Chapter 3: Meat for the Living, Hunger for the Dead

He set the bowl down carefully, steam rising in fragrant curls. Grandma leaned forward, sniffing the air, her eyes brightening at the sight of the tender meat and potatoes floating in the rich broth.

Grandma smiled, revealing her shrunken gums. “I’m old, can’t eat pork.”

She pushed the bowl away gently, her lips curling into a faint, almost apologetic smile. Her hands shook a little as she adjusted her shawl, and for a second, she looked smaller than ever.

Then she sniffed the air. “Why does it smell so good out here?”

She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply. The kitchen was filled with the scent of spices and simmering broth, but Grandma’s nose seemed to pick out something else, something sharper and more metallic.

Mom replied, “There’s some leftover blood from the pig in the kitchen. I made blood sausage.” She said it matter-of-factly, wiping her hands on her apron. (Blood sausage—a little unusual for most Americans, but it’s a classic in our family.) The mention of blood sausage made a few of the cousins wrinkle their noses, but Grandma just nodded, her tongue flicking over her lips.

Grandma nodded slowly, swallowing as she did. Every time she swallowed, there was a rustling sound in the house, like something was burrowing around.

It was faint, almost like the sound of a mouse in the walls, but every time Grandma swallowed, it seemed to get louder. I glanced at Annie, who looked back at me, eyes wide. Nobody else seemed to notice.

Grandma barely chewed two bites of meat before wobbling to her feet. “I’m full. I’ll go take a walk in the backyard.” She stood up so suddenly the chair scraped against the linoleum. Dad tried to steady her, but she waved him off, already shuffling toward the back door. We just stared after her, not sure if we should follow.

As soon as she left, Annie and Maribel ran over and grabbed the leftover meat from her plate. After two bites, they spat it out. “Ugh, this meat is so gamey and gross.”

They made faces, sticking out their tongues and wiping their mouths on their sleeves. The meat, which had looked so tempting, now seemed greasy and tough, leaving a strange aftertaste that lingered in the air.

“Grandma’s body smells fishy and gross too,” Maribel whispered, wrinkling her nose.

The grown-ups were so loud, they didn’t hear a thing.

At this feast, us kids only got a little meat—not enough to fill our bellies. Our bellies kept rumbling.

Annie said she saw Grandma go into the kitchen—she must be eating something good. The few of us squeezed into the kitchen. In the pitch dark, we saw Grandma squatting on the floor, slurping something down.

We tiptoed past the doorway, the linoleum cold beneath our bare feet. The kitchen was dim, only a sliver of moonlight coming in through the window. In the shadows, Grandma’s shape was hunched and strange, her head bent low over a bowl. The sound of slurping echoed in the silence, wet and hungry.

“Grandma, what are you eating?” Annie’s voice was small, almost afraid. The words seemed to hang in the darkness, met only by the sound of Grandma’s lips smacking together.

Grandma’s back stiffened, but she didn’t turn around. “I’m drinking soup.” Her words were muffled, as if she was speaking through a mouthful. Her shoulders hunched even tighter, and she kept her face hidden from us.

Annie said, “Grandma, there wasn’t any soup tonight.” She edged closer, peering over Grandma’s shoulder. The kitchen smelled sharp and sour, not like any soup I’d ever tasted.

Grandma, still facing away from us: “There was. They made meat soup just for me.” Her voice was flat, almost mechanical. She didn’t move, just kept slurping, the sound growing louder in the quiet room.

Maribel pouted. “Uncle Ray and them are so unfair,” her voice thick with disappointment. She kicked at the cracked tile. Annie nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

At that moment, Grandma finished the soup, stood up, and wiped her mouth. “Come sleep with Grandma. Grandma will give you meat to eat.” She turned at last, her lips shiny and red. She smiled, her teeth looking longer than I remembered. She beckoned us with a crooked finger, her eyes glittering in the half-light.

We couldn’t resist and followed Grandma back to her room.

The promise of food was too much to resist; our bare feet padding on the old carpet, hearts pounding with hope and a little bit of fear.

Grandma told us to get on the bed. She lifted the mattress, reached inside, and pulled out a big hunk of meat. She twisted it twice—there was a wet squelch—and handed it to us.

Annie was the hungriest. She took the meat and bit into it. “Grandma, why is this meat so sour?” She chewed slowly, her nose wrinkling. The taste was strange, sharp and tangy, nothing like the pork stew from earlier. She swallowed, but her face stayed twisted in confusion.

Grandma was gnawing on something herself, mumbling, “Fresh meat is always a little sour. Eat up.”

She tore at her own piece, lips smacking, juice running down her chin. Her eyes never left us, watching every bite we took.

Maribel took a bite, puzzled. “Grandma, what kind of meat is this?” She turned the piece over in her hands, looking for a bone or a clue. The smell was stronger now, almost overpowering.

Grandma replied, “It’s chicken.” Her answer was quick, almost too quick. She licked her fingers, eyes darting from one cousin to the next.

Me: “Grandma, we don’t have chickens.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. The room felt colder, and I shivered, pulling my knees up to my chest.

In the dark, Grandma glared at me, her eyes glinting. The look she gave me was sharp, almost predatory. For a second, I thought she might lunge at me, but she just stared, her face twisted in a frown.

After eating the meat, she reached out and felt Annie and Maribel, not too pleased. “You eat so much, but you’re all bones and no meat.” She poked their arms and legs, her fingers pressing into their skin. Annie giggled nervously, but Maribel pulled away, her eyes wide with fear.

Then she beckoned to me. “Tommy, come here. Let Grandma take a look.” Her voice was sweet, but there was something wrong in it. She held out her hand, palm up, fingers curling. I hesitated, my heart thumping so loud I thought she might hear it.

I shook my head, refusing to get close. For some reason, I felt scared whenever I looked at Grandma now. I backed away, pressing myself against the wall. The other girls watched, their eyes big and frightened. The room felt smaller, the air thick and sour.

Grandma’s face suddenly went cold. She reached out and grabbed me, lifting me onto the bed like I was a little kitten. Her grip was strong, stronger than I expected. She hoisted me up with one hand, plopping me down beside her. My legs dangled over the edge of the mattress, and I tried not to cry.

“Tommy, your mom feeds you well. Your flesh is nice and firm.” She pinched my arm, nodding in approval. Her breath was hot and foul, washing over my face in waves. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I was anywhere else.

She sniffed around me—the stench and sour smell made my eyes water. Through my blurry tears, I thought I saw her bare a pair of thin, sharp fangs…

Her lips parted, and I caught a glimpse of something white and pointed. My skin crawled, and my breath caught in my throat. The room spun, and I felt dizzy with fear.

I was so scared I burst into tears.

The sobs came out in great, heaving gulps. My chest hurt, and I couldn’t catch my breath. The sound echoed off the walls, loud and desperate.

The two dirty little girls across from me saw me crying and started bawling too.

“Waaah—”

The sound was so loud it seemed to shake the walls. Down the hall, I heard footsteps pounding, voices shouting, doors slamming open.

Our cries were so loud that the whole family rushed in. When they entered the room, everyone was stunned.

Dad burst in first, followed by Mom, Uncle Ray, and Uncle Dennis. They stopped short at the sight of us—three kids bawling on the bed, Grandma sitting in the middle, her hands still outstretched. For a moment, nobody said a word.

Uncle Ray and Uncle Dennis laughed, trying to smooth things over. “The kids are just shy. They’ll be fine after staying with Mom for a night.”

Their laughter was forced, their eyes darting from Grandma to the meat-stained dish towel on the floor. Dad tried to smile, but his face was pale. Mom hovered in the doorway, her hand on my shoulder, her eyes never leaving Grandma’s face. The room was thick with unease, the echoes of our cries still hanging in the air like the last notes of a funeral hymn.