CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I work on the farm my father left me. He had me doing the strangest tasks" Creepypasta

Episode Date: July 15, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by goose.jpg: https://www.patreon.com/posts/we-kept...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

The ground out past the willow pulsed. I remember how the moss peeled back to show what looked to be a grey pink, vainy pit, which was slick like raw flesh. I was just a boy, maybe seven, chasing a rabbit through the wet grass. It wasn't mine, or at least I don't remember having one. The rabbit ran ahead,

and before I could call it back, it slipped on the moss and tumbled forward. There was a wet tearing sound and it disappeared down into the pulsing pit. I remember the way the moss fell back over the hole like closing lips and I ran back to the house screaming. For years I'd wake up in the middle of the night sweating through my sheets,

that same nightmare keeping me from a good night's sleep. When I called Ruth, I was sitting in the server room watching the reflection of the fluorescent light's pulse in my room. coffee. I let the phone buzz out on the desk. She was my nearest neighbor growing up. She lived half a mile down the track and always brought casseroles over when mum passed. I remember that she kept an eye on me when dad got too rough. I'd been ignoring calls from home for years. I'd blocked my dad after I'd answered to him yelling about leaving him with a broken tractor and no one to fix it. I'd been dodging her calls lately.

too. Credit card bills were doubling before I could pay them back. My rent kept jumping each year and I didn't have it in me to lie and say I was fine. I didn't want to hear the worry in a voice. I never missed the farm. Each day before school, Dad used to wake me up before dawn to haul feed sacks almost bigger than me. He'd call me useless and slapped me hard across the back of my head when I dropped one or spilled grain across the barn floor. I hated smelling like a farm at school. The other kids would wrinkle their noses and call me pig boy. They'd shove me in the halls too.

And when I told Dad, he said, maybe if I wasn't so soft like Mom, they wouldn't. I remember once I asked him why he never came to my school assemblies, and he just looked at me and said, What for? Before walking away. Another time, when I was about twelve, I spilled a bucket of pig slop on the feedroom floor, and he dragged me outside by the collar, slammed me up against the grain silo so hard I saw stars, and left me there in the frost till Ruth spotted me during one of a walks. I spent years saving up what little I could from doing odd jobs around the village.

I'd help old Mr. Keen's split wood and mock out Ruth's chicken sheds for a fiver here and there. but I never managed to save up enough money. As soon as I was old enough, I took out a credit card, packed my clothes in a bin bag, and called it the first coach to the city. I got myself a job stocking shelves at a supermarket. I never touched the computer back home, but at the supermarket they put me in their tills for a while

and I picked up how to fix the barcode scanner when it jammed or reset the till when they crashed. One of the supervisors noticed I was quick with it and showed me how to do basic troubleshooting on the back office computer. I realized I was good at it. For the first time, I felt like maybe I wasn't useless after all, like maybe Dad was wrong about me. Ruth left a voicemail.

Her voice was soft but tight, like she'd been crying. She said my dad was sick. worse than before, and he couldn't keep up with the livestock or the fencing repairs. She didn't ask me to come home, but she said he needed help, and there wasn't anyone who liked him enough to do it. I sat there, listening to it play out, feeling that old fear crawl up in my chest. I was a grown man now, twice as strong as I'd been back then, but part of me still felt small, just hearing his name. I remembered one morning when I was eight or nine,

crying in the kitchen because Dad had called me useless again. Mom crouched down in front of me, her hands still smelling of dish soap, and she said, Your dad's a hard worker, love. It's tiring him out. Sometimes we help people, even when they don't deserve it. That's what makes you better than them.

It didn't make sense to me when I was young. But even though I understood it in my adulthood, it didn't mean I believed it. Mom's death left a gap in the house I was never allowed to speak about. The last memory I have of her was that morning. Her hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and she handed me toast as I pulled my boots on for school. She kissed the top of my head and told me to listen to the teachers and come straight home. When I got back, Dad said she fell from the hayloft or chicken for owl nests and broke her neck on the old feed bin. He didn't wait for me and buried her himself on the opposite side of the land from the barns near the Poplar Grove.

He put up a small wooden cross with a name burned into it. I used to go out there after school, sit with my back against the tree trunk and tell her about my day. Thinking about going back made my stomach twist. The resentment was there, thick as ever, thinking of all those beatings, how he only ever got meaner after mum died. But guilt pressed in too. If I didn't go, who else would help him?

Ruth was right. There wasn't anyone else who he hadn't burned bridges with. I took my old hatchback I bought a Facebook marketplace for cheap. and packed it with my belongings and a flask of instant coffee for the drive. As I got closer to home, the road narrowed, hedgerows overgrown and clawing at the paintwork. The village sign was rusted through at the bottom, leaning sideways into thistle clumps. My past shuttered shop fronts with blinds yellowed from the inside out. The grain silo streaked red-brown with rust.

The old farmhouse at the junction boarded up with a warped ply that flapped in the It all felt smaller than I remembered. The drive had been long. My back was sore from the sagging seat, and I spent half the time thinking about how I'd pay off the credit cards. Now I didn't have an income. I kept wondering what the place would look like now I was grown,

if the barns would seem small too. Part of me hoped Dad kept mum's old boxes in the attic, even just a box or a Sunday clothes, something left that still smelled like a soap and wood smoke. My chest felt tight, thinking about stepping back into that kitchen and seeing him there. When I pulled up, Dad was out by the porch, sitting on the old paint-flake chair

with his flask tucked tight in both hands. He frowned when he saw me step out of the hatchback, lines deep around his mouth. What are you doing here? He shouted. squinting at me like he wasn't sure I was real. His voice was thinner than I remembered, rough like gravel. He set the flask down on the portrail, his hand shaking a little as he did.

I told him Ruth called me, and he snorted, spat into the dirt, said he didn't need any charity from city boys with soft hands. His eyes flickered over me. My jeans, my trainers, the creases and my shirt from the drive. and he curled his lip like it all offended him. I couldn't help noticing how his shoulders had shrunk into his frame, how grey his skin looked under the old cap. There were sunspots across his cheeks in the ridge of his nose and a smear of dried blood under one nostril like he'd been wiping at it.

I thought about how this was the man who used to lift me one-handed off the ground when he was angry. Now he looked like a strong wind could knock him, him sideways. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking away from mine. Well, he muttered, voice quieter. Don't just stand there gauping. Your bags won't carry themselves in. He pushed himself up to a stand, hobbled down the porch steps, and reached for the boot to grab one of my duffel bags. His fingers trembled on the strap, and he nearly lost balance, catching himself against the car with a grunt.

For a moment, I felt sorry for him, seeing how old and thin he'd gone, but the memory of him dragging me across the yard by the collar, flared up sharp, burning the pity right out of me. I cleared my throat. You're right there, I asked, trying to keep my voice flat.

He grunted and didn't look at me, still bracing himself against the door. Don't fuss. Grab your crap and get inside before the flies do. The way his voice shook under the words made something twist low in my gut. But I didn't say anything else as I reached for the rest of my bags.

In the days that followed, mornings came slow, the cold seeping through the thin windows. Each day blended into the next and it was over the course of a week that these small changes built between us. The first morning I caught him in the kitchen, hunched over his mug,

fighting with his shirt buttons, knuckles swollen and spotted with age. I reached over without saying anything and fastened the last button for him. He grunted like it annoyed him, but he didn't pull away. He muttered. City Boys got soft hands but clear.

other fingers, and it almost sounded like affection. By the fourth and fifth day, we spent mornings along the Reifield fence. He showed me how to wedge the crowbar under the rotted post without splitting it, his wrinkled hands guiding mine, and for a moment, I felt like a kid again, looking up to him before everything went bad. I found myself wondering why he'd been so cool back then. Was it the stress of losing mum, the endless debt and failing crops? Or was that just who he was? And now age made him softer. When the tractor engine backfired, he flinched so hard he dropped the spanner and then he barked out a warm laugh. It was the first time I'd heard that sound from him since I was very young. I laughed too, and for a second I saw him the way I'd wanted to

as a boy. Just my dad, not the man who bruised my ribs when I spilled pig feed. That evening, as the day settled in, he walked down the line of the new posts I tamped in, testing each one with his booth. Good job, he said, quiet, almost embarrassed. Didn't think you get them line proper. His words settled into my chest, heavy and warm, Something close to pride curling low in my gut. As the sun bled down past the barn roof, he stared out towards the hollow,

squinting at the shadows, pooling at its edge. You're stronger than I thought. His voice cracked a little. The next week rolled on the same, each day aching more than the last. I learned how to split fence rails without wasting half the splinters,

how to pull a stubborn car from a cramped pen without getting kicked. My hands blistered in the first two days, and by day three, the skin peeled off in strips. Every morning I woke with my back stiff and my arms throbbing, but I kept going, feeling something heavy and guilty settle in my chest. I thought about how dad must have been doing all this alone for years after I left, and it made my stomach grown with shame. The work was harder than I ever imagined, and each time I caught him watching me, his eyes clouded but proud. It made me want to do more. I started picking up extra chores without him asking, fixing a jammed water pump and oiling the barn hinges before they squealed themselves

off the nails. Each chore made my back ache and my palms roar, but also gave me a sense of purpose I hadn't felt in years. I found myself wanting to prove to him I wasn't useless. Some mornings, as we ate breakfast in silence, I'd catch him glancing at me from under his brow, and I thought maybe he was starting to see me as more than a boy who ran away. But that old nightmare started coming back too.

I got used to sleeping right through the night when I moved away. Maybe it was being back in my own. room and the smell of haydust and old varnish seeping from the floorboards that let it crawl back in. Now, every couple of nights, I'd wake up gasping, hard hammering and the sheets clammy with sweat. In the dream, I was small again, feet sinking into wet grass, watching the ground past the willow ripple and pulse like a throat. The moss peeled back to show that grey pink flesh underneath, feigned and slick, twitching with a life of its own. I see the rabbit skitter forward, hear its yelps before it slipped and fell in,

followed by their wet tearing sound that still makes my stomach cleanse just thinking of it. I couldn't help but wonder why the dream came back. As time passed, I noticed that every other day my dad would hobble out to the pens and tie a rope around a goat's neck, and he'd lead it quiet and bleating past the ryefield toward the marshland. He'd come back alone, wiping his hands on his jeans, his face pale and eyes distant. The first time I asked where he went, he snapped at me, sharp. Not you business. But then he sighed and his shoulders slumped.

It's just old farm work you wouldn't understand, he said, his voice tired, almost kind. Let your old man take care of the land. There was something in his eyes that warned me off. I thought maybe he was calling them or selling to some neighbour I didn't know. But the way he shut down any question made me not want to know. It was easier not to know. I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe my nightmare wasn't just a nightmare at all.

Maybe it was something I saw once, and my mind buried it because thinking about it too long made me feel sick. The next time he went to fetch a goat, I saw how his hands shook. It was so bad the rope nearly slipped through his grip. His face was grey, lips dry and cracked, and sweat clung to the wisps of hair at his temple. I put down the spanner I was using to fix the tractor panel and said, Here, let me take it out for you today. He paused, shoulders trembling as he caught his breath,

and his eyes flicked up at me, dull and wet, like he was fighting something inside. No, he said, voice low but shaking. You go fix that Southgate hinge instead. Leave this to me. He tried to stand up straighter, but winced, gripping the ropes so tight his knuckles went white. For a second,

I thought he might collapse right there. I watched him shuffle off across the field, the goat trailing behind him. But I listened, and once I finished bolting the tractor panel, I headed for the south gate. The hinge wasn't even loose, just a bit rusted,

so I oiled it and kicked it shut the check. As I turned to walk back, I saw the goat wandering free near the fence line, rope still hanging from its neck. He lifted its head to bleed at me, but I was already sprinting past it, boots thudding on the dirt, the ground getting softer as I reached the marsh edge.

The grass there felt spongy underfoot, damp moss pulling at my souls as I scanned the land frantically. I spotted him, crumbled in the mud near the cat-tails, his shirt pulled half out of his jeans like he'd fallen hard. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow jerks, eyes half open. His body felt so light when I lifted him,

like picking up a sack of feet too long left out to dry. His skin was clammy, his breath rattled against my neck as I carried him back towards the house. I felt sorry for him then, truly sorry, and hated myself for it. He felt so small in my hearted myself for it. arms. I laid him down on the old brown armchair by the window, the one with a stuffing coming out of the armrest, and pressed the damp cloth to his forehead. It took nearly 20 minutes for his eyes to focus properly. He gripped my wrist weakly, his palm cold and thin-skinned

and muttered for water. After he drank, his head sank back against the worn cushion. My time was nearly over boy. He rasped, staring past me at the ceiling. It's time you knew about the land. He swallowed, his throat clicking dryly. Back when you were little, before your mom. His eyes drifted shut, and for a moment I thought he'd fallen asleep, but then he drew a shuddering breath. The land started failing. Crops rotted in the rose. couldn't keep the feed barley from mould. Even the hens stopped laying. Your mum and I.

We fought a lot then. Money. God, everything. He coughed weakly and his lip trembled. I tried everything, boy. Fertilizers, burning off topsoil, praying. Nothing took. Then one day, you came in screaming about the rabbit.

You were white as milk. I couldn't get the words outright. You said the earth swallowed him up. I thought you were lying. But later that evening, I went out there, past the willow. I saw it. The moss all peeled back. The flesh underneath, feigned, pulsing, like something alive.

He paused, staring through me. After it ate the rabbit, The cell field came up green again, peas like fists. I didn't think much of it until a week later when the leaves yellowed overnight, and I thought maybe it needed feeding again. So I took an old billy goat, slit its throat right over that hole, and threw it in. His voice cracked, a pathetic, thin sound. The next day, the wheat stood up.

tall, barley head's thick. The land came back to life. And that's how it's been. The land feeds us. We feed it. Your mum. She didn't understand. His fingers loosened around my wrist as his breathing eased the shallow rattles, eyes closing, mouth slack. He stayed quiet for a long minute, eyes half shut. Then his brow pinched. I tried other things, you know, he muttered, voice horse. Roadkill, rotted hard carcasses, dead crows I found in the yard, thought if it wanted meat, it wouldn't matter.

But every time I fed it something old, the land turned sour. Crops came up yellow, the barley rotted in the head. It needs fresh blood boy Warm, just killed or still kicking The first time I realised that Was when a calf was born twisted with its guts half out I didn't want it to suffer So I slit his throat out by the marsh and threw it in

The next day the cloverfield came up thick as wool That's how I knew It isn't just any meat It's got to be alive or near enough. That's how it works. His eyes rolled back and his chest fluttered like a trapped bird under his ribs.

I sat there watching him, that awful pulse of pity and disgust throbbing under my ribs. He swallowed again, eyes flicking open just enough to meet mine. You'll need to keep it fed now, he whispered. Hearing him say it like that,

made my mouth go dry. All those years, thinking it was just a nightmare. But it wasn't. I really did have a rabbit. I could see its scruffy ears in my mind, the way it used to roll on his back so I'd scratch its belly. It wasn't just some blur from sleep. It was real.

And he died, swallowed up by some sort of flesh bit. My chest hurt, thinking about it, thinking about how I'd suffered from the horrific nightmare over and over again, and my dad never said a word, just told me to stop sniveling over nightmares, tears burned in my eyes. He coughed, wet and shallow, and swallowed hard. It's your job now, he said, voice rasping like gravel. His eyes flicked a mine and softened for a moment,

like there was still a father in there somewhere. You're ready. I wouldn't ask if you weren't. He closed his eyes again, his head rolling to the side, but his chest kept rising and falling, each breath thin and ragged. I sat there for a while, taking it all in, feeling my chest tight and my hands numb before I stood up.

I grabbed my coat from the peg and stepped outside, The evening air cool against my face. The fields were quiet, a few crows picking at old straw bales. I spotted the goat wandering near the rife fence line, rope trailing behind it through the mud. It lifted its head when it saw me coming, bleated low and tried to step away, but his legs sank in the churned up soil.

My hand shook as I untangled the rope from around its hocks. as I started walking it toward the marshland. When I reached the edge of the marsh, I could smell the pit before I could see it. The goat snorted and pulled back against the rope, hooves skidding in the moss, ears flicking back at the stink. But I yanked it closer. It was in grey pink like I remembered.

It was darker now, streaked with the deep red-brown, folds of flesh ridged like the inside of the inside of the... of a gut. Thick, yellowish slime wept from its seams, pooling into the mud below. The center of it dipped inward, twitching with slow pulses.

The smell hit me so hard, I gagged. I stood there with the goat shifting nervously beside me, the rope rough in my grip. I thought about Dad's eyes when he told me I was ready. That stupid flicker of pride in my chest burned through the fear. My hands were trembling so hard I could barely loosen the rope. I slipped it off and grabbed the goat by its back legs,

feeling its weight strained my arms. It bleated, and I didn't have it in me to slit his throat. I couldn't. So I just heaved it forward, flinching as his head struck the fleshy rim. The whole pit convulsed, folds rippling outwards as it sugling outwards, as it sucked the goat down in one twitching gulp,

leaving nothing behind but the stench of blood and bile curling up into the evening air. I watched the ripple settle and felt my knees go weak. I turned away, wiping my mouth of the back of my sleeve, chewing the nausea away. But I could still hear that wet sucking sound as the goat slipped down and was swallowed. By morning, the rice stood taller,

dark green and heavy-headed. The calves were born with bright eyes and strong legs, the clover thick under their hooves. Dad noticed it too. He relaxed more, letting me take over the work. Unfortunately, he only got sicker, and he started sleeping longer. My arms thickened, and my back grew stronger under the strain.

Each night, as I washed the dirt off in the cracked basin, I saw someone I almost respected looking back at me. Dad often watched me work from his chair on the porch, his eyes soft now, his voice calmer when he spoke. Some nights he'd tell me about the farm when I was small, like how I used to fall asleep in the hayloft with a book propped on my chest, and he'd smile a little when he said it, like he actually loved me back then.

As I settled him in with his mug of warm milk, It reached out and squeezed my wrist And I could almost believe This was how it was always meant to be In the weeks after I kept feeding at things like chickens that stopped laying Lambs spawn too weak to stand One damp morning

While hauling a freshly dead hue across the slick ground My foot slid out from under me And I toppled forward My hand slapped down hard on the flesh rim Slick and hot And I gagged at the table texture. I pushed myself up fast, but something half buried in the slime caught my eye, matted down under a thick yellow smear. It was a scrap of cloth. I reached out with shaking fingers

and pulled it free. When I rubbed away the slime with my thumb, I saw the red shine through. My chest went tight, my body recognizing the material before my brain had a chance to It was a piece of the bow mum wore in her hair the morning I last saw her. For a moment, the smell of rot faded, and all I could hear was a laugh echoing in my memory, before it twisted into that pulsing, sucking sound beneath me, and the world tilted sideways under me. My hands shook as I clenched the ribbon in my fist, the anger bubbled up sharp in my chest. But under it was dread, confusion, grief all twisted together.

I thought about the grave by the poplar grove the little cross he had carved the name into. My throat felt tight. I stumbled back to the toolshed, grabbed the shovel of its rusted hook, and trudged out past the fence lines to a grave. The ground was hard from weeks of sun, but I dug anyway, sweat dripping into my eyes, dirt caking my arms. I dug until the shovel hit nothing but dry earth below. There were no bones or coffin.

The anger built up heart behind my eyes, and I felt my teeth clenched so tight, my jaw ached. All those years of being called useless, all those bruises and the fear and the small kindnesses that never made up for it. I felt the rage burn up through my chest, molten and unstoppable. He murdered her.

He murdered my mum. The bow was warm in my grip from my sweaty, shaking hands as I stormed back to the house. The door slammed open against the peeling wall. He was in his chair, the old TV flickering shadows across his face, eyes glazed and distant. He looked up slow, blinking at me like I'd woken him from a dream. I held the soiled ribbon out, my voice trembling with fury. I know what you did, I boomed. I know you killed her.

Why? Why the hell would you do that? He looked at the bow in my hand, then back up at me, eyes tired and hollow. He led her a long, ragged sigh and slumped deeper into the chair. We were running out, he rasped, his voice. like dry gravel. No cows left, barely any sheep. Your mom, she wouldn't let me take the horses.

She kept praying, thinking God would fix it. But the crops were rotting. The bank was calling every week. We were finished. I stared at him, heart pounding so hard it hurt. She didn't understand, he croaked, eyes going glassy. She said would leave. sell the place.

For this land, it's in my blood, my father's, his fathers before him. I couldn't just let it die. She said I was losing my mind, that it was just rot, just bad weather, nothing to do with the land wanting blood. She said she was taking you and leaving. She said she'd call the police if I tried to stop her.

His breathing grew shallow, rattling in his chest. I... didn't plan it, he whispered. I couldn't, I couldn't let her take everything. I pushed her. She was standing near the loft opening, yelling at me. She stumbled back, slipped right through, fell down onto the feed bin, broke her neck. I thought if the pit took her, maybe it would fix the barley, the mold, the animal starving in their pens.

So, I dragged her out there. He blinked, tears streaking down his stubble cheeks. She would have forgiven me, he muttered. She always forgave me. Something inside me snapped. My vision went hot and dark. I took a step forward, my breath ragged. No, I spat, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

That's a lie. He flinched. You don't understand, he said, voice-cracking, as if he was arguing with himself just as much as me. This farm was all I had left. This land has always been my life. If I lost it, what was left for me? Nothing.

The anger in me boiled over then, furious and cruel. I grabbed his wrist, pulling him upright despite his protests. feeling how frail and light it'd become. You murders her. You murdered everything good that was left. I grabbed his wrist. His skin felt thin. He gasped as I yanked him upright.

His legs buckled, nearly dropping him back into the chair. But I held him up, feeling how light it'd become. And now you want me to keep feeling this nightmare, like it's some family duty? My voice rose, sharp with disgust. Fine. Let's feed it. He shook his head weakly, tears dripping from his chin. Don't do this, lad, he weezed.

I began pulling him towards the door. There was a slight resistance, but nothing I couldn't overpower. He stumbled, legs barely holding him up. And when we reached the porch, steps, he lost his footing, collapsing hard onto the rough wood. I dragged him down the stairs, skin scraping against splintered planks. He groaned in pain while gasping to catch his breath. But I kept going, dragging him through the mud, his worn shoes leaving smears in the soil as he tried to push against the ground and free himself from my grip. He twisted and strained,

a broken thing fighting a losing battle. But I had no mercy. A cold marsh air bit in my face as we neared the pit, and I could feel his ragged breaths hitched with panic. His eyes met mine, pleading and wild, but the fury that fueled me was a tide too strong to hold back. Why? I shouted as I dragged him forward. Why did you hate me so much after she?

was gone. Was it guilt or just the land telling you what to do? His eyes flicked up to me, wide and glistening with tears. I don't know, he whispered, voice breaking like snap twigs. I don't know. We reached the pit, the ground soggy beneath my boots, soft and slippy. The pit waited there, that sick pull steady beneath the surface. He leaned on me. fragile and worn. I hold him upright one last time. He trembled in my grasp, his body weak and brittle.

His skin was pale and clammy, veins standing out like dark cords beneath the thin flesh of his hands. He gasped, struggling for breath, a rattling wheeze that tore through the stillness. His eyes flickered, wild and pleading, filled with a desperate, fading life. I shook. muscles tight with fury.

Please, he whispered, trembling in my grip and voice ragged. I'm your father, I looked him in the eye, voice cold and hard. And what did Mom say? Did she beg you too? Did he give her any mercy? He tried to look away, but I tightened my grip, forcing him to meet my eyes. Tears willed, mixing with snot as his shoulders he, in silent sobs. No, he sputtered.

The word was so small, so final, she deserved so much more. I shoved him forward. He stumbled, caught for half a second on the fleshy rim, then slipped into the pit. It clung to him, dragging him down inch by inch. His arms flailed, nails scraping uselessly at the veined walls

as the pit swallowed him whole with a wet, sucking sound. The folds quivered, then sealed over in silence. And it was at that moment I realized I was more like my father than I ever thought.