My father came home from work to find his wife’s corpse hanging from the zinc corrugated roof in our living room. There I was, a 12-year-old boy, in the middle of a dark shack, with only rat holes as a form of light and ventilation.

“What have you done?” he yelled, distraught.

We both stared at the pale purple-blue body hovering above our heads with eyes poked, blood clothed, wounds embroided with teeth marks.

“I did it for you, Dad,” I replied, with a slight sickening grin. Dentition covered with blood-stains, with human flesh in between my canines.

My father just stood there, ungrateful for my gift for him.


Tell us: What do you think of this story?