out faster. I asked her what was wrong, getting upset myself. She said she was distraught because she wasn’t a real woman—that she couldn’t bear children for me, and that eventually I’d find someone real and let her dry out.

I tried to comfort her. Told her none of that mattered, that I loved her for her. I mistakenly asked if there was anything I could do for her.

The sobbing stopped instantly.
She said there was one thing I could do…
Make her real.

She explained she needed to absorb, and that I had to replace the water with blood. Her eyes pleaded.

It took a while to get used to butchering the parts I needed…
but I would do anything for my love.    

It had been two years since I had been back at my family home, but I was eager to return and spend time with my parents and sister in preparation for my mother’s 60th birthday.
Walking up the porch steps, I rang the bell and excitedly waited for my parents’ reaction. After all, this was a surprise.
My sister opened the door. She turned pale and began asking why I was there. Ignoring her rudeness, I gave her a hug, the whole time scanning the house for Mum and Dad. It didn’t take long for them to appear and stiffly walk toward us.
Lucy quickly chirped up, “Look, my brother Luke has come home.”
That sentence threw me through a loop. Such a weird way to say it—as if she was introducing me to strangers. My parents stopped, as if calculating their next move, before saying, “Yes, it’s nice to see you, son.”
“Uh, yeah… you guys too,” I replied, feeling uneasy.
I shook it off and asked where Benjie was—our German Shepherd. As soon as the question left my lips, my father quickly replied, “The dog… Benjie… he ran away.”
After he said that, I asked if he was okay. I thought he was having a stroke, but Lucy quickly interjected, “He ran away.” My father then repeated, “He ran away,” him and Mum nodding in sync.
I was now fully creeped out, but I rationalised it as me being gone a while. I’d ask Lucy about it later, I thought.
 
After being let in, I made my way toward the stairs, but my mum stood in front of me, blocking the way.
“No upstairs. Eat food.”
I began to laugh, now sure this was a joke. Her eyes narrowed, a snarl crossing her face. Lucy quickly said, “We’ve got to eat first,” her eyes now filled with fear.
“Righttt…” I said, exaggerating the word.
I plopped down next to my sister. Promptly, a bowl of brown stew was placed in front of me, grey meat floating to the surface. My sister audibly gulped and, in a hushed voice, said, “Avoid the meat.”
She didn’t need to tell me twice.
 
A stand-off between me and Lucy and our parents took place—who would take the first bite. With each passing moment, the air got thicker, filling with anger. I swear my parents’ faces grew different—more unclear, more animalistic.
My sister was sweating bullets. An audible gulp left her. Taking one for the team, I placed my spoon in and slurped the broth.
“Mmm… delicious,” I said, over the top.
It tasted like shit, but that seemed to satisfy them. They both dug in, inhaling it.
I tried making small talk, asking Mum if she was excited for her birthday. Lucy quickly stopped me.
“We don’t talk at dinner.”
“Of course we fucking don’t,” I muttered.
 
With each passing moment, my annoyance began to turn to anger, which all came to a climax as I bit down on something hard. A jolt of pain shot through my teeth into my jaw.
“Fuck! You stupid motherf—”
The whole table went quiet. My sister was now visibly trembling.
“What the fuck was that?”
I looked down at my spoon. A bone shaped dog tag with the letter B stared back at me.
My eyes widened. I began to gag, the implication racing through my mind.
 
I looked up at my parents. Both were wearing smiles too wide for their faces.
“You’re fucking sick. You need help.”
The illusion broke.
Lucy lay on the floor, rocking back and forth. My parents’ faces slowly began to separate, revealing flesh and muscle. As it pulled further apart, it revealed a gaping hole filled with jagged teeth. A high-pitched scream erupted from it.
 
I ran.
I ran toward the door. It was locked.
Turning back, I bolted upstairs to my old room, closing the door just in time. I heard them throwing themselves against it before suddenly stopping and heading back down the stairs.
Then I heard the most horrific thing.
My sister’s scream.
Snapping.
Crunching.
Wet noises.
Her screams stopped soon after.
 
I tried to think of a way out…
…until I felt a warm breath on my neck.
Spinning around, I saw her—Lucy.
However, her smile was too long.
A slit began to form down the middle of her face.  

My co-worker—no, my friend—just died. We’re currently 30,000 ft below sea level, and he just fucking died. Sending my superiors that message, they of course asked for an in-depth report: “Was he showing symptoms?” “Acting strange?” and all the other type of shit you’d expect. I’m sure they suspect foul play, but nah—no way I could do that shit.

 

The final line of the report stared at me: “Suspected cause of death.” I searched my mind for a likely cause and wrote “heart attack.” I hope they never see his body—the true cause.

 

I close the report and rub my temples, hoping the headache starts to fade. “I have a lot to do,” I think. Firstly, packing up Roger’s body into the plastic black tomb. I say a few words before taking him to the far end of the vessel, going back to the rec room and beginning to clear the mess. I pack up the game of cards we never got to finish.

 

My foot hits the red canister I used to try and save him, white powder still dripping from the nozzle. I look over to the now-charred ground where he fell—the image of his lips stretched back into a ghastly smile, eye sockets empty, the residue running down his cheeks like tears, his skin a deep burgundy.

 

I take a shot of the strongest shit I can get my hands on, mixing that with some painkillers, hoping it puts me to sleep. I know I’ll need the help—my dreams will be plagued by the memories of what happened earlier that evening.

 

“Hey, Roger, if you wanna, I’ll raise you,” I said. “Lose all your money, feel free.” We’d been playing for the last couple of hours to pass the time, talking shit about who’d win—Liam Neeson from Taken or Keanu Reeves as John Wick. That argument could last hours, the laughter drowning out the constant hum of the underwater pressure.

 

It was around midnight when he turned to me and said, “He’s almost here,” before the light left his eyes and he fucking combusted. Literally turned into a ball of fire in front of me.

 

I woke up.

 

At that moment, a familiar smell assaulted my nostrils, followed by the sound of the dive door opening. I froze. Getting to my feet, I opened my cabin door. I saw no one—until I looked down and saw charred footprints in the floor leading to the door. Impossible thoughts crossed my mind as I went to where Roger’s body was, but all that remained was a heap of burnt plastic and chunks of melted skin.

 

Stumbling over myself, I ran to the rec room where a large viewing area looked out into the deep, lit up so we could see the aquatic life. Looking out, I saw nothing—until, on the edge of the darkness, I made out a figure scuttling off. It had the same ghastly grin.

 

I sent an SOS message, and the crew are on their way. They’ll be here in a few hours. I’ll be okay. I’m gonna make it.

 

Well, that’s what I thought—

 

until I heard the dive door open, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.