Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - A Mother's Will | Part 1

Episode Date: July 23, 2025

Trapped in a decaying house where time resets and trauma festers, the Henkel children endure their mother’s relentless hauntings—each night a ritual of rot, regret, and the unbearable weight of a family that refuses to die. Author: Jake Bible * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The soap suds fill the sink, crusting up over the dirty plates and coffee-stained mugs like a tsunami of cleanliness that will never be able to complete its job. Orsa watches the suds, studies them, sees how the ones closest to the faucets stream are completely obliterated in the middle, but grow tall and thick, surrounding the empty space like protective glaciers. There's a metaphor in the scene in the sink, and Orsa wonders if she's the empty space. or the towering glaciers. Water isn't free, you know, Orsa stiffens, snapping herself out of her reverie in order to focus on the task at hand.

She is supposed to do the dishes. Her job is the dishes. Orsa does the dishes. Water's free if you're on a well, Orsa replies, with barely hidden annoyance. Which we are. She waits for the rebuke at her tone, but it doesn't come.

Orsa shuts off the water. And not a moment too soon or too late, the reply comes. Takes electricity to run the well pump and electricity to run the pressure tank. Last I checked, electricity isn't free. Mother. Always around, always hovering, ready for when Orsa messes up. Ready for when Orsa starts to slack. Which is never, because all Orsa knows is that there are dishes to do, and Orsa does the dishes.

Ignoring her mother, which has become harder and harder to do, Orsa dips her hands into the scalding hot water, oblivious to the pain she should be feeling. She grasps a mug and pulls it up from the sudsy icebergs so she can scrub it with the dishcloth before dunking it once, twice, three times in the clean, clear rinse water that the other sink holds. Once soap-free, Orsa sets the clean mug on the dish rack. A motion she has made so many times over so many nights, over so many years that she wonders if the dirty dishes are the ones in charge, and she is only their servant. After all, Orsa does the dishes, isn't that right? Did you hear me? Yes, Mother, I heard you. We'll do better, then?

Orsa shivers and keeps her head down, focused on the dishes. Yes, Mother, we'll do better. That's all I ask. I think you ask a little more than that, mother. Oh? How so? You know how? No, I do not. And never tell me what I do or do not know, Orsa Henkel. Orsa studies her nerves. She's getting worked up, and she's wanted to say this for so long that if she doesn't calm down, she'll screw it all up.

We shouldn't be here. Here? In this house? Why not? This is our home. You were born here, raised here. You had a life here. And? And nothing. This is your home. This is where you are supposed to be. Not anymore. Don't be silly. This is your home. We are a family. This is where we live. Orsa stays quiet for a moment, then nods, her eyes on her work. Of course, Mother. No more of this foolishness. Of course, Mother. Good. Orsa waits. When Orsa, Asa senses that she is alone. She slowly looks over her shoulder and lets out a long breath. Thankful her mother is no longer standing behind her.

Thankful her mother is not even in the same room with her anymore. The doorway to the dining room is dark. Father has already gone out to the living room to listen to the radio. How he can stand it, Orsa doesn't know. The same program night after night. Every joke the same. Every song the same. Every soap advertisement, the same.

Every breaking news segment, the same. But that is what Father does. He listens to the radio. Night after night after night. Just like Orsa washes the dishes, which she gets back to doing after turning to look down at the never-ending suds. Another mug. Six supper plates.

Five small plates, since Cooper was being a brat and didn't want peach pie for dessert. Orsa cringes at the thought but shoves it away quickly. What is the past is the past. She wants to get away from it, not dwell in it. Like she has a choice. Back to the dishes. Four more mugs.

Six glasses. Really, they're jelly jars that Orsa's mother had collected over the years from store promotions or coupons she'd found in magazines. Orsa doubts that promotional jelly jars even exist anymore. The world has moved on even if the house and its occupants haven't changed for decades. Holding a jar up to the light, Orsa studies the multi-colored graphics painted on the glass, trying to remember when the set came home. It's a Norman Rockwell painting, and she remembers eight in the set, even though there were only six in the family. Father, Orsa, Cooper, Ashley, Maude, and Mother.

The six hankles of Red Pine Lane. So two extra glasses would take up space in the cupboard, which Mother could not abide. Everything has a place. Everything in its place was Mother's motto. It was true on so many levels. The family had each picked their favorite jar, and watched, as Mother tossed the two rejects into the trash. The image on the jar in Orsa's hand is of a boy and his dog leaning on each other. connected by a bond only youth can provide.

Ready for a break, Orsa steps away from the sink, turns a kitchen chair around so she can straddle it, and sits at the small kitchen table. She crosses her legs and rolls the jelly jar over and over, back and forth in her hands, smiling at every rotation, happy that the boy and his dog are always together when they come around again. The ankles had a dog once.

Orsa shoves the thought from me. her head. The bulb hanging above the kitchen table flickers, but Orsa doesn't pay it any attention. She's grown used to the flicker. Jelly jars used for juice need juice, Orsa says to herself, as she pushes up from the chair and goes to the ice box. She pulls open the door, and a weak bulb struggles to life, illuminating the meager contents the refrigerator holds. I could have apple cider, or apple cider. But you know what, I'm in the mood for. She pulls a jug out of the ice box and sets it over on the table. Apple cider. Orsa fills the jelly jar and holds it up toward the bare bulb. Cheers, light ball. She downs the juice

in one huge gulp, then steadies herself with one hand on the kitchen table. After a second, she takes in a huge gasp of air and lets it out quickly. And it tastes like nothing, she says, and straddles the chair again before pushing the jelly jar away from her. Her head turns, and she looks at the filled sink. Still dirty. She snorts and looks toward the window above the kitchen sink. The perpetual twilight shades the outside view in blues and grays. If she really wants to work for it, she can get up, lean across the sink,

press her face to the window, and just barely make out the old oak tree with the tire swing. But that feels like too much work. And Lord knows she has plenty of that already. Bone weary, Orsa stands once more and takes the juice jar to the sink. She sets it in the soapy side and reaches for the dishrag. Then she pauses. She has a thought. Orsa is sure she's had the thought before,

but everything in the house always comes around again. So she's not too hard on herself for any lack of originality. With her fingers, gently playing along the tops of the suds, Orsa slowly turns her head and looks at the stove. The gas stove. Is it possible? Could she really pull it off? Fire cleanses and Lord knows the house needs some cleansing. Cleansing in the most awful way.

Her eyes dart to the dark dining room doorway, then to the just as dark hallway door that leads to the stairs and to the rooms above. all clear in both directions. Humming a sad tune that she can't remember the name of, Orsa leaves the sink and shuffles over to the stove. She taps the knobs with the fingertip, then leans down and sniffs long and hard. Old bacon grease and the hint of turned flour,

some black pepper and even a little cayenne, and something sweet like maple syrup. But Orsa knows it's most likely sorghum, since she can't remember the last time there was real maple. syrup in the kitchen pantry. Then the scents are gone, figments of her memory. She can no more smell the stove seasoning than she could taste the apple cider. Orsa continues tapping the knobs then slowly, one by one. She turns them up to full. Then she leans in again and sniffs long and hard. Old meat, rotten meat. The stink of carry-on on the side of the road in the

middle of July, the stench of death. This she can smell. Along with the mildew that seeps out of the house's walls, there's the overpowering aroma of damp soil that drifts up from beneath the floorboards. Orsa can smell the urine of various rodents that use the thoroughways and byways beneath the floors and in the ceilings to navigate the old crumbling house. And Orsa can smell herself. The rank sweat filled with fear and sorrow that stains the armpits of her house dress, the oily tang of her unwashed hair, the rot of her own flesh as the wound in her back continues to leak fluids down her spine, where they pool in the overstretched band of her underwear, then spill over, giving Orsa the feeling that she is perpetually soiling herself.

The smell of death fills the kitchen and Orsa smiles, staring up at the dim light bulb, wondering if she should break it to create the spark she needs. Or should she risk leaving the kitchen to fetch the matches from by the fireplace? When was the last time she left the kitchen other than for supper in the dining room? Orsa can't remember. What she can remember is that it wasn't a pleasant experience, and she'd rather not do it again. But with the image of the box of matches in her mind's eye, Orsa realizes she doesn't have to leave the kitchen. While she's grateful she won't have to deal with father, Orsa is not pleased with the alternative.

But beggars cannot be choosers. No longer humming, Orsa moves to the pantry and opens the door, reaching up for the string to a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. With a quick pull and snap, the pantry is illuminated. Orsa ignores the sight on the floor. She has refused to look at the site all these decades, so there's no reason to peek now. With her head held up, Orsa spies what she needs and reaches out for the box of long kitchen matches father had gotten on his last shopping trip into town.

Orsa? She doesn't hear a thing, not one thing. There is nothing there. An image of her sister reaching for her. A bloody hand outstretched, decides to hurry through Orsa's mind and she winces. With the matches in one shaking hand, she pulls the light bulbs string with the other and closes the door. Orsa is disgusted with herself that she didn't look at the pantry floor. Who was she to lecture mother on this place, this house, when she acted just as cruelly,

just as coldly? She hears her name called three more times before the usual silence is restored. Orsa takes a deep breath and the smell of rotten meat claws its way up her nostrils. She should be disgusted, but really she's just happy to smell something, anything, this strong, even if it is the stench of death. This will work, she says, fishing out a long kitchen match from the box as she walks to the stove.

This has to work. Orsa places the tip of the match to the bottom of the box where a square of sandpaper sits affixed, waiting to be struck. She pulls quickly, a glow begins to form. Then the water in the sink turns on and the spark that had begun to grow on the matchhead blinks out of existence.

As does the match Orsa's holding, And as does the whole box of kitchen matches. The water continues to run. Orsa, now empty-handed, stares at the stove's knobs. Each one is set to off. And there is no smell of rotten meat or death filling the kitchen. No more than usual, that is. Water isn't free, you know.

Orsa's chin hits her chest, and she chokes back a sob. Did you hear me? I hurt you, mother. Don't seem like it. Since all you're doing is standing there, Acting like a moron staring at the stove. What are you expecting, huh? You think the stove is going to whip up some scrambled eggs for you?

No, mother. Well then, go turn that water off and get back to work. Yes, mother. Orsa turns toward the sink and screams as the gray-skinned face of Mother is only an inch from her own. I don't feel like you are doing better. Sorry, Mother. We will do better, yes? Yes, Mother.

Yes. We will. You will do better. Yes, mother. Orsa replies to the unseen voice as she crosses back to the sink and turns the faucet off. She'd look at the dish rack, but she knows there's no point. It's empty, like always. Orsa reaches into the scalding hot water and doesn't feel the pain as she removes a coffee mug that she will wash for the millionth time. For usual, as her sister Ashley says, there's no way. point in trying to talk some sense into mother. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a

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A brief moment of contact. Ashley can't remember the last time she'd experienced either. And she can't figure out why her sister refuses to help her. She's been on the pantry floor for hours. Days, weeks, years, decades, shouting for someone to help her. But even though she can hear them out there moving around, no one ever comes to help her, ever. Ashley tries to adjust her position and is very careful about each movement.

But, per usual, as her brother Cooper says, her hand slips in the blood and her arm goes out from under her. Also, per usual, she finds herself cheek to floorboard with a pool of blood sandwiched between like some sort of hideous grout or morbid cement. At least, she doesn't feel the pain of it all anymore. During those first few days of suffering while she lay on the floor, her hands holding her insides inside, Ashley was certain she'd go mad from the burning agony in her belly. It turned out the smell of her own intestines, which is basically a blood and shit stew,

was worse than the feel of them in her hands. She'd always been a little squeamish when it came to strong odors. She once puked for days just from the memory of stepping in a pile of fresh dog crap out in the yard. Ashley pushes the thought of the dog away quickly. Eventually, the agony went away, as did the smell of her own colon. Then the waiting began. Hello? She calls out.

Her voice never louder than a whisper. Ashley isn't sure why her voice is so quiet. She has a vague memory of screaming for hours and days, crying out for someone to come help her. But she isn't sure if it's a memory or a dream. She isn't sure of much anymore. Orsa? Ashley slides her cheek through the blood,

angling her face enough so she can see the thin line of light from under the pantry door, a thin line of hope, breaking the darkness that constantly surround. A squeak from the corner of the pantry reminds her that as much as she'd like not to be alone, some company is less than ideal. Go away, she hisses at the source of the squeak. When she feels the tiny feet on her left calf, Ashley sighs.

Angus, is that you? In order not to go completely stark raving mad, or because of it, Ashley has named her rodent tormentors. There have been generations over the decades. but to Ashley, they will always be Angus, Charlie, Grace, noodle, and biting. She feels tiny feet make their way up her thigh. Tiny feet become tiny hands. Then the tiny hands become normal hands. And the normal hands grow long nails, and the nails begin to dig into Ashley's flesh as the hands claw their way up her body. No, no, no, no, no. Ashley says, and prays that Orsa will hear her from out in the kitchen. If Orsa comes and opens the

pantry door again. Everything will be all right. But the door does not open. Why aren't you helping your sister with the dishes? Ashley shivers. Oh, stop that. Shivering like a scared little sow. Wink, oink, little sow. Leave you, B? You should be thanking me. I saved you. Saved me? You are the reason we were all here. In this hell. Don't you aim that sharp tongue at me, little miss. You don't know what I have to do to keep this family together. you show me his disrespect with that sass. The hands claw and claw, and soon they are at Ashley's chin. The fingers search for and find her mouth, then try to slide between her lips.

But Ashley knows, especially after all this time, to keep her lips pressed tight. A hair off the bald head of the baby Jesus couldn't fit in the space between Ashley's lips. The nails dig into the gap, desperate to leverage her lips apart, desperate to get at the a sharp tongue. Ashley tries to push the hands away, but they won't be stopped. They are relentless as they twist in turn, hunting for a way inside Ashley's mouth. Where's that sharp tongue now? Where's that sass? Ashley turns her head to the side. The hands stay in place. Nails now dripping with Ashley's blood, her lips becoming ragged shreds. No smart talk. No little Ashley jokes. A finger slides inside, and Ashley knows.

what she has to do. She's been doing it for hours, days, weeks, years. Letting her jaw relax, the rest of the fingers slide in and the laughing begins. Then Ashley bites down as hard as she can, filling her mouth with hot blood and floating fingertips. The screams and the wailing, and the beating and the thrashing that come are expected. Ashley turns her head and throws up as the entire weight of her mother presses down on her. You horrid thing! Why do you hate your mother. Ashley doesn't bother answering. She knows, Orsa tries. She can hear her every night, pleading with mother to stop the madness. But Ashley is done trying. She knows there will be no changing mother's mind, managing to get her legs pulled up under her. Ashley ignores the

squishing and squelching of her own long-since congealed bodily fluids, and kicks up and out. Her mother's weight leaves her, giving Ashley time to roll over and up against the pantry's bottom shelves. There's a thud. Ashley stares at one of mother's unblinking eyes. You can't ever leave me. I know, Ashley replies. The eyes go wide.

She agrees with her mother for once? Yes. Now will you leave me alone? Never. Ashley screams as loud as she can. It's barely above a whisper. One of a rodent friends, especially noodle or grace,

could squeak twice as loud. But even the fact that Ashley can even scream gives her hope, not hope in her situation. She's resigned herself to the eternity of sadness that lays out before her. No, Ashley simply has hope that maybe eternity won't be so helpless. Hands jammed themselves into Ashley's mouth before she can clamp her lips closed. They scratch and pull. They dig and tear and scoop. Ashley can feel the fingers elongate.

She can feel them continue to creep and slide down her throat. throat. Then they grip, and they rip. Ashley's long fought for scream stops instantly, and only a weak push of breath is left as it winds its way up and around the fingers that pull Ashley's torn vocal cords roughly from her throat and out of her mouth. That tongue of yours isn't worth a darn without these. Ashley cringes as her own vocal cords are shaken in her face. The wet slap of the flesh makes Ashley jerk, and she longs for enough space to scoot away and just curl up in a ball with her knees up to her chest. Nothing to say?

Ashley has so much to say. So many questions and thoughts and accusations that want to spill out of her. But in the end, they would just be pointless words falling on mad ears. Go away! Ashley hisses from vocal cords that are back in her throat and as weak as ever. She knows that if she feels around on the floor boards in front of her, the cords that had just been ripped out would be gone. That's how things work in the pantry. You spent so many years crying for your mother, and now you want me to leave?

I want you to stop torturing me. Torturing you? Me? Torture you? A wicked, reedy laugh fills the small space. The hussy tells me to stop torturing her. Isn't that rich? After she spent a year turning this family's reputation into nothing,

running around the country with that boy, being seen with him at those juke joint. Being seen with him eating barbecue as you sit hip-to-hip on the tailgate of his daddy's truck. Although how that old man can afford a truck, I do not know. Hard work? For one of them? I doubt it. Not a single one knows what real hard work is. Real hard work is keeping this family together. That's hard work. Others can work just as hard. The slap is fast and impossible.

There isn't enough space in the pantry for a palm to build up that kind of. up that kind of steam. Yet Ashley's head still rocks back, smacking her skull on the lower shelf, like always. She should have known better, and she should have seen it coming, even in the darkness of the pantry. Her eyes moved toward the strip of light from under that door. The moment she does, she regrets the motion. Mother sees all. She didn't even look at you. Ashley sighs. Shut up. Don't talk to your mother like that. Or what? What will you do? Kill me. You have no idea what I'm capable of. I think I do. No, my dear Ashley, you do not. None of you do. Ashley rolls her eyes. Another slap snaps her head to the side.

Careful about SAS girl. Be very careful. Will you please leave me alone? None of your siblings want me to leave them alone. All of them do. They just can't say it. But you can? It's why you come in here night after night, day after day, year after year, and tear my throat out, isn't it? Because I never would hush up the way you wanted me to. Because no matter how much you wanted me to fear you, I just couldn't. A fist punches through the slit in Ashley's belly, grabs a handful of guts and twists. Ashley moans, knowing it should all hurt so much worse and happy that it doesn't.

Do you fear me now? Sure, mother, I fear you plenty. Thank you for putting me in my place. I don't believe you. Believe what you want. The twisting stops and the hand is removed. So much sass, so much attitude. In the end, you were saved.

You know that, don't you? That piece of trash you were spreading your legs for would have gotten bored and beat you bloody, just like you deserved. Then what? Somewhere other than here. and he'd never lay a hand on me. Well, no, I suppose he wouldn't.

Not no more. Not with you in this pantry forever. And him, well... This is new. What do you mean? Ashley asks. A feeling a million times worse than having her guts twisted fills her chest.

What are you talking about? Did I never tell you? I thought I had. Ashley waits. Her mother remains silent. What did you never tell me? The silence continues. Mother.

Mother, what did you never tell me? The silence stretches and so does Ashley. She reaches out with both arms. Nothing. There's no one else with her in the pantry. Her fingers brushed the lower shelves across from her to prove it. Mother? Words Ashley never thought she'd say in a million lifetimes.

Mother, what haven't you told me? The basement is a cold, unforgettable. giving space. And for Cooper, that's just the way he likes it. Hungry! He shouts from where he sits, his back up against the long dead furnace. His eyes locked onto the small window up by the ceiling. There's a specific name for this type of window, but Cooper can't remember what it is. Ashley or Maude used to make fun of him for always forgetting the name of the window. He just called it the backyard window, because if you stand on a step ladder and look out the window, you see the backyard.

regardless of what it's called, it's a window Cooper's crawled through more times than he can count. No crawling now, though. Those days are gone. Cooper rattles the chains that secure him to the furnace for emphasis to his thoughts. Then a different noise overpowers the chain rattling. Hello? I'm hungry! He shouts, even though he knows he can never fill the hole in his middle. I'm so sorry, my sweet, sweet boy. It's all right. Cooper snarls in his patented Cooper tone that drips with sarcasm and bile. He turns his head away from the window and to the long set of stairs against the opposite wall. A shadow holding a tray descends the stairs, then pauses at the bottom.

What are you waiting for? Cooper shouts. I'm fucking hungry. Language like that is how you end up without dessert. To hell with dessert! Just bring that fucking food over here. I'm starving. Is that so? starving, you say?

The shadow moves away from the stairs, but remains a shadow no matter how close it gets to where Cooper is chained. He shakes the chains at the shadow. Why am I down here? Oh, sweet, sweet boy, we've been through this. I brought you here because you are so strong, so full of life, that I needed to anchor you to the house so you wouldn't leave your mother all alone. What about the girls?

They're still here, aren't they? Oh, they are still here. Then you wouldn't be alone. Take these off. I don't believe I will. I said take them off. No. Mother, take them off.

No, son, I will not. I worked very hard to chain you to the furnace. I won't have all that hard work end up being for nothing. Cooper thrashes and thrashes and thrashes against the chains. Then he slumps and lets his body fully relax. Fine. What's for lunch? Cooper asks. Despite his little tantrum, he is starving, and he can feel the saliva already cresting his bottom lip, ready to spill out the moment he catches a whiff of the meal being delivered to him. Lunch? Sweet boy. Lunch is over. Dinner is over. Even supper is over. Cooper is confused. There's no way that lunch or dinner or supper is over. Not with how empty he feels in the room. inside, an emptiness, as if he hasn't eaten in weeks or years or decades.

Then he looks down and realizes there's a reason he feels so empty and so hungry all the time. There's a hole in my middle, he says, and his fingers begin to explore the gaping wide wound where most of his organs used to be. How'd that get there? So handsome yet dumb as a post. The tray is set down next to Cooper, but he still can't see. who is holding it. Not that Cooper doesn't know. He'd know his mother anywhere. He's her sweet, sweet boy.

I ain't dumb, Cooper says and reaches for the tray. Then he hesitates. Meatloaf, which is what he assumes takes up most of the space on the plate, shouldn't be squirming. And the cabbage and boiled potatoes shouldn't be hairy. Not to mention the milk that has turned green and grown a thick layer of fuzz on the top. What's wrong, sweet, sweet boy? Aren't you hungry? I don't want that. You don't? Why not? It doesn't look good. Are you saying my cooking doesn't look good? Is that what just came out of your mouth? Cooper knows he shouldn't answer the question. He's been asked it before, and he's answered it before. He's pretty sure. He's also pretty sure it didn't end well the last time he did offer up an It he can't help himself.

Just looks like it's gone bad. I don't want moldy food. Make me some fresh stuff. Make you some fresh stuff, he says. You know, like your garden beans and your candied carrots and that pulled pork and... There's no garden to take from, sweet, sweet boy. And there's no pit to slaughter and smoke. There ain't?

You know there ain't. Really? I do. Feels like just yesterday we were having supper, all fresh from the garden. You were all upset because father didn't say a word about... I was there, Cooper. I know what happened. Oh, right. The tray of food is nudged an inch closer.

Cooper frowns at it. But you screwed up dessert, mother. I remember that, continues. There was only peach pie, and I had been told there would be strawberry rhubarb pie. So I was set on having strawberry rhubarb, And when I saw the peach pie, Lord have mercy, I was not happy. You have it reversed. I was unhappy before pie?

I had said there'd be peach pie, but I made strawberry rhubarb instead. No, no, that ain't right. Yes, Cooper, it is right. I know. I was there. Cooper tries to recall that night, but it all slips away. Everything keeps slipping away. He glances at the tray.

Oh, is it lunchtime? Sure, my sweet, sweet boy, it's lunchtime. Oh, good, he rattles his chains. What are these for? Why am I chained to the furnace? Where's the rest of my belly? The shadow sighs. No point in answering any of those questions.

Your mind is a sieve. Everything drips right through. I am so hungry. I should have eaten that peach pie. strawberry rhubarb right i should have eaten that yes cooper you should have you have no idea how much you should have i don't see any pie on that tray is the pie all gone for a very long time now are those maggots in the meatloaf of course not it look like maggots onions onions don't look like they are onions they are onions they are onions Eat your damn food!

The shadow isn't a shadow anymore, and mother's gray-skinned face presses its nose against Cooper's. You will eat! You will eat it all! Cooper cries out and scrambles to get away from his mother's rotted face. Eat it! I'm trying! I'm trying! Cooper spins himself around,

which isn't easy to do while missing most of his abdominal muscles, and reaches for the tray with the toe of his right shoe. It takes him a few tries, but he finally snags it and is able to do. to slowly drag it over to him. There you go, Mother says and moves back and back and back, until she is lost from sight, a shadow amongst shadows again. The fork is rusty, or Cooper hopes it's rust.

He picks it up, digs into the middle of the meatlove, and saws back and forth, cutting the slab in half. Off-white fluid bursts from the maggots he dissects, adding to the already questionable liquids that pool on the plate. Looks great, Cooper says, eyeing the bite he's cut off for himself. Then he shoves it in his mouth and chews and chews and choose and choose, then swallows, closes his eyes, and waits. The food plops out of the hole in his middle and splats onto the dirty basement floor. Cooper sighs.

Eat up, sweet boy. Can't have you wasting away now, can we? He is so hungry. All he wants to do is fill himself up. So he takes another bite of meat love. Plop splat. And another bite. Plop splat.

He tries some potatoes. Plop splat. Some cabbage. Plop splat. Look at you. You've cleaned your plate. What a good boy. Still kind of hungry, though.

Growing boys like you are always hungry. I'm not a boy mother. I growing boys are always hungry. The shout erases forward and Cooper screams. He jams his legs up to his chest and covers his head with his arms. His mother's face is right on the other side of those arms, twisting this way, twisting that way, peering in at him with milky dead eyes. You should have seconds, she says, and the green moss on her teeth wriggles. I don't, I don't want seconds.

Of course you do. Do I need to say it again, sweet, sweet boy? No. Then let me hear you say it. I don't want to. Let me hear you say it. Growing boys are always hungry. His mother's face retreats slowly as the words reverberate off the basement walls, muted by decades of dirt and grime and shame.

But even with his mother's face gone, Cooper keeps his arms around his head. He can't always remember what happens, but he knows that it's never very good. A son is supposed to protect his mother from everything, but look at you! How can you protect me if you are acting like you are afraid of me? Stop yelling at me then. You don't listen otherwise. Yeah, well, I don't like it. And I don't like that I have to protect you.

Yes, a mother's job is to always protect their children, which I have done perfectly so far. But there comes a point where a mother gets tired and needs them protecting. Can you do that, Cooper? Cooper, can you protect me? Cooper doesn't respond, mostly because he never quite understands what his mother is talking about when she brings him food.

He doesn't really understand much of anything anymore, but that's beside the point. If there is a point, Cooper isn't sure. The other reason Cooper doesn't respond to his mother is that there's an itching at the back of his neck, not a metaphorical itching, but a literal itching.

He scratches at his neck, and his finger slips into a small hole. He digs about and feels small things, tiny things, minuscule things, burst and pop. Oh, right. Now he remembers. A spider had laid eggs in his neck, and he keeps forgetting to clean it out. But that's all sorted now. He pulls his hand away from his neck and stares at the pulp on his finger.

Don't you dare eat that now, his mother says. Looks tasty. Tasty? You want tasty? Mother scoops up all the fallen food and piles it on the tray. Then she shoves the tray closer to Cooper. Why eat that nasty stuff on your fingers when you can eat some of your mother's home cooking? Cooper continues to study the goop on his fingers.

Then he sniffs it. All of his attention goes to his mother. She points at the tray as she slips back into the basement's dark pockets. Eat. Cooper eats. Plop splat. Plop splat. Plop, splat, plop, splat.

Very good. The shadow returns for the tray, picks it up, then walks back to the stairs as if everything is normal. Everything is fine. Cooper watches her the whole way. He tries to get comfortable, adjusting his back against the furnace.

Mother? The shadow pauses, the silhouette of its head turning slightly. Yes, sweet, sweet boy. Why'd you chain me up? So you'd always be with me. Yeah, but... He looks down at his lack of a middle mass.

Where'd this hole come from? Love, sweet, sweet boy. It don't make any sense. Oh, sweet, sweet boy. Let's not dwell on the bad memories. I remember so little that it's hard to sort out the bad from the good. This one is bad! His mother screams, suddenly back in his search.

face. Flex of black and green fly from a rotted mouth and speckle Cooper's cheeks. He closes his own mouth, but knows some of those flecks got in there. He almost wishes he had some of that fuzzy milk to wash it all down with. I'm sorry, he says and cringes back against the furnace. I forgot I'm not supposed to ask these questions. I'm so sorry, mother, please. Their faces are a millimeter apart. His mother's breath is like a sub-zero blast furnace, freezing bits of his cheeks with every exhale. I'm sorry, he whispers. You will stay with me forever, my sweet, sweet boy.

Yes, mother. Then she is gone. The shadow is gone. Nothing ascends the stairs. Only the tray remains empty and waiting. Cooper gathers up the slop from the floor, the remnants of his second helpings, and tosses it onto the tray.

Then he leans back against the cold furnace. By the time he closes his eyes, the tray has faded away. But, for usual, a phrase his sister Maude always says, Cooper knows the tray will be back, carried by an angry shadow that he's pretty sure is his mother.