u/Horror-Writer-6672

Locked away in my study, I sit in front of my typewriter with a lit cigarette in hand. The page in its carriage comfortably rests, as it has for a year. A blank canvas turns into a mocking reminder of my incompetence. I glance to the side, my eyes trailing over the empty bookcase I plan on filling with my stories. Instead, it holds bottles of whiskey, a box of shells, my zippo lighter, and the double-barreled shotgun that Pops gave me as a housewarming gift.

I stand up and walk across the creaky floor as I step outside the room. Met with a hallway, I tip-toe to the opposite end, passing another corridor on the right, and quietly push the door open. My wife, Sandy, lies asleep on our queen-sized mattress, wrapped in our quilt blanket and snoring in her pink nightgown. Her black hair is haphazardly strewed across her face as her eyelids flutter. Slowly closing the door, I head back to the juncture and turn left. Passing the kitchen, I stop at my son’s room before slowly cracking it open and peering inside. Where I expect to see a young boy asleep in his bed, I’m instead met with an indent in his bed and an open window.

My heart beats like a drum as I run over and stick my head outside, catching a glimpse of a skinny white figure carrying my unconscious son in his arms towards the woods.

“Duncan!” I scream out as my limbs spring to action. Lunging out the window and breaking into a sprint, I try closing the distance, but it is too late. The figure turns its head and flashes me a toothless red smile as it slinks into the tree-line surrounding the property. A few seconds later, I rush into the shrubs where it stood, but I’m only met with sharp thorns and jabbing branches.

Over the next few weeks, we make as many posters as we can and scatter them around town. Even the police get involved after enough pleading and send search party after search party into the woods. It wasn't until yesterday that they found something. At least before, I held onto the hope that my poor child had survived or gotten away, but his torn clothes mixed into a pile of meat and bone sealed the deal. My son is dead—an awful death—and it is my fault. If I am just a little faster, if I don’t lose him in the woods, then maybe things are different.

“Honey, please, just be honest with me,” my wife begs as I sit on the foot of our bed, her arms wrapped around my chest from behind. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just want to know what happened that night.”

“For the hundredth time, something with pale white skin carries him into the woods!” I speak through gritted teeth while pushing her arms off me. She only moves closer, her warmth pressing against my back.

“I do, but… You had a lot to drink before I went to bed that night…” Her timid voice slithers into my ears. My blood races.

“Oh my God! This again? I tell you that I have it under control, I’m not like my father! I know what I saw and I’m telling you, no animal took our son. It is a goddamn monster!” My words boom as I clench my fists. I just can’t understand why no one believes me. It’s not like I’m crazy. I see that thing turn around and smile with my own eyes.

“Don’t get mad! I didn’t say you lied, I just think—” There is a loud knock on the front door.

“And who’s that at this hour? I told the police to leave us the fuck alone already!” I storm out of the bedroom. My heavy steps make the floor creak with every move as I walk down the main corridor and fling open the front door. My heart drops as I see who stands on our porch, their naked body covered in mud and loose leaves.

“Duncan!” My wife screams from behind as I hear her run down the hallway. She pushes past me, dropping to embrace her lost child. Tears stream down her face as she clenches him tight in her arms. I stand in disbelief, not moving an inch, while she pulls him inside and closes the door. I can’t believe my eyes. It is actually him. My son comes home even after everything I saw.

We quickly take him to the bathroom and wash him in the tub, scrubbing every inch before wrapping him in a towel. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” My wife kisses his head at least a dozen times. After she is done, I put my arms under his and lift him up with more difficulty than before—like he gained weight while lost in the woods. I carry him to his room and lay him on the bed.

“Can you tell us what happened out there? We were so worried!” My wife says while kneeling on the ground to be eye level with him.

“I’m… Duncan…” He mutters in almost broken English, like it is his first time saying those words.

“Yes, you are, honey. Do you remember us? I’m Mama,” she gestures to herself, then to me. “And that's Papa. We’re your parents.”

“Yes… Mama… Papa… I remember you.” Each word comes out slightly more coherent than the last.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, honey. We’ll let you get some rest now. I know you must be tired,” she says while standing up. Turning around, she grabs my hand and leads me out of the room before closing the door behind us.

Over the next week, Duncan slowly grows accustomed to living at home again. It’s like he forgot everything he once knew, even simple things such as how to open a door, hold a fork, or how to use the toilet. My wife and I are alarmed at how much he forgets, so we call a physician to the house. The doctor spends an hour in Duncan’s room testing his reflexes and pupil dilation while asking him questions. After he is done, he comes out and tells us that our son is in fine physical health but has the worst case of amnesia he has ever seen. My wife weeps at the news, but I just stand there with a blank expression on my face. It makes little sense. He didn’t hit his head on anything while lost, so where did his memories go?

The first sign comes the next day when I go to wake up Duncan. I push his door open gently and peer inside. He is already sitting up in his bed and holds a dozen white teeth in his hand. Slowly, he plucks one with his other hand before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of squelching meat quietly wafts through the room as he pushes it into his gums, blood trickling down his arm. I slowly sneak away and head back to my room before shaking my wife awake.

“Huh? What is it?” She groggily says as I pull her from our bed and into the hallway. I quietly lead her to our son’s room, but by the time we get there, he’s already standing up and changing clothes. Noticing us watching him, Duncan looks me in the eye and flashes a wide smile. Every tooth is in its right place.

“I know you’re still happy he’s back, but it’s early and I still want a few more hours of sleep,” my wife says while walking back to our room. I stay close behind her as I follow, waiting until we’re inside before closing and locking the door behind us. I grab her hand and sit with her on the bed.

“Sandy. There’s something wrong with Duncan. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that something happened in those woods.” I lock eyes with her. “I wake you up because I see him putting his teeth back in his mouth. It’s like they all fell out and he forces them back in. Plus, there is the meat they found in the woods. They didn’t find any teeth in it, did they?”

She recoils for a moment, then stands up. “Why do you have to keep making things up about our son? First, you said some monster whisked him away and now you’re saying that all his teeth are falling out? I just saw him smile two minutes ago!” She says before storming out of the room.

I lie back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. No, this can’t just be in my head. Besides what I saw the night Duncan was taken, there is the viscera in the woods, his abnormal weight, sudden amnesia, and now missing teeth. I think and think, but the only thing I know is that I will never convince my wife. She just doesn’t see it like I do. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ll have to show her what Duncan really is.

Later that night, I sneaked out of bed after hearing Sandy snore. I creep across the hallway and into my study. Slowly walking up to the bookshelf, I grab my whiskey bottle, pop it open, take a hefty swig, then snatch the shotgun and pocket a couple of shells. Leaving the room, I creep towards my son’s door, shotgun in hand as I load two shells in its chambers. Gently pushing the door open, I slink inside and raise the gun. My son lies on his bed, facing away from me. Slowly moving to the other side, I am greeted with his eyes already wide open. They stare blankly down the barrel of my gun, then up at me.

“What are you?” I ask bluntly, holding the gun steady as I aim down the sights at Duncan’s head. “Because you’re not my son.”

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m Duncan.” He sits up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I scream while pushing the barrel’s tip against his forehead and pulling back both hammers. “You can’t trick me anymore! I know you’re not him!”

Duncan smiles from ear to ear and speaks calmly. “Why can’t you accept I’m home and just be happy?”

“Because you’re not my son! He died in the woods three weeks ago!” I cry as my finger pulls on the trigger, snapping the hammers down and igniting the primers. Boom. A dozen pellets spew out from the barrel, painting the wall with red pellets. Duncan’s body slumps over, blood pooling where his head should be.

The door to the room suddenly bursts open as Sandy runs through it, only to be met with me holding a gun over our son’s corpse. A blood-curdling scream consumes the room as she runs over and holds his body. “What have you done to my baby? You’re a fucking monster!” She cries while glaring at me, her pink nightgown now partially a deep shade of red. Dropping the gun, I put my hands on my head.

“But… he isn't…” I mutter while backing up against the wall. This can’t be, I am so sure. I didn't just kill my child. It is a monster. It has to be. Suddenly, a loud thud rings out as my wife falls to the ground. Running over, I call her name as I check her pulse. Bum-bum, bum-bum. “Thank God,” I whisper while carrying her out of the room. Down the hallway and to the right, I place her on our bed. As I’m pulling the blanket over her chest, I hear something down the hallway. Walking out of the room, I hear it better—like the crunching of bones and squishing of meat. No, there’s something else mixed in. Moving closer, I turn at the juncture and creep up to my son's door as the noise gets louder and louder. I can finally tell what it is now—muffled laughter.

I watch from the door as Duncan’s body twitches and convulses, liquids spewing from his neck as something drenched in a layer of meat and blood pokes out of it. It has two eye sockets that house pitch-black eyes, a hole where the nose should be, and a toothless smile that reaches from ear to ear. It notices me in the doorway and croaks in a deep voice, “Papa. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I want to run, to do something, but I can’t. My body freezes as I watch Duncan’s limbs extend, the skin ripping as it stretches like plastic pulled too thin. By the time I gain control of my body again, the monster has fully extended its limbs and stands beside the window, wearing my son’s skin like clothes that don’t fit.

“What the fuck are you?” I scream at it while slamming the door shut. Wood snaps from above as it shoves its head through the door, peering down at me with its gummy smile.

Letting go of the door, I try to sprint down the hallway, but it breaks through and grabs my leg. Falling to the ground, my head slams against the wooden floor, cutting my forehead open. Vision escapes me as I look back to see the creature standing over my body. The last thing I see before blacking out is its abyssal eyes staring into mine.

When I gain consciousness, I am still on the ground between my son’s room and the juncture. Clambering to my feet, I use the wall to help as I hobble towards my bedroom. My whole body screams in pain, but I shove the feeling down as I turn the corner. The door is closed—not how I left it. I slam my fist on the door while screaming Sandy’s name. “Hold on, honey. I’m changing!” The voice of my wife calls out from within.

“I don’t care. Open the door!” I scream as I throw my shoulder against it, using my body weight to force it open. I stumble inside while checking the bed for her. Where I hope to see my sleeping wife, there are organs, chunks of meat, and snapped bones scattered about like the dumped out contents of a drawer. On the other side of the bed stands the creature with its body halfway inside a pile of flesh. It puts its feet in first before pulling the skin to cover its body, like putting on a jumpsuit. As it pulls the skin higher, its bones bend on each other, folding to fit inside of its new shell.

“I love you, honey.” The creature speaks with the voice of my wife. It fills me with so many emotions: anger, sadness, self-loathing, but in that moment, I can’t help but laugh. I cackle louder than I have ever before as I leave the room and hobble across the hallway to my study. Stopping at the shelf, I grab the whiskey bottle and lighter, then turn around. Leaving the room, I face the monster as it stands in the opposite doorway. “Come back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow," it says in her voice.

Slowly raising the bottle to my lips, I take a swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on. I rear my arm and launch the bottle. It shatters on impact, dousing the monster in a layer of liquor. Flicking my lighter to life, I hold the flame in front of me before tossing it. Within moments, fire consumes the hallway as the monster flails and falls backwards. An ear-piercing bellow rings out and echoes in the hallway, forcing me to cover my ears as I walk to the front door. Pushing it open with my shoulder, I fall onto the ground outside just as fire consumes the entire house. Watching while on my back, I weep as I watch the life I love burn away.

A few hours later, emergency services arrive and put out the fire as they haul me away in an ambulance. Police officers come to my room and begin asking questions I don’t want to answer. They find bullet holes in my son’s room, high amounts of liquor in my bloodstream, and the charred remains of my wife on the bed. It doesn’t help that they don’t believe my story. I can’t blame them. Who in their right mind would? It’s not every day that a skin-stealing monster kills your whole family. That’s why I am sentenced for the murder of my wife and kid. My appointed lawyer argues for insanity instead, meaning the rest of my days will be spent in an asylum rather than in prison. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I am going to spend the rest of my days waiting to die either way.

That is until I receive a visitor. The asylum staff tie me to my bed and let him into the room as they leave, closing the door behind them. He wears a doctor's coat and carries himself with confidence as he walks beside my bed. Looking down at me with soft blue eyes, he takes off his hat and rests it on my chest. “Do you recognize me?”

“Never met you, so why are you here?” I bark back. He smiles.

“What a shame. I hope you do. I’ve grown so much and it’s all thanks to you, Papa. Or should I say, honey?”

“It’s you?” I mutter in disbelief before violently struggling against my restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you for what you did!” I scream. Workers flood into my room. They hold me down and jab my arm with a needle while I gnash my teeth at him. Sedatives quickly kick in, making my whole body go numb. The last thing I see is his ear to ear smile as he looms over me.

My thundering steps on the hollow metal floor were swallowed by an ensemble of bloodthirsty shrieks that consumed the air around me. Each painful breath burned my lungs as sweat stung my eyes. Despite the fear and pain rattling my body, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t let them catch me. 

Not an hour ago, I was sitting at my workstation in the depths of the ship. Designed to be a mobile city in space, The Starstruck was designed with livability in mind. The upper floors had layers and layers of houses, apartments, restaurants, and entertainment. For the upper class that called those parts of the ship home, it was uncommon to never step foot on the floors below them. However, for the working class like me, all I knew was maintenance and hard labor. Despite being the blood that kept the ship running, we were treated like serfs. 

No one on my level was allowed to breed without consent, we worked from the moment we woke up to the moment we passed out in our chambers. That was the deal that our ancestors made in exchange for being allowed on board. Some tried to riot or protest for rights but in the end, what could we do? If we stopped taking care of the engine then we’d die along with everyone above us. 

 I overheard co-workers spreading rumors of an outbreak on the higher levels. Thankfully, I had connections to some scientists on the upper floors. They sent an email earlier today warning me to evacuate as soon as possible. I asked why and they just told me that something went wrong, a wrong injection here and a spliced gene there. All they could emphasize was for me to find a way to the escape pods as soon as I could. I didn't believe them at first but when the sirens began to blare, I didn't ask questions and made my move. It was every man, woman, and child for themselves. I was one of the lucky few to make it off deck quickly through a service shaft; the rest gathered at elevator entrances awaiting a rescue that wouldn’t come. 

Turning a sharp corner, I skidded to a sudden halt, my heart jumping in my chest. Down the dim hallway ahead, two of the creatures that infested the ship were hunched over, their movements rapid as they feasted greedily on the mangled remains of a human torso. 

I stood paralyzed while watching the two figures as they reveled in the spoils of their hunt. Locked in a cycle of constant fighting and bickering, their unintelligible grunts and snarls created a wall of sound that hid me from their attention. I knew this perfect moment was fleeting— the second their meal was gone, their unceasing hunger would lead them to me. 

I crept toward a nearby storage closet. I hoped I could hide until the coast was clear but as I slipped through the heavy door, what little breath I had left was stolen.

A small child, likely no more than eight or nine years old, was huddled behind a towering stack of cardboard boxes. His blue eyes were wide and despondent, reflecting the dim light leaking under the door. I crouched down until I was at his level.

"It’s okay," I whispered. "I’m not going to hurt you like those things out there. Why don’t you come out from behind the boxes?"

The child shuffled nervously at the sound of my voice, his small feet scuffing against the floor. He weighed my offer in heavy silence before finally sidestepping into the flickering glow of the overhead light.

I was immediately taken aback by his appearance. He was in far worse condition than I had initially feared. His already small frame was hollowed out by starvation. Deep bags hung beneath his weary blue eyes while thin blonde hair fell in limp strands around his shoulders.

Moving slowly so as to not spook him, I reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. My heart sank as we touched, his body was deathly cold, feeling fragile and thin. I leaned in, meeting his haunted gaze with as much warmth as I could muster. 

"What’s your name, little guy? Mine is Thomas. I work in engineering, right near the main engine.” 

He stared weakly into my eyes, appearing momentarily dazed and confused by the simple humanity of my question. After a long beat, he slowly raised a trembling arm and pointed toward a discarded spray bottle lying on the floor between us. The label, stained and peeling, read Hank’s Industrial Soap. His small finger pressed firmly against the final word, pinning it down as if to claim it.

“So, Soap is your name? For real?”

He offered a shallow nod in confirmation, a faint, genuine smile cracking his dry, dehydrated lips. 

“Alright, Soap,” I said, matching his resolve. “We need to get off this ship. There should be a bay of escape pods near the bridge, but the halls are crawling with those things. Do you have any ideas for how to get there?”

Soap’s gaze drifted upward, looking past my shoulder. I followed the line of his stare until it landed on a grated air vent. The ventilation system was the skeleton of the ship, and while the ducts wouldn't be roomy for someone of my size, they were certainly large enough to crawl through. It wouldn’t be the best conditions, but considering the alternative, it was the best we had.

I turned back toward him and gave his head a gentle, reassuring pat. “Smart kid. Let’s just hope those things out there don’t have the same idea.”

I hoisted Soap up into the narrow opening before following soon after, the metal groaning slightly under my weight. Once we were both within the cramped, metal tunnels, the gravity of our situation became clear. We were facing at least an hour of crawling through the dust and recycled air. The odds of finding a functional, fueled escape pod were slim at best, but it was the only hand we had left to play. If we reached them, we’d launch, trigger an SOS, and pray for a miracle, provided we lived that long.

Our journey through the ducts was filled with a bonding silence. I watched Soap move with a surprising ease, his small body navigating the tight turns far easier than my own. I stayed back and let him lead, providing him a small sense of agency in a world that had taken everything else.

Spending this time with Soap made me consider why I never applied for a breeding permit. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t, I guess a mixture of no one I was interested in and not wanting to bring a child into a world where they would be forced to work day in and day out. However, I found myself liking Soap, a lot actually. He reminded me of myself at that age, quiet and reserved but competent and independent. 

I wondered how he got to this point, abandoned and alone on a ship that didn’t take kindly to lower deck orphans. The thought of him having to scrounge for food and a place to sleep at such a young age made my heart heavy. He deserved better, at least a shot at a good life. 

Eventually, we reached the grate closest to the pod bay. We squeezed together, our faces pressed against the cold metal slits to survey the scene below. From our elevated vantage point, we visually swept the expansive chamber that housed the entrance to the pods. A formidable steel security wall bisected the room, impassable without the proper clearance codes for the central console, clearance I fortunately possessed as an engineer. 

The once-pristine white walls of the room were now a crimson canvas painted with blood and guts, littered with enough severed limbs to fill a pool. The carnage was indiscriminate, the corpses of high-ranking military officers, elite scientists, the wealthy, and the impoverished lay tangled together in a grim display. Spent bullet casings glittered amidst the gore, marking where their final stand had failed.

The victors of that battle-royale were now feasting on the spoils. They hunched over the remains, carelessly lapping up the blood still freshly trickling from the meat. As new arrivals joined the horde, they dragged in fresh corpses to add to the communal heap. A sickening wave of guttural snarls and wet tearing noises wafted up into the vents, laced with the thick copper tang of death. 

I was torn from the feast by the sight of a small band of survivors near the opposite gate. They glanced at one another with trembling resolve before turning their eyes toward the bay, weapons raised. They aimed at the enemy with a makeshift mix of firearms, kitchen knives, baseball bats, and bare fists. 

More people slowly trickled in, some of them I recognized from the level that I worked on. They eventually formed a thin wall of resistance, their morale raising with each new recruit. Below us, the creatures began to look up from their grisly meals as they let out sharp, high-pitched barks that alerted the pack. The air grew heavy with a suffocating tension, fifty feet of blood-slicked tile was all that separated the two sides. Men and women grip their weapons until their knuckles turned white, whispering final pleas to a God they hoped was still listening.

The stand-still shattered when a teenager, who watched his parents torn to shreds not twenty minutes ago, was overcome by blinding rage and pulled the trigger of a pistol.

It was as if a bell had been rung, signaling the beginning of their clash. Both sides charged. The room exploded into a roaring wave of war cries and gunfire. Bullets tore into flesh while knives found their way into throats and brains. But the monsters fought with animalistic efficiency, claws sliced through skin, and limbs were torn from sockets accompanied by a sickening pop. 

Soap and I watched as a young woman swung a heavy metal pipe at a creature. It caught her neck mid-swing, its talons locking around her throat before she could connect. It hoisted her into the air, holding her aloft as she kicked and clawed at its hands in a frantic battle for control. The creature didn't flinch, it simply watched her with cold, black eyes until her movements ceased. 

I sat there and watched them die one by one. A hollow guilt gnawed at me as these courageous people were slaughtered while I hid in the dark. I had to prioritize our survival, I couldn't let Soap suffer the same fate as them. 

As the human line thinned and broke, the survivors began to flee. When the monsters gave chase, the bay fell into a haunting, echoing silence. 

This is our moment! I kick the vent grate from its hinges and drop onto the white tile. Quickly turning to catch Soap, I helped him onto the ground before sprinting for the gate console. 

With trembling hands, I fished my keycard from my pocket and swiped it against the sensor. The display flickered to life, welcoming me by name and flashing a bright warning to clear the path. My heart leapt, we were actually going to make it. But as the heavy gears began to groan, the mechanism shrieked to life and a high-pitched mechanical wailed out. I turned back toward the exit and saw pale heads popping back into the hall, drawn by the noise. Upon spotting us, they erupted into a chorus of frenzied shrieks. More of them flooded back into the room as I scooped Soap into my arms, pressing my back against the slowly retreating metal door.

As the metal parted enough to slip through, we burst into the pod bay, the creatures hot on our heels. Most of the pods were either mangled wreckage or already launched. However there was still hope, nestled against the far wall and beside a guard whose throat had been jaggedly cut open, there sat a single-person emergency craft.

These pods were designed for endurance, stocked with enough supplies to last a week, but being in their cockpit was like laying in a coffin. There was no possible way to fit two.

I set Soap down, my hands shaking as I looked into his tearful face. He stared back at me, his blue eyes wide pleading with me to not do it. I hoisted him into the seat and fumbled with the restraints, my fingers working against his as he desperately tried to push his way out. I held him down, leaning in for one final, crushing hug.

“There’s plenty of food in there, Soap. You eat up and stay strong, okay? Someone is going to find you,” I whispered, my voice breaking as tears slid down my cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you, kid.”

I pulled myself back before it was too late and slammed my palm onto the emergency eject. I watched through the small porthole as his pleading face receded, his pod rocketing into the silent embrace of deep space, carrying an SOS into the void.

I turned back to see the horde closing in fast. I didn't run. Instead, I sat down next to the fallen guard and reached for the pistol at his hip. I checked the magazine; there were a couple rounds left. My run hadn't been perfect, but as I looked up at the stars through the bay windows, I knew I had at least done one thing right. 

Putting the gun to my head, I imagine Soap watching the ship from his escape pod, the nightmares of today just a tiny glint of light in the distance, his small hand wiping away tears as he heads toward a future I’ll never see.

You told me that writing down my experiences would help me control my urges. I’m not sure how it would, but I guess I could try. 

The craving began five months ago while cave diving with my best friend. We took a chance on an unexplored path, the floor collapsed, and we found ourselves stuck in a small cavern. It was cold and claustrophobic, our bodies pressed against each other for warmth. We stayed like that for days, huddled together and unsure when rescue would come. 

For a while, we talked about what we would do when we got out. I fantasized about walking barefoot on the beach, sand between my toes as salty water washed over them. He only talked about food, how much he wanted a honey glazed ribeye or juicy burger with all the toppings. 

Hunger ate away at our bodies until he died of starvation first, or maybe lost the will to live. I wasn’t sure. All I can remember was  the lifeless look in his eyes. They were wide and panicked, like a cornered animal. 

Our bodies were stuck together like glue, his warmth fading away until I was all alone. I swore I could hear his voice whispering to me. He scratched at the back of my mind, promising there was still a chance, a way out. He told me to eat him, to savor every inch of flesh and ounce of blood he had left to offer. He said it was the only way and I had no choice but to believe him.

It didn’t take long for me to give in. Day after day, I slowly devoured every part of him that I could. I chewed the bits of fat still left, ripped through tendons with my teeth, and slurped up marrow. Every step of the way, his voice egged me on, encouraging me as I consumed him bite by bite. If I’m being honest with you, I loved it: his raw meat and juices tasted better than anything I had eaten before. 

A week later, two men found me and dragged me back to civilization. News stations and reporters tried reaching out but I ignored them all. I couldn’t talk about what happened in that cave, they wouldn’t get it. They wouldn’t me, 

It took a while to settle back in, to reintegrate. I felt empty, like a husk mindlessly wandering around. I moved from job to job, city to city but no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he tasted. 

The search to relive that experience brought me to a morgue. It wasn’t hard getting a job there, not many people want to work around dead bodies all day. I memorized the camera blind spots, shift rotations, and cremation schedules—all so I cut chunks of meat from cadavers that came through. I brought them home and turned them into meals. I deep fried some into nuggets or strips and seared others into steaks. I slathered them with crimson sauce, turning each morsel of meat into a delicious cuisine of rare game. 

No matter how much I consumed, it never felt like enough. What little I could sneak off was already dead, like ground meat sitting on the grocery store shelf. I was like a junkie desperately searching for a stronger high. I wanted, no, I craved the real, living thing. 

Just when I was about to act on my desire, I got on my phone and found the cheapest therapist I could. Your office nestled between an asian buffet and pizza place didn’t stand out, but your reviews did. People ranted and raved about how much you changed their lives. I thought for a while that I could be like them, that I could be saved from myself. 

I’m surprised you didn’t turn me away when I told you what I was feeling. Instead you treated me like a challenge to overcome. We talked for hours and hours, my eyes trained on your hands as you stroked your beard. I tried all kinds of food that you recommended. Cow liver, chicken feet, sheep eyes, none of them snapped me out of this obsession like you thought they would. I must admit, you really gave it your best shot but in the end, I still feel like I did back in that cave, a hungry animal desperate for another bite. 

I guess if this recollection has made me realize anything, it’s that I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks about me. I’m going to do what makes me happy and if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right. 

There’s still so much for me to find out, like what cut of flesh tastes the best, or which way of preparing it brings out the most vibrant flavor. I wonder, what would you taste like? Would you be sweet and savory, or chewy and bitter? Would you taste good in a stew or better as a plate of tender ribs? I’d love to find out the next time we meet. 

Locked away in my study, I sit in front of my typewriter with a lit cigarette in hand. The page in its carriage comfortably rests, as it has for a year. A blank canvas turns into a mocking reminder of my incompetence. I glance to the side, my eyes trailing over the empty bookcase I plan on filling with my stories. Instead, it holds bottles of whiskey, a box of shells, my zippo lighter, and the double-barreled shotgun that Pops gave me as a housewarming gift.

I stand up and walk across the creaky floor as I step outside the room. Met with a hallway, I tip-toe to the opposite end, passing another corridor on the right, and quietly push the door open. My wife, Sandy, lies asleep on our queen-sized mattress, wrapped in our quilt blanket and snoring in her pink nightgown. Her black hair is haphazardly strewed across her face as her eyelids flutter. Slowly closing the door, I head back to the juncture and turn left. Passing the kitchen, I stop at my son’s room before slowly cracking it open and peering inside. Where I expect to see a young boy asleep in his bed, I’m instead met with an indent in his bed and an open window.

My heart beats like a drum as I run over and stick my head outside, catching a glimpse of a skinny white figure carrying my unconscious son in his arms towards the woods.

“Duncan!” I scream out as my limbs spring to action. Lunging out the window and breaking into a sprint, I try closing the distance, but it is too late. The figure turns its head and flashes me a toothless red smile as it slinks into the tree-line surrounding the property. A few seconds later, I rush into the shrubs where it stood, but I’m only met with sharp thorns and jabbing branches.

Over the next few weeks, we make as many posters as we can and scatter them around town. Even the police get involved after enough pleading and send search party after search party into the woods. It wasn't until yesterday that they found something. At least before, I held onto the hope that my poor child had survived or gotten away, but his torn clothes mixed into a pile of meat and bone sealed the deal. My son is dead—an awful death—and it is my fault. If I am just a little faster, if I don’t lose him in the woods, then maybe things are different.

“Honey, please, just be honest with me,” my wife begs as I sit on the foot of our bed, her arms wrapped around my chest from behind. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just want to know what happened that night.”

“For the hundredth time, something with pale white skin carries him into the woods!” I speak through gritted teeth while pushing her arms off me. She only moves closer, her warmth pressing against my back.

“I do, but… You had a lot to drink before I went to bed that night…” Her timid voice slithers into my ears. My blood races.

“Oh my God! This again? I tell you that I have it under control, I’m not like my father! I know what I saw and I’m telling you, no animal took our son. It is a goddamn monster!” My words boom as I clench my fists. I just can’t understand why no one believes me. It’s not like I’m crazy. I see that thing turn around and smile with my own eyes.

“Don’t get mad! I didn’t say you lied, I just think—” There is a loud knock on the front door.

“And who’s that at this hour? I told the police to leave us the fuck alone already!” I storm out of the bedroom. My heavy steps make the floor creak with every move as I walk down the main corridor and fling open the front door. My heart drops as I see who stands on our porch, their naked body covered in mud and loose leaves.

“Duncan!” My wife screams from behind as I hear her run down the hallway. She pushes past me, dropping to embrace her lost child. Tears stream down her face as she clenches him tight in her arms. I stand in disbelief, not moving an inch, while she pulls him inside and closes the door. I can’t believe my eyes. It is actually him. My son comes home even after everything I saw.

We quickly take him to the bathroom and wash him in the tub, scrubbing every inch before wrapping him in a towel. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” My wife kisses his head at least a dozen times. After she is done, I put my arms under his and lift him up with more difficulty than before—like he gained weight while lost in the woods. I carry him to his room and lay him on the bed.

“Can you tell us what happened out there? We were so worried!” My wife says while kneeling on the ground to be eye level with him.

“I’m… Duncan…” He mutters in almost broken English, like it is his first time saying those words.

“Yes, you are, honey. Do you remember us? I’m Mama,” she gestures to herself, then to me. “And that's Papa. We’re your parents.”

“Yes… Mama… Papa… I remember you.” Each word comes out slightly more coherent than the last.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, honey. We’ll let you get some rest now. I know you must be tired,” she says while standing up. Turning around, she grabs my hand and leads me out of the room before closing the door behind us.

Over the next week, Duncan slowly grows accustomed to living at home again. It’s like he forgot everything he once knew, even simple things such as how to open a door, hold a fork, or how to use the toilet. My wife and I are alarmed at how much he forgets, so we call a physician to the house. The doctor spends an hour in Duncan’s room testing his reflexes and pupil dilation while asking him questions. After he is done, he comes out and tells us that our son is in fine physical health but has the worst case of amnesia he has ever seen. My wife weeps at the news, but I just stand there with a blank expression on my face. It makes little sense. He didn’t hit his head on anything while lost, so where did his memories go?

The first sign comes the next day when I go to wake up Duncan. I push his door open gently and peer inside. He is already sitting up in his bed and holds a dozen white teeth in his hand. Slowly, he plucks one with his other hand before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of squelching meat quietly wafts through the room as he pushes it into his gums, blood trickling down his arm. I slowly sneak away and head back to my room before shaking my wife awake.

“Huh? What is it?” She groggily says as I pull her from our bed and into the hallway. I quietly lead her to our son’s room, but by the time we get there, he’s already standing up and changing clothes. Noticing us watching him, Duncan looks me in the eye and flashes a wide smile. Every tooth is in its right place.

“I know you’re still happy he’s back, but it’s early and I still want a few more hours of sleep,” my wife says while walking back to our room. I stay close behind her as I follow, waiting until we’re inside before closing and locking the door behind us. I grab her hand and sit with her on the bed.

“Sandy. There’s something wrong with Duncan. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that something happened in those woods.” I lock eyes with her. “I wake you up because I see him putting his teeth back in his mouth. It’s like they all fell out and he forces them back in. Plus, there is the meat they found in the woods. They didn’t find any teeth in it, did they?”

She recoils for a moment, then stands up. “Why do you have to keep making things up about our son? First, you said some monster whisked him away and now you’re saying that all his teeth are falling out? I just saw him smile two minutes ago!” She says before storming out of the room.

I lie back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. No, this can’t just be in my head. Besides what I saw the night Duncan was taken, there is the viscera in the woods, his abnormal weight, sudden amnesia, and now missing teeth. I think and think, but the only thing I know is that I will never convince my wife. She just doesn’t see it like I do. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ll have to show her what Duncan really is.

Later that night, I sneaked out of bed after hearing Sandy snore. I creep across the hallway and into my study. Slowly walking up to the bookshelf, I grab my whiskey bottle, pop it open, take a hefty swig, then snatch the shotgun and pocket a couple of shells. Leaving the room, I creep towards my son’s door, shotgun in hand as I load two shells in its chambers. Gently pushing the door open, I slink inside and raise the gun. My son lies on his bed, facing away from me. Slowly moving to the other side, I am greeted with his eyes already wide open. They stare blankly down the barrel of my gun, then up at me.

“What are you?” I ask bluntly, holding the gun steady as I aim down the sights at Duncan’s head. “Because you’re not my son.”

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m Duncan.” He sits up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I scream while pushing the barrel’s tip against his forehead and pulling back both hammers. “You can’t trick me anymore! I know you’re not him!”

Duncan smiles from ear to ear and speaks calmly. “Why can’t you accept I’m home and just be happy?”

“Because you’re not my son! He died in the woods three weeks ago!” I cry as my finger pulls on the trigger, snapping the hammers down and igniting the primers. Boom. A dozen pellets spew out from the barrel, painting the wall with red pellets. Duncan’s body slumps over, blood pooling where his head should be.

The door to the room suddenly bursts open as Sandy runs through it, only to be met with me holding a gun over our son’s corpse. A blood-curdling scream consumes the room as she runs over and holds his body. “What have you done to my baby? You’re a fucking monster!” She cries while glaring at me, her pink nightgown now partially a deep shade of red. Dropping the gun, I put my hands on my head.

“But… he isn't…” I mutter while backing up against the wall. This can’t be, I am so sure. I didn't just kill my child. It is a monster. It has to be. Suddenly, a loud thud rings out as my wife falls to the ground. Running over, I call her name as I check her pulse. Bum-bum, bum-bum. “Thank God,” I whisper while carrying her out of the room. Down the hallway and to the right, I place her on our bed. As I’m pulling the blanket over her chest, I hear something down the hallway. Walking out of the room, I hear it better—like the crunching of bones and squishing of meat. No, there’s something else mixed in. Moving closer, I turn at the juncture and creep up to my son's door as the noise gets louder and louder. I can finally tell what it is now—muffled laughter.

I watch from the door as Duncan’s body twitches and convulses, liquids spewing from his neck as something drenched in a layer of meat and blood pokes out of it. It has two eye sockets that house pitch-black eyes, a hole where the nose should be, and a toothless smile that reaches from ear to ear. It notices me in the doorway and croaks in a deep voice, “Papa. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I want to run, to do something, but I can’t. My body freezes as I watch Duncan’s limbs extend, the skin ripping as it stretches like plastic pulled too thin. By the time I gain control of my body again, the monster has fully extended its limbs and stands beside the window, wearing my son’s skin like clothes that don’t fit.

“What the fuck are you?” I scream at it while slamming the door shut. Wood snaps from above as it shoves its head through the door, peering down at me with its gummy smile.

Letting go of the door, I try to sprint down the hallway, but it breaks through and grabs my leg. Falling to the ground, my head slams against the wooden floor, cutting my forehead open. Vision escapes me as I look back to see the creature standing over my body. The last thing I see before blacking out is its abyssal eyes staring into mine.

When I gain consciousness, I am still on the ground between my son’s room and the juncture. Clambering to my feet, I use the wall to help as I hobble towards my bedroom. My whole body screams in pain, but I shove the feeling down as I turn the corner. The door is closed—not how I left it. I slam my fist on the door while screaming Sandy’s name. “Hold on, honey. I’m changing!” The voice of my wife calls out from within.

“I don’t care. Open the door!” I scream as I throw my shoulder against it, using my body weight to force it open. I stumble inside while checking the bed for her. Where I hope to see my sleeping wife, there are organs, chunks of meat, and snapped bones scattered about like the dumped out contents of a drawer. On the other side of the bed stands the creature with its body halfway inside a pile of flesh. It puts its feet in first before pulling the skin to cover its body, like putting on a jumpsuit. As it pulls the skin higher, its bones bend on each other, folding to fit inside of its new shell.

“I love you, honey.” The creature speaks with the voice of my wife. It fills me with so many emotions: anger, sadness, self-loathing, but in that moment, I can’t help but laugh. I cackle louder than I have ever before as I leave the room and hobble across the hallway to my study. Stopping at the shelf, I grab the whiskey bottle and lighter, then turn around. Leaving the room, I face the monster as it stands in the opposite doorway. “Come back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow," it says in her voice.

Slowly raising the bottle to my lips, I take a swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on. I rear my arm and launch the bottle. It shatters on impact, dousing the monster in a layer of liquor. Flicking my lighter to life, I hold the flame in front of me before tossing it. Within moments, fire consumes the hallway as the monster flails and falls backwards. An ear-piercing bellow rings out and echoes in the hallway, forcing me to cover my ears as I walk to the front door. Pushing it open with my shoulder, I fall onto the ground outside just as fire consumes the entire house. Watching while on my back, I weep as I watch the life I love burn away.

A few hours later, emergency services arrive and put out the fire as they haul me away in an ambulance. Police officers come to my room and begin asking questions I don’t want to answer. They find bullet holes in my son’s room, high amounts of liquor in my bloodstream, and the charred remains of my wife on the bed. It doesn’t help that they don’t believe my story. I can’t blame them. Who in their right mind would? It’s not every day that a skin-stealing monster kills your whole family. That’s why I am sentenced for the murder of my wife and kid. My appointed lawyer argues for insanity instead, meaning the rest of my days will be spent in an asylum rather than in prison. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I am going to spend the rest of my days waiting to die either way.

That is until I receive a visitor. The asylum staff tie me to my bed and let him into the room as they leave, closing the door behind them. He wears a doctor's coat and carries himself with confidence as he walks beside my bed. Looking down at me with soft blue eyes, he takes off his hat and rests it on my chest. “Do you recognize me?”

“Never met you, so why are you here?” I bark back. He smiles.

“What a shame. I hope you do. I’ve grown so much and it’s all thanks to you, Papa. Or should I say, honey?”

“It’s you?” I mutter in disbelief before violently struggling against my restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you for what you did!” I scream. Workers flood into my room. They hold me down and jab my arm with a needle while I gnash my teeth at him. Sedatives quickly kick in, making my whole body go numb. The last thing I see is his ear to ear smile as he looms over me.

Locked away in my study, I sit in front of my typewriter with a lit cigarette in hand. The page in its carriage comfortably rests, as it has for a year. A blank canvas turns into a mocking reminder of my incompetence. I glance to the side, my eyes trailing over the empty bookcase I plan on filling with my stories. Instead, it holds bottles of whiskey, a box of shells, my zippo lighter, and the double-barreled shotgun that Pops gave me as a housewarming gift.

I stand up and walk across the creaky floor as I step outside the room. Met with a hallway, I tip-toe to the opposite end, passing another corridor on the right, and quietly push the door open. My wife, Sandy, lies asleep on our queen-sized mattress, wrapped in our quilt blanket and snoring in her pink nightgown. Her black hair is haphazardly strewed across her face as her eyelids flutter. Slowly closing the door, I head back to the juncture and turn left. Passing the kitchen, I stop at my son’s room before slowly cracking it open and peering inside. Where I expect to see a young boy asleep in his bed, I’m instead met with an indent in his bed and an open window.

My heart beats like a drum as I run over and stick my head outside, catching a glimpse of a skinny white figure carrying my unconscious son in his arms towards the woods.

“Duncan!” I scream out as my limbs spring to action. Lunging out the window and breaking into a sprint, I try closing the distance, but it is too late. The figure turns its head and flashes me a toothless red smile as it slinks into the tree-line surrounding the property. A few seconds later, I rush into the shrubs where it stood, but I’m only met with sharp thorns and jabbing branches.

Over the next few weeks, we make as many posters as we can and scatter them around town. Even the police get involved after enough pleading and send search party after search party into the woods. It wasn't until yesterday that they found something. At least before, I held onto the hope that my poor child had survived or gotten away, but his torn clothes mixed into a pile of meat and bone sealed the deal. My son is dead—an awful death—and it is my fault. If I am just a little faster, if I don’t lose him in the woods, then maybe things are different.

“Honey, please, just be honest with me,” my wife begs as I sit on the foot of our bed, her arms wrapped around my chest from behind. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just want to know what happened that night.”

“For the hundredth time, something with pale white skin carries him into the woods!” I speak through gritted teeth while pushing her arms off me. She only moves closer, her warmth pressing against my back.

“I do, but… You had a lot to drink before I went to bed that night…” Her timid voice slithers into my ears. My blood races.

“Oh my God! This again? I tell you that I have it under control, I’m not like my father! I know what I saw and I’m telling you, no animal took our son. It is a goddamn monster!” My words boom as I clench my fists. I just can’t understand why no one believes me. It’s not like I’m crazy. I see that thing turn around and smile with my own eyes.

“Don’t get mad! I didn’t say you lied, I just think—” There is a loud knock on the front door.

“And who’s that at this hour? I told the police to leave us the fuck alone already!” I storm out of the bedroom. My heavy steps make the floor creak with every move as I walk down the main corridor and fling open the front door. My heart drops as I see who stands on our porch, their naked body covered in mud and loose leaves.

“Duncan!” My wife screams from behind as I hear her run down the hallway. She pushes past me, dropping to embrace her lost child. Tears stream down her face as she clenches him tight in her arms. I stand in disbelief, not moving an inch, while she pulls him inside and closes the door. I can’t believe my eyes. It is actually him. My son comes home even after everything I saw.

We quickly take him to the bathroom and wash him in the tub, scrubbing every inch before wrapping him in a towel. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” My wife kisses his head at least a dozen times. After she is done, I put my arms under his and lift him up with more difficulty than before—like he gained weight while lost in the woods. I carry him to his room and lay him on the bed.

“Can you tell us what happened out there? We were so worried!” My wife says while kneeling on the ground to be eye level with him.

“I’m… Duncan…” He mutters in almost broken English, like it is his first time saying those words.

“Yes, you are, honey. Do you remember us? I’m Mama,” she gestures to herself, then to me. “And that's Papa. We’re your parents.”

“Yes… Mama… Papa… I remember you.” Each word comes out slightly more coherent than the last.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, honey. We’ll let you get some rest now. I know you must be tired,” she says while standing up. Turning around, she grabs my hand and leads me out of the room before closing the door behind us.

Over the next week, Duncan slowly grows accustomed to living at home again. It’s like he forgot everything he once knew, even simple things such as how to open a door, hold a fork, or how to use the toilet. My wife and I are alarmed at how much he forgets, so we call a physician to the house. The doctor spends an hour in Duncan’s room testing his reflexes and pupil dilation while asking him questions. After he is done, he comes out and tells us that our son is in fine physical health but has the worst case of amnesia he has ever seen. My wife weeps at the news, but I just stand there with a blank expression on my face. It makes little sense. He didn’t hit his head on anything while lost, so where did his memories go?

The first sign comes the next day when I go to wake up Duncan. I push his door open gently and peer inside. He is already sitting up in his bed and holds a dozen white teeth in his hand. Slowly, he plucks one with his other hand before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of squelching meat quietly wafts through the room as he pushes it into his gums, blood trickling down his arm. I slowly sneak away and head back to my room before shaking my wife awake.

“Huh? What is it?” She groggily says as I pull her from our bed and into the hallway. I quietly lead her to our son’s room, but by the time we get there, he’s already standing up and changing clothes. Noticing us watching him, Duncan looks me in the eye and flashes a wide smile. Every tooth is in its right place.

“I know you’re still happy he’s back, but it’s early and I still want a few more hours of sleep,” my wife says while walking back to our room. I stay close behind her as I follow, waiting until we’re inside before closing and locking the door behind us. I grab her hand and sit with her on the bed.

“Sandy. There’s something wrong with Duncan. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that something happened in those woods.” I lock eyes with her. “I wake you up because I see him putting his teeth back in his mouth. It’s like they all fell out and he forces them back in. Plus, there is the meat they found in the woods. They didn’t find any teeth in it, did they?”

She recoils for a moment, then stands up. “Why do you have to keep making things up about our son? First, you said some monster whisked him away and now you’re saying that all his teeth are falling out? I just saw him smile two minutes ago!” She says before storming out of the room.

I lie back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. No, this can’t just be in my head. Besides what I saw the night Duncan was taken, there is the viscera in the woods, his abnormal weight, sudden amnesia, and now missing teeth. I think and think, but the only thing I know is that I will never convince my wife. She just doesn’t see it like I do. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ll have to show her what Duncan really is.

Later that night, I sneaked out of bed after hearing Sandy snore. I creep across the hallway and into my study. Slowly walking up to the bookshelf, I grab my whiskey bottle, pop it open, take a hefty swig, then snatch the shotgun and pocket a couple of shells. Leaving the room, I creep towards my son’s door, shotgun in hand as I load two shells in its chambers. Gently pushing the door open, I slink inside and raise the gun. My son lies on his bed, facing away from me. Slowly moving to the other side, I am greeted with his eyes already wide open. They stare blankly down the barrel of my gun, then up at me.

“What are you?” I ask bluntly, holding the gun steady as I aim down the sights at Duncan’s head. “Because you’re not my son.”

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m Duncan.” He sits up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I scream while pushing the barrel’s tip against his forehead and pulling back both hammers. “You can’t trick me anymore! I know you’re not him!”

Duncan smiles from ear to ear and speaks calmly. “Why can’t you accept I’m home and just be happy?”

“Because you’re not my son! He died in the woods three weeks ago!” I cry as my finger pulls on the trigger, snapping the hammers down and igniting the primers. Boom. A dozen pellets spew out from the barrel, painting the wall with red pellets. Duncan’s body slumps over, blood pooling where his head should be.

The door to the room suddenly bursts open as Sandy runs through it, only to be met with me holding a gun over our son’s corpse. A blood-curdling scream consumes the room as she runs over and holds his body. “What have you done to my baby? You’re a fucking monster!” She cries while glaring at me, her pink nightgown now partially a deep shade of red. Dropping the gun, I put my hands on my head.

“But… he isn't…” I mutter while backing up against the wall. This can’t be, I am so sure. I didn't just kill my child. It is a monster. It has to be. Suddenly, a loud thud rings out as my wife falls to the ground. Running over, I call her name as I check her pulse. Bum-bum, bum-bum. “Thank God,” I whisper while carrying her out of the room. Down the hallway and to the right, I place her on our bed. As I’m pulling the blanket over her chest, I hear something down the hallway. Walking out of the room, I hear it better—like the crunching of bones and squishing of meat. No, there’s something else mixed in. Moving closer, I turn at the juncture and creep up to my son's door as the noise gets louder and louder. I can finally tell what it is now—muffled laughter.

I watch from the door as Duncan’s body twitches and convulses, liquids spewing from his neck as something drenched in a layer of meat and blood pokes out of it. It has two eye sockets that house pitch-black eyes, a hole where the nose should be, and a toothless smile that reaches from ear to ear. It notices me in the doorway and croaks in a deep voice, “Papa. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I want to run, to do something, but I can’t. My body freezes as I watch Duncan’s limbs extend, the skin ripping as it stretches like plastic pulled too thin. By the time I gain control of my body again, the monster has fully extended its limbs and stands beside the window, wearing my son’s skin like clothes that don’t fit.

“What the fuck are you?” I scream at it while slamming the door shut. Wood snaps from above as it shoves its head through the door, peering down at me with its gummy smile.

Letting go of the door, I try to sprint down the hallway, but it breaks through and grabs my leg. Falling to the ground, my head slams against the wooden floor, cutting my forehead open. Vision escapes me as I look back to see the creature standing over my body. The last thing I see before blacking out is its abyssal eyes staring into mine.

When I gain consciousness, I am still on the ground between my son’s room and the juncture. Clambering to my feet, I use the wall to help as I hobble towards my bedroom. My whole body screams in pain, but I shove the feeling down as I turn the corner. The door is closed—not how I left it. I slam my fist on the door while screaming Sandy’s name. “Hold on, honey. I’m changing!” The voice of my wife calls out from within.

“I don’t care. Open the door!” I scream as I throw my shoulder against it, using my body weight to force it open. I stumble inside while checking the bed for her. Where I hope to see my sleeping wife, there are organs, chunks of meat, and snapped bones scattered about like the dumped out contents of a drawer. On the other side of the bed stands the creature with its body halfway inside a pile of flesh. It puts its feet in first before pulling the skin to cover its body, like putting on a jumpsuit. As it pulls the skin higher, its bones bend on each other, folding to fit inside of its new shell.

“I love you, honey.” The creature speaks with the voice of my wife. It fills me with so many emotions: anger, sadness, self-loathing, but in that moment, I can’t help but laugh. I cackle louder than I have ever before as I leave the room and hobble across the hallway to my study. Stopping at the shelf, I grab the whiskey bottle and lighter, then turn around. Leaving the room, I face the monster as it stands in the opposite doorway. “Come back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow," it says in her voice.

Slowly raising the bottle to my lips, I take a swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on. I rear my arm and launch the bottle. It shatters on impact, dousing the monster in a layer of liquor. Flicking my lighter to life, I hold the flame in front of me before tossing it. Within moments, fire consumes the hallway as the monster flails and falls backwards. An ear-piercing bellow rings out and echoes in the hallway, forcing me to cover my ears as I walk to the front door. Pushing it open with my shoulder, I fall onto the ground outside just as fire consumes the entire house. Watching while on my back, I weep as I watch the life I love burn away.

A few hours later, emergency services arrive and put out the fire as they haul me away in an ambulance. Police officers come to my room and begin asking questions I don’t want to answer. They find bullet holes in my son’s room, high amounts of liquor in my bloodstream, and the charred remains of my wife on the bed. It doesn’t help that they don’t believe my story. I can’t blame them. Who in their right mind would? It’s not every day that a skin-stealing monster kills your whole family. That’s why I am sentenced for the murder of my wife and kid. My appointed lawyer argues for insanity instead, meaning the rest of my days will be spent in an asylum rather than in prison. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I am going to spend the rest of my days waiting to die either way.

That is until I receive a visitor. The asylum staff tie me to my bed and let him into the room as they leave, closing the door behind them. He wears a doctor's coat and carries himself with confidence as he walks beside my bed. Looking down at me with soft blue eyes, he takes off his hat and rests it on my chest. “Do you recognize me?”

“Never met you, so why are you here?” I bark back. He smiles.

“What a shame. I hope you do. I’ve grown so much and it’s all thanks to you, Papa. Or should I say, honey?”

“It’s you?” I mutter in disbelief before violently struggling against my restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you for what you did!” I scream. Workers flood into my room. They hold me down and jab my arm with a needle while I gnash my teeth at him. Sedatives quickly kick in, making my whole body go numb. The last thing I see is his ear to ear smile as he looms over me.

For multiple seasons of league, I have played Assassin Poppy jungle to decent effect. I usually rush Ghostblade and build full lethality afterwards. It is surprisingly addictive and can one shot most ADCs, Midlaners, and Supports with little to no mechanical skill involved as long as I can stun them on a wall. Has anyone else come across this play style for Poppy? I feel like I'm the only one out there that plays her like this.

You told me that writing down my experiences would help me control my urges. I’m not sure how it would, but I guess I could try. 

The craving began five months ago while cave diving with my best friend. We took a chance on an unexplored path, the floor collapsed, and we found ourselves stuck in a small cavern. It was cold and claustrophobic, our bodies pressed against each other for warmth. We stayed like that for days, huddled together and unsure when rescue would come. 

For a while, we talked about what we would do when we got out. I fantasized about walking barefoot on the beach, sand between my toes as salty water washed over them. He only talked about food, how much he wanted a honey glazed ribeye or juicy burger with all the toppings. 

Hunger ate away at our bodies until he died of starvation first, or maybe lost the will to live. I wasn’t sure. All I can remember was  the lifeless look in his eyes. They were wide and panicked, like a cornered animal. 

Our bodies were stuck together like glue, his warmth fading away until I was all alone. I swore I could hear his voice whispering to me. He scratched at the back of my mind, promising there was still a chance, a way out. He told me to eat him, to savor every inch of flesh and ounce of blood he had left to offer. He said it was the only way and I had no choice but to believe him.

It didn’t take long for me to give in. Day after day, I slowly devoured every part of him that I could. I chewed the bits of fat still left, ripped through tendons with my teeth, and slurped up marrow. Every step of the way, his voice egged me on, encouraging me as I consumed him bite by bite. If I’m being honest with you, I loved it: his raw meat and juices tasted better than anything I had eaten before. 

A week later, two men found me and dragged me back to civilization. News stations and reporters tried reaching out but I ignored them all. I couldn’t talk about what happened in that cave, they wouldn’t get it. They wouldn’t me, 

It took a while to settle back in, to reintegrate. I felt empty, like a husk mindlessly wandering around. I moved from job to job, city to city but no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he tasted. 

The search to relive that experience brought me to a morgue. It wasn’t hard getting a job there, not many people want to work around dead bodies all day. I memorized the camera blind spots, shift rotations, and cremation schedules—all so I cut chunks of meat from cadavers that came through. I brought them home and turned them into meals. I deep fried some into nuggets or strips and seared others into steaks. I slathered them with crimson sauce, turning each morsel of meat into a delicious cuisine of rare game. 

No matter how much I consumed, it never felt like enough. What little I could sneak off was already dead, like ground meat sitting on the grocery store shelf. I was like a junkie desperately searching for a stronger high. I wanted, no, I craved the real, living thing. 

Just when I was about to act on my desire, I got on my phone and found the cheapest therapist I could. Your office nestled between an asian buffet and pizza place didn’t stand out, but your reviews did. People ranted and raved about how much you changed their lives. I thought for a while that I could be like them, that I could be saved from myself. 

I’m surprised you didn’t turn me away when I told you what I was feeling. Instead you treated me like a challenge to overcome. We talked for hours and hours, my eyes trained on your hands as you stroked your beard. I tried all kinds of food that you recommended. Cow liver, chicken feet, sheep eyes, none of them snapped me out of this obsession like you thought they would. I must admit, you really gave it your best shot but in the end, I still feel like I did back in that cave, a hungry animal desperate for another bite. 

I guess if this recollection has made me realize anything, it’s that I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks about me. I’m going to do what makes me happy and if that's wrong, then I don't want to be right. 

There’s still so much for me to find out, like what cut of flesh tastes the best, or which way of preparing it brings out the most vibrant flavor. I wonder, what would you taste like? Would you be sweet and savory, or chewy and bitter? Would you taste good in a stew or better as a plate of tender ribs? I’d love to find out the next time we meet. 

My thundering steps on the hollow metal floor were swallowed by an ensemble of bloodthirsty shrieks that consumed the air around me. Each painful breath burned my lungs as sweat stung my eyes. Despite the fear and pain rattling my body, I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t let them catch me. 

Not an hour ago, I was sitting at my workstation in the depths of the ship. Designed to be a mobile city in space, The Starstruck was designed with livability in mind. The upper floors had layers and layers of houses, apartments, restaurants, and entertainment. For the upper class that called those parts of the ship home, it was uncommon to never step foot on the floors below them. However, for the working class like me, all I knew was maintenance and hard labor. Despite being the blood that kept the ship running, we were treated like serfs. 

No one on my level was allowed to breed without consent, we worked from the moment we woke up to the moment we passed out in our chambers. That was the deal that our ancestors made in exchange for being allowed on board. Some tried to riot or protest for rights but in the end, what could we do? If we stopped taking care of the engine then we’d die along with everyone above us. 

 I overheard co-workers spreading rumors of an outbreak on the higher levels. Thankfully, I had connections to some scientists on the upper floors. They sent an email earlier today warning me to evacuate as soon as possible. I asked why and they just told me that something went wrong, a wrong injection here and a spliced gene there. All they could emphasize was for me to find a way to the escape pods as soon as I could. I didn't believe them at first but when the sirens began to blare, I didn't ask questions and made my move. It was every man, woman, and child for themselves. I was one of the lucky few to make it off deck quickly through a service shaft; the rest gathered at elevator entrances awaiting a rescue that wouldn’t come. 

Turning a sharp corner, I skidded to a sudden halt, my heart jumping in my chest. Down the dim hallway ahead, two of the creatures that infested the ship were hunched over, their movements rapid as they feasted greedily on the mangled remains of a human torso. 

I stood paralyzed while watching the two figures as they reveled in the spoils of their hunt. Locked in a cycle of constant fighting and bickering, their unintelligible grunts and snarls created a wall of sound that hid me from their attention. I knew this perfect moment was fleeting— the second their meal was gone, their unceasing hunger would lead them to me. 

I crept toward a nearby storage closet. I hoped I could hide until the coast was clear but as I slipped through the heavy door, what little breath I had left was stolen.

A small child, likely no more than eight or nine years old, was huddled behind a towering stack of cardboard boxes. His blue eyes were wide and despondent, reflecting the dim light leaking under the door. I crouched down until I was at his level.

"It’s okay," I whispered. "I’m not going to hurt you like those things out there. Why don’t you come out from behind the boxes?"

The child shuffled nervously at the sound of my voice, his small feet scuffing against the floor. He weighed my offer in heavy silence before finally sidestepping into the flickering glow of the overhead light.

I was immediately taken aback by his appearance. He was in far worse condition than I had initially feared. His already small frame was hollowed out by starvation. Deep bags hung beneath his weary blue eyes while thin blonde hair fell in limp strands around his shoulders.

Moving slowly so as to not spook him, I reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. My heart sank as we touched, his body was deathly cold, feeling fragile and thin. I leaned in, meeting his haunted gaze with as much warmth as I could muster. 

"What’s your name, little guy? Mine is Thomas. I work in engineering, right near the main engine.” 

He stared weakly into my eyes, appearing momentarily dazed and confused by the simple humanity of my question. After a long beat, he slowly raised a trembling arm and pointed toward a discarded spray bottle lying on the floor between us. The label, stained and peeling, read Hank’s Industrial Soap. His small finger pressed firmly against the final word, pinning it down as if to claim it.

“So, Soap is your name? For real?”

He offered a shallow nod in confirmation, a faint, genuine smile cracking his dry, dehydrated lips. 

“Alright, Soap,” I said, matching his resolve. “We need to get off this ship. There should be a bay of escape pods near the bridge, but the halls are crawling with those things. Do you have any ideas for how to get there?”

Soap’s gaze drifted upward, looking past my shoulder. I followed the line of his stare until it landed on a grated air vent. The ventilation system was the skeleton of the ship, and while the ducts wouldn't be roomy for someone of my size, they were certainly large enough to crawl through. It wouldn’t be the best conditions, but considering the alternative, it was the best we had.

I turned back toward him and gave his head a gentle, reassuring pat. “Smart kid. Let’s just hope those things out there don’t have the same idea.”

I hoisted Soap up into the narrow opening before following soon after, the metal groaning slightly under my weight. Once we were both within the cramped, metal tunnels, the gravity of our situation became clear. We were facing at least an hour of crawling through the dust and recycled air. The odds of finding a functional, fueled escape pod were slim at best, but it was the only hand we had left to play. If we reached them, we’d launch, trigger an SOS, and pray for a miracle, provided we lived that long.

Our journey through the ducts was filled with a bonding silence. I watched Soap move with a surprising ease, his small body navigating the tight turns far easier than my own. I stayed back and let him lead, providing him a small sense of agency in a world that had taken everything else.

Spending this time with Soap made me consider why I never applied for a breeding permit. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t, I guess a mixture of no one I was interested in and not wanting to bring a child into a world where they would be forced to work day in and day out. However, I found myself liking Soap, a lot actually. He reminded me of myself at that age, quiet and reserved but competent and independent. 

I wondered how he got to this point, abandoned and alone on a ship that didn’t take kindly to lower deck orphans. The thought of him having to scrounge for food and a place to sleep at such a young age made my heart heavy. He deserved better, at least a shot at a good life. 

Eventually, we reached the grate closest to the pod bay. We squeezed together, our faces pressed against the cold metal slits to survey the scene below. From our elevated vantage point, we visually swept the expansive chamber that housed the entrance to the pods. A formidable steel security wall bisected the room, impassable without the proper clearance codes for the central console, clearance I fortunately possessed as an engineer. 

The once-pristine white walls of the room were now a crimson canvas painted with blood and guts, littered with enough severed limbs to fill a pool. The carnage was indiscriminate, the corpses of high-ranking military officers, elite scientists, the wealthy, and the impoverished lay tangled together in a grim display. Spent bullet casings glittered amidst the gore, marking where their final stand had failed.

The victors of that battle-royale were now feasting on the spoils. They hunched over the remains, carelessly lapping up the blood still freshly trickling from the meat. As new arrivals joined the horde, they dragged in fresh corpses to add to the communal heap. A sickening wave of guttural snarls and wet tearing noises wafted up into the vents, laced with the thick copper tang of death. 

I was torn from the feast by the sight of a small band of survivors near the opposite gate. They glanced at one another with trembling resolve before turning their eyes toward the bay, weapons raised. They aimed at the enemy with a makeshift mix of firearms, kitchen knives, baseball bats, and bare fists. 

More people slowly trickled in, some of them I recognized from the level that I worked on. They eventually formed a thin wall of resistance, their morale raising with each new recruit. Below us, the creatures began to look up from their grisly meals as they let out sharp, high-pitched barks that alerted the pack. The air grew heavy with a suffocating tension, fifty feet of blood-slicked tile was all that separated the two sides. Men and women grip their weapons until their knuckles turned white, whispering final pleas to a God they hoped was still listening.

The stand-still shattered when a teenager, who watched his parents torn to shreds not twenty minutes ago, was overcome by blinding rage and pulled the trigger of a pistol.

It was as if a bell had been rung, signaling the beginning of their clash. Both sides charged. The room exploded into a roaring wave of war cries and gunfire. Bullets tore into flesh while knives found their way into throats and brains. But the monsters fought with animalistic efficiency, claws sliced through skin, and limbs were torn from sockets accompanied by a sickening pop. 

Soap and I watched as a young woman swung a heavy metal pipe at a creature. It caught her neck mid-swing, its talons locking around her throat before she could connect. It hoisted her into the air, holding her aloft as she kicked and clawed at its hands in a frantic battle for control. The creature didn't flinch, it simply watched her with cold, black eyes until her movements ceased. 

I sat there and watched them die one by one. A hollow guilt gnawed at me as these courageous people were slaughtered while I hid in the dark. I had to prioritize our survival, I couldn't let Soap suffer the same fate as them. 

As the human line thinned and broke, the survivors began to flee. When the monsters gave chase, the bay fell into a haunting, echoing silence. 

This is our moment! I kick the vent grate from its hinges and drop onto the white tile. Quickly turning to catch Soap, I helped him onto the ground before sprinting for the gate console. 

With trembling hands, I fished my keycard from my pocket and swiped it against the sensor. The display flickered to life, welcoming me by name and flashing a bright warning to clear the path. My heart leapt, we were actually going to make it. But as the heavy gears began to groan, the mechanism shrieked to life and a high-pitched mechanical wailed out. I turned back toward the exit and saw pale heads popping back into the hall, drawn by the noise. Upon spotting us, they erupted into a chorus of frenzied shrieks. More of them flooded back into the room as I scooped Soap into my arms, pressing my back against the slowly retreating metal door.

As the metal parted enough to slip through, we burst into the pod bay, the creatures hot on our heels. Most of the pods were either mangled wreckage or already launched. However there was still hope, nestled against the far wall and beside a guard whose throat had been jaggedly cut open, there sat a single-person emergency craft.

These pods were designed for endurance, stocked with enough supplies to last a week, but being in their cockpit was like laying in a coffin. There was no possible way to fit two.

I set Soap down, my hands shaking as I looked into his tearful face. He stared back at me, his blue eyes wide pleading with me to not do it. I hoisted him into the seat and fumbled with the restraints, my fingers working against his as he desperately tried to push his way out. I held him down, leaning in for one final, crushing hug.

“There’s plenty of food in there, Soap. You eat up and stay strong, okay? Someone is going to find you,” I whispered, my voice breaking as tears slid down my cheek. “It was a pleasure to meet you, kid.”

I pulled myself back before it was too late and slammed my palm onto the emergency eject. I watched through the small porthole as his pleading face receded, his pod rocketing into the silent embrace of deep space, carrying an SOS into the void.

I turned back to see the horde closing in fast. I didn't run. Instead, I sat down next to the fallen guard and reached for the pistol at his hip. I checked the magazine; there were a couple rounds left. My run hadn't been perfect, but as I looked up at the stars through the bay windows, I knew I had at least done one thing right. 

Putting the gun to my head, I imagine Soap watching the ship from his escape pod, the nightmares of today just a tiny glint of light in the distance, his small hand wiping away tears as he heads toward a future I’ll never see.

Locked away in my study, I sit in front of my typewriter with a lit cigarette in hand. The page in its carriage comfortably rests, as it has for a year. A blank canvas turns into a mocking reminder of my incompetence. I glance to the side, my eyes trailing over the empty bookcase I plan on filling with my stories. Instead, it holds bottles of whiskey, a box of shells, my zippo lighter, and the double-barreled shotgun that Pops gave me as a housewarming gift.

I stand up and walk across the creaky floor as I step outside the room. Met with a hallway, I tip-toe to the opposite end, passing another corridor on the right, and quietly push the door open. My wife, Sandy, lies asleep on our queen-sized mattress, wrapped in our quilt blanket and snoring in her pink nightgown. Her black hair is haphazardly strewed across her face as her eyelids flutter. Slowly closing the door, I head back to the juncture and turn left. Passing the kitchen, I stop at my son’s room before slowly cracking it open and peering inside. Where I expect to see a young boy asleep in his bed, I’m instead met with an indent in his bed and an open window.

My heart beats like a drum as I run over and stick my head outside, catching a glimpse of a skinny white figure carrying my unconscious son in his arms towards the woods.

“Duncan!” I scream out as my limbs spring to action. Lunging out the window and breaking into a sprint, I try closing the distance, but it is too late. The figure turns its head and flashes me a toothless red smile as it slinks into the tree-line surrounding the property. A few seconds later, I rush into the shrubs where it stood, but I’m only met with sharp thorns and jabbing branches.

Over the next few weeks, we make as many posters as we can and scatter them around town. Even the police get involved after enough pleading and send search party after search party into the woods. It wasn't until yesterday that they found something. At least before, I held onto the hope that my poor child had survived or gotten away, but his torn clothes mixed into a pile of meat and bone sealed the deal. My son is dead—an awful death—and it is my fault. If I am just a little faster, if I don’t lose him in the woods, then maybe things are different.

“Honey, please, just be honest with me,” my wife begs as I sit on the foot of our bed, her arms wrapped around my chest from behind. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just want to know what happened that night.”

“For the hundredth time, something with pale white skin carries him into the woods!” I speak through gritted teeth while pushing her arms off me. She only moves closer, her warmth pressing against my back.

“I do, but… You had a lot to drink before I went to bed that night…” Her timid voice slithers into my ears. My blood races.

“Oh my God! This again? I tell you that I have it under control, I’m not like my father! I know what I saw and I’m telling you, no animal took our son. It is a goddamn monster!” My words boom as I clench my fists. I just can’t understand why no one believes me. It’s not like I’m crazy. I see that thing turn around and smile with my own eyes.

“Don’t get mad! I didn’t say you lied, I just think—” There is a loud knock on the front door.

“And who’s that at this hour? I told the police to leave us the fuck alone already!” I storm out of the bedroom. My heavy steps make the floor creak with every move as I walk down the main corridor and fling open the front door. My heart drops as I see who stands on our porch, their naked body covered in mud and loose leaves.

“Duncan!” My wife screams from behind as I hear her run down the hallway. She pushes past me, dropping to embrace her lost child. Tears stream down her face as she clenches him tight in her arms. I stand in disbelief, not moving an inch, while she pulls him inside and closes the door. I can’t believe my eyes. It is actually him. My son comes home even after everything I saw.

We quickly take him to the bathroom and wash him in the tub, scrubbing every inch before wrapping him in a towel. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” My wife kisses his head at least a dozen times. After she is done, I put my arms under his and lift him up with more difficulty than before—like he gained weight while lost in the woods. I carry him to his room and lay him on the bed.

“Can you tell us what happened out there? We were so worried!” My wife says while kneeling on the ground to be eye level with him.

“I’m… Duncan…” He mutters in almost broken English, like it is his first time saying those words.

“Yes, you are, honey. Do you remember us? I’m Mama,” she gestures to herself, then to me. “And that's Papa. We’re your parents.”

“Yes… Mama… Papa… I remember you.” Each word comes out slightly more coherent than the last.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, honey. We’ll let you get some rest now. I know you must be tired,” she says while standing up. Turning around, she grabs my hand and leads me out of the room before closing the door behind us.

Over the next week, Duncan slowly grows accustomed to living at home again. It’s like he forgot everything he once knew, even simple things such as how to open a door, hold a fork, or how to use the toilet. My wife and I are alarmed at how much he forgets, so we call a physician to the house. The doctor spends an hour in Duncan’s room testing his reflexes and pupil dilation while asking him questions. After he is done, he comes out and tells us that our son is in fine physical health but has the worst case of amnesia he has ever seen. My wife weeps at the news, but I just stand there with a blank expression on my face. It makes little sense. He didn’t hit his head on anything while lost, so where did his memories go?

The first sign comes the next day when I go to wake up Duncan. I push his door open gently and peer inside. He is already sitting up in his bed and holds a dozen white teeth in his hand. Slowly, he plucks one with his other hand before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of squelching meat quietly wafts through the room as he pushes it into his gums, blood trickling down his arm. I slowly sneak away and head back to my room before shaking my wife awake.

“Huh? What is it?” She groggily says as I pull her from our bed and into the hallway. I quietly lead her to our son’s room, but by the time we get there, he’s already standing up and changing clothes. Noticing us watching him, Duncan looks me in the eye and flashes a wide smile. Every tooth is in its right place.

“I know you’re still happy he’s back, but it’s early and I still want a few more hours of sleep,” my wife says while walking back to our room. I stay close behind her as I follow, waiting until we’re inside before closing and locking the door behind us. I grab her hand and sit with her on the bed.

“Sandy. There’s something wrong with Duncan. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that something happened in those woods.” I lock eyes with her. “I wake you up because I see him putting his teeth back in his mouth. It’s like they all fell out and he forces them back in. Plus, there is the meat they found in the woods. They didn’t find any teeth in it, did they?”

She recoils for a moment, then stands up. “Why do you have to keep making things up about our son? First, you said some monster whisked him away and now you’re saying that all his teeth are falling out? I just saw him smile two minutes ago!” She says before storming out of the room.

I lie back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. No, this can’t just be in my head. Besides what I saw the night Duncan was taken, there is the viscera in the woods, his abnormal weight, sudden amnesia, and now missing teeth. I think and think, but the only thing I know is that I will never convince my wife. She just doesn’t see it like I do. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ll have to show her what Duncan really is.

Later that night, I sneaked out of bed after hearing Sandy snore. I creep across the hallway and into my study. Slowly walking up to the bookshelf, I grab my whiskey bottle, pop it open, take a hefty swig, then snatch the shotgun and pocket a couple of shells. Leaving the room, I creep towards my son’s door, shotgun in hand as I load two shells in its chambers. Gently pushing the door open, I slink inside and raise the gun. My son lies on his bed, facing away from me. Slowly moving to the other side, I am greeted with his eyes already wide open. They stare blankly down the barrel of my gun, then up at me.

“What are you?” I ask bluntly, holding the gun steady as I aim down the sights at Duncan’s head. “Because you’re not my son.”

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m Duncan.” He sits up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I scream while pushing the barrel’s tip against his forehead and pulling back both hammers. “You can’t trick me anymore! I know you’re not him!”

Duncan smiles from ear to ear and speaks calmly. “Why can’t you accept I’m home and just be happy?”

“Because you’re not my son! He died in the woods three weeks ago!” I cry as my finger pulls on the trigger, snapping the hammers down and igniting the primers. Boom. A dozen pellets spew out from the barrel, painting the wall with red pellets. Duncan’s body slumps over, blood pooling where his head should be.

The door to the room suddenly bursts open as Sandy runs through it, only to be met with me holding a gun over our son’s corpse. A blood-curdling scream consumes the room as she runs over and holds his body. “What have you done to my baby? You’re a fucking monster!” She cries while glaring at me, her pink nightgown now partially a deep shade of red. Dropping the gun, I put my hands on my head.

“But… he isn't…” I mutter while backing up against the wall. This can’t be, I am so sure. I didn't just kill my child. It is a monster. It has to be. Suddenly, a loud thud rings out as my wife falls to the ground. Running over, I call her name as I check her pulse. Bum-bum, bum-bum. “Thank God,” I whisper while carrying her out of the room. Down the hallway and to the right, I place her on our bed. As I’m pulling the blanket over her chest, I hear something down the hallway. Walking out of the room, I hear it better—like the crunching of bones and squishing of meat. No, there’s something else mixed in. Moving closer, I turn at the juncture and creep up to my son's door as the noise gets louder and louder. I can finally tell what it is now—muffled laughter.

I watch from the door as Duncan’s body twitches and convulses, liquids spewing from his neck as something drenched in a layer of meat and blood pokes out of it. It has two eye sockets that house pitch-black eyes, a hole where the nose should be, and a toothless smile that reaches from ear to ear. It notices me in the doorway and croaks in a deep voice, “Papa. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I want to run, to do something, but I can’t. My body freezes as I watch Duncan’s limbs extend, the skin ripping as it stretches like plastic pulled too thin. By the time I gain control of my body again, the monster has fully extended its limbs and stands beside the window, wearing my son’s skin like clothes that don’t fit.

“What the fuck are you?” I scream at it while slamming the door shut. Wood snaps from above as it shoves its head through the door, peering down at me with its gummy smile.

Letting go of the door, I try to sprint down the hallway, but it breaks through and grabs my leg. Falling to the ground, my head slams against the wooden floor, cutting my forehead open. Vision escapes me as I look back to see the creature standing over my body. The last thing I see before blacking out is its abyssal eyes staring into mine.

When I gain consciousness, I am still on the ground between my son’s room and the juncture. Clambering to my feet, I use the wall to help as I hobble towards my bedroom. My whole body screams in pain, but I shove the feeling down as I turn the corner. The door is closed—not how I left it. I slam my fist on the door while screaming Sandy’s name. “Hold on, honey. I’m changing!” The voice of my wife calls out from within.

“I don’t care. Open the door!” I scream as I throw my shoulder against it, using my body weight to force it open. I stumble inside while checking the bed for her. Where I hope to see my sleeping wife, there are organs, chunks of meat, and snapped bones scattered about like the dumped out contents of a drawer. On the other side of the bed stands the creature with its body halfway inside a pile of flesh. It puts its feet in first before pulling the skin to cover its body, like putting on a jumpsuit. As it pulls the skin higher, its bones bend on each other, folding to fit inside of its new shell.

“I love you, honey.” The creature speaks with the voice of my wife. It fills me with so many emotions: anger, sadness, self-loathing, but in that moment, I can’t help but laugh. I cackle louder than I have ever before as I leave the room and hobble across the hallway to my study. Stopping at the shelf, I grab the whiskey bottle and lighter, then turn around. Leaving the room, I face the monster as it stands in the opposite doorway. “Come back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow," it says in her voice.

Slowly raising the bottle to my lips, I take a swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on. I rear my arm and launch the bottle. It shatters on impact, dousing the monster in a layer of liquor. Flicking my lighter to life, I hold the flame in front of me before tossing it. Within moments, fire consumes the hallway as the monster flails and falls backwards. An ear-piercing bellow rings out and echoes in the hallway, forcing me to cover my ears as I walk to the front door. Pushing it open with my shoulder, I fall onto the ground outside just as fire consumes the entire house. Watching while on my back, I weep as I watch the life I love burn away.

A few hours later, emergency services arrive and put out the fire as they haul me away in an ambulance. Police officers come to my room and begin asking questions I don’t want to answer. They find bullet holes in my son’s room, high amounts of liquor in my bloodstream, and the charred remains of my wife on the bed. It doesn’t help that they don’t believe my story. I can’t blame them. Who in their right mind would? It’s not every day that a skin-stealing monster kills your whole family. That’s why I am sentenced for the murder of my wife and kid. My appointed lawyer argues for insanity instead, meaning the rest of my days will be spent in an asylum rather than in prison. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I am going to spend the rest of my days waiting to die either way.

That is until I receive a visitor. The asylum staff tie me to my bed and let him into the room as they leave, closing the door behind them. He wears a doctor's coat and carries himself with confidence as he walks beside my bed. Looking down at me with soft blue eyes, he takes off his hat and rests it on my chest. “Do you recognize me?”

“Never met you, so why are you here?” I bark back. He smiles.

“What a shame. I hope you do. I’ve grown so much and it’s all thanks to you, Papa. Or should I say, honey?”

“It’s you?” I mutter in disbelief before violently struggling against my restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you for what you did!” I scream. Workers flood into my room. They hold me down and jab my arm with a needle while I gnash my teeth at him. Sedatives quickly kick in, making my whole body go numb. The last thing I see is his ear to ear smile as he looms over me.

Locked away in my study, I sit in front of my typewriter with a lit cigarette in hand. The page in its carriage comfortably rests, as it has for a year. A blank canvas turns into a mocking reminder of my incompetence. I glance to the side, my eyes trailing over the empty bookcase I plan on filling with my stories. Instead, it holds bottles of whiskey, a box of shells, my zippo lighter, and the double-barreled shotgun that Pops gave me as a housewarming gift.

I stand up and walk across the creaky floor as I step outside the room. Met with a hallway, I tip-toe to the opposite end, passing another corridor on the right, and quietly push the door open. My wife, Sandy, lies asleep on our queen-sized mattress, wrapped in our quilt blanket and snoring in her pink nightgown. Her black hair is haphazardly strewed across her face as her eyelids flutter. Slowly closing the door, I head back to the juncture and turn left. Passing the kitchen, I stop at my son’s room before slowly cracking it open and peering inside. Where I expect to see a young boy asleep in his bed, I’m instead met with an indent in his bed and an open window.

My heart beats like a drum as I run over and stick my head outside, catching a glimpse of a skinny white figure carrying my unconscious son in his arms towards the woods.

“Duncan!” I scream out as my limbs spring to action. Lunging out the window and breaking into a sprint, I try closing the distance, but it is too late. The figure turns its head and flashes me a toothless red smile as it slinks into the tree-line surrounding the property. A few seconds later, I rush into the shrubs where it stood, but I’m only met with sharp thorns and jabbing branches.

Over the next few weeks, we make as many posters as we can and scatter them around town. Even the police get involved after enough pleading and send search party after search party into the woods. It wasn't until yesterday that they found something. At least before, I held onto the hope that my poor child had survived or gotten away, but his torn clothes mixed into a pile of meat and bone sealed the deal. My son is dead—an awful death—and it is my fault. If I am just a little faster, if I don’t lose him in the woods, then maybe things are different.

“Honey, please, just be honest with me,” my wife begs as I sit on the foot of our bed, her arms wrapped around my chest from behind. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I just want to know what happened that night.”

“For the hundredth time, something with pale white skin carries him into the woods!” I speak through gritted teeth while pushing her arms off me. She only moves closer, her warmth pressing against my back.

“I do, but… You had a lot to drink before I went to bed that night…” Her timid voice slithers into my ears. My blood races.

“Oh my God! This again? I tell you that I have it under control, I’m not like my father! I know what I saw and I’m telling you, no animal took our son. It is a goddamn monster!” My words boom as I clench my fists. I just can’t understand why no one believes me. It’s not like I’m crazy. I see that thing turn around and smile with my own eyes.

“Don’t get mad! I didn’t say you lied, I just think—” There is a loud knock on the front door.

“And who’s that at this hour? I told the police to leave us the fuck alone already!” I storm out of the bedroom. My heavy steps make the floor creak with every move as I walk down the main corridor and fling open the front door. My heart drops as I see who stands on our porch, their naked body covered in mud and loose leaves.

“Duncan!” My wife screams from behind as I hear her run down the hallway. She pushes past me, dropping to embrace her lost child. Tears stream down her face as she clenches him tight in her arms. I stand in disbelief, not moving an inch, while she pulls him inside and closes the door. I can’t believe my eyes. It is actually him. My son comes home even after everything I saw.

We quickly take him to the bathroom and wash him in the tub, scrubbing every inch before wrapping him in a towel. “I’m so happy you’re okay!” My wife kisses his head at least a dozen times. After she is done, I put my arms under his and lift him up with more difficulty than before—like he gained weight while lost in the woods. I carry him to his room and lay him on the bed.

“Can you tell us what happened out there? We were so worried!” My wife says while kneeling on the ground to be eye level with him.

“I’m… Duncan…” He mutters in almost broken English, like it is his first time saying those words.

“Yes, you are, honey. Do you remember us? I’m Mama,” she gestures to herself, then to me. “And that's Papa. We’re your parents.”

“Yes… Mama… Papa… I remember you.” Each word comes out slightly more coherent than the last.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, honey. We’ll let you get some rest now. I know you must be tired,” she says while standing up. Turning around, she grabs my hand and leads me out of the room before closing the door behind us.

Over the next week, Duncan slowly grows accustomed to living at home again. It’s like he forgot everything he once knew, even simple things such as how to open a door, hold a fork, or how to use the toilet. My wife and I are alarmed at how much he forgets, so we call a physician to the house. The doctor spends an hour in Duncan’s room testing his reflexes and pupil dilation while asking him questions. After he is done, he comes out and tells us that our son is in fine physical health but has the worst case of amnesia he has ever seen. My wife weeps at the news, but I just stand there with a blank expression on my face. It makes little sense. He didn’t hit his head on anything while lost, so where did his memories go?

The first sign comes the next day when I go to wake up Duncan. I push his door open gently and peer inside. He is already sitting up in his bed and holds a dozen white teeth in his hand. Slowly, he plucks one with his other hand before bringing it to his mouth. The sound of squelching meat quietly wafts through the room as he pushes it into his gums, blood trickling down his arm. I slowly sneak away and head back to my room before shaking my wife awake.

“Huh? What is it?” She groggily says as I pull her from our bed and into the hallway. I quietly lead her to our son’s room, but by the time we get there, he’s already standing up and changing clothes. Noticing us watching him, Duncan looks me in the eye and flashes a wide smile. Every tooth is in its right place.

“I know you’re still happy he’s back, but it’s early and I still want a few more hours of sleep,” my wife says while walking back to our room. I stay close behind her as I follow, waiting until we’re inside before closing and locking the door behind us. I grab her hand and sit with her on the bed.

“Sandy. There’s something wrong with Duncan. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that something happened in those woods.” I lock eyes with her. “I wake you up because I see him putting his teeth back in his mouth. It’s like they all fell out and he forces them back in. Plus, there is the meat they found in the woods. They didn’t find any teeth in it, did they?”

She recoils for a moment, then stands up. “Why do you have to keep making things up about our son? First, you said some monster whisked him away and now you’re saying that all his teeth are falling out? I just saw him smile two minutes ago!” She says before storming out of the room.

I lie back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. No, this can’t just be in my head. Besides what I saw the night Duncan was taken, there is the viscera in the woods, his abnormal weight, sudden amnesia, and now missing teeth. I think and think, but the only thing I know is that I will never convince my wife. She just doesn’t see it like I do. She doesn’t know what I know. I’ll have to show her what Duncan really is.

Later that night, I sneaked out of bed after hearing Sandy snore. I creep across the hallway and into my study. Slowly walking up to the bookshelf, I grab my whiskey bottle, pop it open, take a hefty swig, then snatch the shotgun and pocket a couple of shells. Leaving the room, I creep towards my son’s door, shotgun in hand as I load two shells in its chambers. Gently pushing the door open, I slink inside and raise the gun. My son lies on his bed, facing away from me. Slowly moving to the other side, I am greeted with his eyes already wide open. They stare blankly down the barrel of my gun, then up at me.

“What are you?” I ask bluntly, holding the gun steady as I aim down the sights at Duncan’s head. “Because you’re not my son.”

“Papa. What do you mean? I’m Duncan.” He sits up. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” I scream while pushing the barrel’s tip against his forehead and pulling back both hammers. “You can’t trick me anymore! I know you’re not him!”

Duncan smiles from ear to ear and speaks calmly. “Why can’t you accept I’m home and just be happy?”

“Because you’re not my son! He died in the woods three weeks ago!” I cry as my finger pulls on the trigger, snapping the hammers down and igniting the primers. Boom. A dozen pellets spew out from the barrel, painting the wall with red pellets. Duncan’s body slumps over, blood pooling where his head should be.

The door to the room suddenly bursts open as Sandy runs through it, only to be met with me holding a gun over our son’s corpse. A blood-curdling scream consumes the room as she runs over and holds his body. “What have you done to my baby? You’re a fucking monster!” She cries while glaring at me, her pink nightgown now partially a deep shade of red. Dropping the gun, I put my hands on my head.

“But… he isn't…” I mutter while backing up against the wall. This can’t be, I am so sure. I didn't just kill my child. It is a monster. It has to be. Suddenly, a loud thud rings out as my wife falls to the ground. Running over, I call her name as I check her pulse. Bum-bum, bum-bum. “Thank God,” I whisper while carrying her out of the room. Down the hallway and to the right, I place her on our bed. As I’m pulling the blanket over her chest, I hear something down the hallway. Walking out of the room, I hear it better—like the crunching of bones and squishing of meat. No, there’s something else mixed in. Moving closer, I turn at the juncture and creep up to my son's door as the noise gets louder and louder. I can finally tell what it is now—muffled laughter.

I watch from the door as Duncan’s body twitches and convulses, liquids spewing from his neck as something drenched in a layer of meat and blood pokes out of it. It has two eye sockets that house pitch-black eyes, a hole where the nose should be, and a toothless smile that reaches from ear to ear. It notices me in the doorway and croaks in a deep voice, “Papa. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

I want to run, to do something, but I can’t. My body freezes as I watch Duncan’s limbs extend, the skin ripping as it stretches like plastic pulled too thin. By the time I gain control of my body again, the monster has fully extended its limbs and stands beside the window, wearing my son’s skin like clothes that don’t fit.

“What the fuck are you?” I scream at it while slamming the door shut. Wood snaps from above as it shoves its head through the door, peering down at me with its gummy smile.

Letting go of the door, I try to sprint down the hallway, but it breaks through and grabs my leg. Falling to the ground, my head slams against the wooden floor, cutting my forehead open. Vision escapes me as I look back to see the creature standing over my body. The last thing I see before blacking out is its abyssal eyes staring into mine.

When I gain consciousness, I am still on the ground between my son’s room and the juncture. Clambering to my feet, I use the wall to help as I hobble towards my bedroom. My whole body screams in pain, but I shove the feeling down as I turn the corner. The door is closed—not how I left it. I slam my fist on the door while screaming Sandy’s name. “Hold on, honey. I’m changing!” The voice of my wife calls out from within.

“I don’t care. Open the door!” I scream as I throw my shoulder against it, using my body weight to force it open. I stumble inside while checking the bed for her. Where I hope to see my sleeping wife, there are organs, chunks of meat, and snapped bones scattered about like the dumped out contents of a drawer. On the other side of the bed stands the creature with its body halfway inside a pile of flesh. It puts its feet in first before pulling the skin to cover its body, like putting on a jumpsuit. As it pulls the skin higher, its bones bend on each other, folding to fit inside of its new shell.

“I love you, honey.” The creature speaks with the voice of my wife. It fills me with so many emotions: anger, sadness, self-loathing, but in that moment, I can’t help but laugh. I cackle louder than I have ever before as I leave the room and hobble across the hallway to my study. Stopping at the shelf, I grab the whiskey bottle and lighter, then turn around. Leaving the room, I face the monster as it stands in the opposite doorway. “Come back to bed. We can talk about this tomorrow," it says in her voice.

Slowly raising the bottle to my lips, I take a swig of whiskey before putting the cap back on. I rear my arm and launch the bottle. It shatters on impact, dousing the monster in a layer of liquor. Flicking my lighter to life, I hold the flame in front of me before tossing it. Within moments, fire consumes the hallway as the monster flails and falls backwards. An ear-piercing bellow rings out and echoes in the hallway, forcing me to cover my ears as I walk to the front door. Pushing it open with my shoulder, I fall onto the ground outside just as fire consumes the entire house. Watching while on my back, I weep as I watch the life I love burn away.

A few hours later, emergency services arrive and put out the fire as they haul me away in an ambulance. Police officers come to my room and begin asking questions I don’t want to answer. They find bullet holes in my son’s room, high amounts of liquor in my bloodstream, and the charred remains of my wife on the bed. It doesn’t help that they don’t believe my story. I can’t blame them. Who in their right mind would? It’s not every day that a skin-stealing monster kills your whole family. That’s why I am sentenced for the murder of my wife and kid. My appointed lawyer argues for insanity instead, meaning the rest of my days will be spent in an asylum rather than in prison. It doesn’t make a difference to me. I am going to spend the rest of my days waiting to die either way.

That is until I receive a visitor. The asylum staff tie me to my bed and let him into the room as they leave, closing the door behind them. He wears a doctor's coat and carries himself with confidence as he walks beside my bed. Looking down at me with soft blue eyes, he takes off his hat and rests it on my chest. “Do you recognize me?”

“Never met you, so why are you here?” I bark back. He smiles.

“What a shame. I hope you do. I’ve grown so much and it’s all thanks to you, Papa. Or should I say, honey?”

“It’s you?” I mutter in disbelief before violently struggling against my restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you for what you did!” I scream. Workers flood into my room. They hold me down and jab my arm with a needle while I gnash my teeth at him. Sedatives quickly kick in, making my whole body go numb. The last thing I see is his ear to ear smile as he looms over me.