When I snuck down to check out their basement, I found him strapped to a table without his limbs, whispering, “Son… don’t eat dinner.”
I froze mid-apology as something huge slipped out of the ceiling vent, swallowed him up to the knees, and then looked at me like I was supposed to say thank you.
It wasn't until I was arrested for the murder of the millionaire, whose car I was driving, that I realized the wish hadn't given me a new life; it had stolen someone else's.
He smiled and placed a bloodstained spine on my desk, right on top of the custody appeal.
“Fucking idiots,” I laughed, turning off the news as I clutched a lock of her hair.
But when the first swing landed, he screamed my name and begged, “Son, please stop… I can still feel everything.”
It wasn’t until the scratching stopped, followed by a wet crunch and slow chewing, that I stopped reaching for the knob.
Their tone changed when “Grandpa” unhinged his jaw and swallowed my dog whole.
Then I saw his text from four hours earlier: “Can you please lock the back door? I left in such a hurry that I forgot.”