by Sam Roberts
WINNER OF THE RIVER’S FALL 2025 HALLOWEEN BODY HORROR CONTEST
Every night before sleep, the housewife kneels at the foot of the bed and prays for a softer life, or maybe a housefire. Her husband is in bed, of course. Above her, he twitches and squeals in his sleep like a pig. The bed jerks as he writhes in his sleep, almost guiltily, like his dreams are haunting him, but she doesn’t look up. The room is completely dark aside from moonlight streaming in through the window. Her knees ache from holding her position for so long. God, please grant me release, she thinks, while her face is pressed against the sheets. A miracle, some freak accident, maybe.
When she was a little girl, she was terrified of pregnancy. It was alien to her, the concept of willingly carrying a parasite and allowing it to drain you completely. It was her own personal body horror to be a host for another human being. To let it mutilate your body barely beyond recognition. She swore never to give in to the expectation of birth. She knew that there were ways of getting rid of it if need be, whether that be pills, an operation, or painful risks. Later, it evolved into a morbid interest after reading that animals often eat their young if they deem it
necessary. She saw it happen once, with her cousin’s hamster in the later years of her childhood. It seemed so natural, and she admired the small mammal before her, who had hauled each pup one by one, carrying it to the plastic container of her den to devour. To eat your young is to reclaim bodily autonomy. It was so beautiful. She saw her reflection in the small glass tank the animal was kept in and felt sick with catharsis.
Her children sleep in the other room, and she can almost hear their breathing. She climbs into her grave with her husband and slips into dreams that reek of kerosene and wet, sticky wounds. Many nights, she dreams of using her teeth. Each dream consists of animalistic annihilation, ripping connective tissue from meat. She dreams of white gristle sliding and cracking under her incisors while she eats, kneeling with her hands to her mouth, eager fingers twisting and pulling at the tough matter. She is in a dark room, and she doesn’t even know her name. Mindless gratification like hunks of barely chewed tissue slipping down her throat. Heavy and satiating.
In other dreams, she trades the vacancy of her house for flames. Cold, empty halls turn to blazing luminescence. These dreams are almost theatrical, her little one-acts, in which Grief is the lead. Grief delivers its monologue as it settles and stains into the floorboards like gasoline before it’s lit. Someone strikes a match, she thinks it’s her, but it’s always a blur. The house is engulfed in flames almost immediately. She doesn’t leave, but instead stays to watch. It’s vivid. It’s so beautiful. Relief floods her. The audience applauds when the roof finally caves in and the curtains close.
She wakes before the sun rises and steps out of bed onto cold linoleum. Out the door, the hall yawns and stretches before her. She’s lived here for a while now, but each corner feels unfamiliar. The floorboards moan unwelcomingly under her feet. She slips into the room next to her own, opening the door gingerly, slowly, as not to wake her children inside.
In the kids’ room, the one they share, they are both curled up on two twin beds on either side of the wall. Leaned against the door frame, she watches the blankets draped over their small bodies rise up and back down. Muted, animal breathing, vulnerable and slow. She aches to think she doesn’t love them. When she’s sure they’re alive, she walks back out into the kitchen and stands at the counter. Here, in the early morning, she splits into two. Madonna and the Whore of Babylon. Her husband takes his pick for the day. She will be whatever he wants.
Out the window, there is a clothesline pulled taut as a tendon, and she can barely see it through the night, but knows. White, pristine sheets wave at her from a distance. They dance, and she can hear them laugh, mocking her. She wants to shed her skin and hang it there, to strip any impurities from her body, wring out whatever is wrong with her, and hang it to dry. She stands, watching, and envisions herself in another life where she doesn’t let herself bleed out like
this. Desire grips her throat and holds tight.
There are dishes to be done. In this life, she ties a tourniquet of kitchen towels above her wounds merely in fear of bleeding on the carpet.
Sam is a Creative Writing major at UMF who combines elements of body horror and poetry in his work. He loves all horror media, film, werewolves, pigeons, and being a silly guy. He dedicates all his work to his cat, Petey.
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