What Remains

The grief came out looking like a chicken heart.

Mara had expected something larger.

For fourteen months, it had occupied the passenger seat of her car, the other half of her bed, the space between waking and remembering. She had carried it through grocery stores and work meetings. Once, standing in front of the yogurt, she had cried so hard a stranger offered to call someone.

Now it lay in a stainless-steel dish.

Dark red. Slightly ridged.

No bigger than her thumb.

“Is that all of it?”

Dr. Vale turned the dish toward her.

“How do you feel?”

Mara thought about her husband.

She pictured Daniel on the kitchen floor, one slipper still on, his hand beneath the open dishwasher.

Usually, the memory arrived with a physical sensation: something enormous trying to force its way through the middle of her chest.

She waited.

Nothing happened.

“Oh,” she said.

Then she began to laugh.

The incision sat beneath her left breast.

Three stitches. A waterproof dressing. A mild ache when she reached overhead.

She had undergone dental procedures with worse recoveries.

Emotional extraction had been available for nearly a decade, though most insurance companies still classified it as elective. The advertisements promised relief from persistent psychological distress.

You don’t have to carry it forever.

Dr. Vale gave her a pamphlet and a white container with a screw-top lid.

Mara looked inside.

The grief had left a red smear against the plastic.

“You’re giving it to me?”

“It’s your tissue. We’re required to offer its return.”

“Can’t you dispose of it?”

“Of course.”

He held out his hand.

The thing contracted.

Only once.

Mara put the lid back on.

“I’ll take it.”

Daniel had been dead for fourteen months and eleven days.

He’d died on a Tuesday morning, which Mara found particularly offensive. Tuesdays were for dentist appointments and taking the trash to the curb. They weren’t supposed to divide a life into before and after.

They’d argued that morning.

Not a proper argument. Nothing worth remembering, except that she remembered every word.

He’d left a cabinet open again. She’d hit her head on the corner while unloading the dishwasher and snapped at him.

“For God’s sake, Daniel. Is it really that difficult?”

He’d smiled, which made her angrier.

“I’m beginning to think you married me for my ability to reach the top shelf.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know, Bird.”

She hated when he called her that during an argument.

He’d kissed the back of her neck anyway.

She’d shrugged him off.

Twenty minutes later, she found him on the floor.

For fourteen months, she’d replayed that morning. She remembered the smell of coffee, the sound of the dishwasher, the terrible weight of his head in her lap.

She remembered apologizing.

Over and over.

She’d wanted to tell him she wasn’t really angry.

That she loved him.

That he could leave every cabinet in the house open for the rest of their lives if he’d only get up.

Now, standing in the clinic parking lot, she remembered all of it.

She simply didn’t mind.

She left the container on the kitchen counter while she made dinner.

For the first time in months, she wanted food that required more than peeling back plastic and turning on the microwave. She chopped an onion. Opened wine. Put music on.

Halfway through the second song, she realized she was singing.

She called her sister.

“I feel better.”

“You sound better.”

“I know.”

Anna began to cry.

Mara waited patiently for her to finish.

Anna had spent most of the previous year taking care of her. She’d stayed for three weeks after the funeral, sleeping on the couch in case Mara needed her.

Now Mara found the memory mildly embarrassing.

“You should come over,” Anna said. “I’ll make dinner.”

“I already made dinner.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“We’ll see.”

After they hung up, Mara finished her wine.

She hadn’t thought about Daniel once during the conversation.

She considered that a remarkable improvement.

In the middle of the night, something squeaked in the kitchen.

She went downstairs carrying a shoe.

The white container trembled beside the coffeemaker.

Inside, something scraped the plastic.

She called the clinic’s after-hours number.

“Residual activity is normal,” the nurse told her.

“It’s making a noise.”

“Your autonomic processes don’t stop immediately upon separation.”

“Should I put it in the fridge?”

“No,” the nurse said sharply.

Then, more gently, “Just leave it somewhere quiet.”

Hours later, the grief had developed a seam.

It ran along the underside, pale and puckered. When Mara tilted the container, the seam opened.

A small tongue moved inside.

She put the lid on.

At work, she cleared six weeks of unanswered emails.

Her manager took her aside.

“Whatever you’re doing,” he said, “keep doing it.”

At lunch, she found an old photo of Daniel on her phone.

He was standing in their backyard, holding a spatula and wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK.

She remembered laughing because he’d burned the hamburgers.

She could even remember loving him.

It was an interesting sensation, remembering a feeling without experiencing it.

Like knowing the lyrics to a song she no longer enjoyed.

She deleted the photo.

There were better ones.

She booked the shame removal on Friday.

There was plenty to choose from.

The affair that had lasted three weeks, years before Daniel died. The relief she’d felt when her father finally entered a nursing home. The time she’d pretended not to see a coworker crying in the restroom because she couldn’t bear another person needing something.

And, of course, the argument.

Dr. Vale asked which memories troubled her most.

“All of them.”

“Shame serves a regulatory function, Mara.”

“I don’t want to feel guilty anymore.”

“Guilt and shame aren’t precisely the same thing.”

“Then take both.”

The tissue came out pale gray, folded tightly around itself.

As he lifted it from the incision, one edge unfurled.

Mara saw something resembling the inside of an ear.

That evening, she told Anna about the affair.

She’d never told anyone.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Did Daniel know?”

“No.”

“God, Mara.”

“It was years ago.”

“Doesn’t that make you feel terrible?”

“Not anymore. That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

Anna hung up.

Mara stared at the phone.

The grief stopped crying when she held it.

She’d tried wrapping towels around the container. Putting it in a cabinet. Leaving it in the laundry room with both doors shut.

But the sound carried.

Finally, exhausted, she lifted it into her palm.

It was warmer than she expected.

The little mouth closed.

Something inside it beat rapidly.

She stroked it once.

It made a low, contented sound.

She remembered Daniel holding a bird that had flown into their living room.

It had struck the window and fallen behind the couch. Daniel had picked it up carefully, cupping it between his hands until it stopped struggling.

He’d carried it outside.

“You can’t keep it,” she’d called.

“I know.”

He’d stood in the yard another ten minutes, waiting for it to fly.

The thing in Mara’s hand shifted.

She returned it to the container.

The shame liked darkness.

It crawled beneath the grief whenever Mara opened their containers. By Sunday, she’d moved them both into a plastic dishpan lined with an old towel.

They fit together.

Thin strands emerged from the gray tissue and burrowed into the grief’s surface.

Mara tried to separate them with a spoon.

A translucent membrane stretched between the two masses until a dark vessel ruptured beneath it.

The thing convulsed.

By morning, there was no visible seam.

Mara sent a photo to the clinic.

Dr. Vale called her himself.

“Extracted emotions should be stored individually.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“It’s in your aftercare instructions.”

“Can I pull them apart?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

The thing turned toward her voice.

“Will it get bigger?”

“Only if you continue adding material.”

“Has this happened before?”

“Combined tissue can sometimes demonstrate organization.”

“Organization?”

“Structural development.”

“You mean it can grow arms?”

Dr. Vale was silent.

“Have you given it a name?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d prefer that you didn’t.”

The loneliness filled most of a specimen bag.

It emerged in a glistening rope, knotting over itself in the dish.

Mara felt light before Dr. Vale had finished.

On the way home, she canceled dinner with Anna.

Then she canceled the bereavement group.

At home, she tipped the loneliness into the dishpan.

The thing received it eagerly.

The rope disappeared into a fold along its belly.

Then a new appendage pushed through the skin near its mouth.

It was narrow and pale, ending in five tiny projections.

A hand.

Not quite.

The fingers had no bones. They bent and unbent independently, searching the air.

When Mara left the room, it began striking the dishpan.

By morning, the thin fingers had rubbed themselves raw against the plastic.

After that, the dishpan was too small.

She moved the thing into the bathtub.

It had developed a length of spine, visible beneath the skin as a row of hard white beads. Above its widened mouth, two wet depressions followed her around the room.

Its limbs were still uncertain.

One bent in three places. Another ended in a fan of soft tissue that stuck to the porcelain.

Mara put towels beneath it.

The next morning, she found the towels arranged around its body.

It had tried to cover itself.

When she pulled one away, the thing curled inward.

Mara laughed.

“Don’t be shy.”

It covered its face with a malformed hand.

Without loneliness, her days became pleasantly simple.

Work. Food. Sleep.

She stopped checking whether anyone had messaged.

When Anna visited, Mara found the interruption irritating.

“Do you remember when I stayed here after the funeral?” Anna asked.

“Of course.”

“You used to call me three times a night.”

“I know.”

“You were afraid to be alone.”

“Well, I’m not anymore.”

From upstairs came a dull knock.

Anna looked toward the ceiling.

“What’s that?”

“Plumbing.”

Another knock.

Then a long, thin cry.

Anna started toward the stairs.

Mara caught her wrist.

“Leave it.”

“You’re hurting me.”

Mara let go.

“Then don’t go upstairs.”

She had fear removed next.

Dr. Vale hesitated over the consent form.

“Some degree of apprehension is protective.”

“I understand.”

“Your sister called. She’s concerned.”

“It’s none of her business.”

“Mara, I’m beginning to have concerns about the cumulative effects of these procedures.”

“Then why do you offer them?”

He didn’t answer.

The fear was yellowish and webbed with fine red vessels. It pulsed violently in its bag throughout the drive home.

Mara drove too fast.

She noticed this without concern.

The thing in the bathtub screamed when she brought the fear into the room.

It had never screamed before.

Its limbs scrabbled against the porcelain. Its mouth opened so wide the corners split.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She emptied the bag over it.

The fear spread across its chest, thin membranes clinging to the ribs.

Small swellings rose along its spine.

One burst.

A clear membrane pushed through the opening, stretched over a dark, moving center.

An eye.

It opened beneath the creature’s shoulder blade.

Then another.

The creature twisted violently, trying to see what was happening to its own body.

Its developing ribs shifted beneath the skin.

A sharp crack came from its chest.

It screamed until its voice broke.

Mara watched with interest.

“That’s new.”

She had a meeting in twenty minutes.

As she left, she heard a soft, repetitive tapping.

The thing was striking its head against the bathtub.

She shut the door.

Fear made it difficult to manage.

It startled when Mara turned on the light.

It recoiled from running water.

Once, while she was brushing her teeth, it wrapped a thin appendage around her ankle.

Mara kicked free.

The thing struck the faucet with its head.

A narrow split opened above one eye.

It pressed both hands against the wound.

Mara finished brushing her teeth.

She put a towel over the creature and went to bed.

The anger came out in pieces.

Small, red-black nodules connected by strands of tissue that snapped as Dr. Vale lifted them free.

“Will I feel better?” Mara asked.

“That’s becoming difficult to predict.”

She smiled.

“You worry too much.”

“Please don’t combine this with the others.”

Mara took the container.

“Of course.”

It began speaking after the anger.

Mostly single words.

Cold.

Water.

Please.

The anger had given it strength. Now it could pull itself upright using the faucet.

One afternoon, she found it trying to turn the doorknob.

Its fingers were almost fully formed, though two had too many joints.

“Stop that.”

It looked at her.

“Out.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“You’re making a mess.”

It looked down at the streaks of fluid it had left on the tile.

Then it began to cry.

Mara bought a lock for the outside of the bathroom door.

Anna arrived with groceries nine days later.

Mara let her in because she wanted the milk.

“You don’t look well.”

The incision beneath Mara’s breast had opened slightly. She kept forgetting the antibiotics.

From upstairs, something said, “Hello?”

They both went still.

“Who’s here?”

“No one.”

The voice came again.

“Anna?”

Her sister looked at her.

“How does it know my name?”

Anna found it crouched beside the bathtub.

It had worked one leg over the side but couldn’t lift the other. A long heel dragged against the porcelain, leaving a pink streak.

Its face was nearly complete.

Mara had avoided looking closely at that part.

Anna pressed both hands over her mouth.

The thing began crying.

“Don’t look.”

It tried to hide its face in the crook of its arm.

Anna turned toward Mara.

“What have you done?”

Mara leaned against the doorway.

“I’m better.”

One shoulder sat much higher than the other. The skin along its ribs had split in several places, exposing pale tissue beneath.

Anna crouched.

“Are you hurt?”

The thing nodded.

“Where?”

It pressed both hands against its chest.

Anna began crying.

The creature looked between them.

Then it reached toward Anna.

“Her,” it whispered.

The creature pointed at Mara.

“Eat?”

Anna turned toward her sister.

“Have you been eating?”

Mara shrugged.

“When I’m hungry.”

The creature’s malformed hand trembled.

“Not,” it said.

Then, struggling to form the words, “Not enough.”

Anna covered her mouth.

The creature began crying again.

“Please.”

Mara watched them with mild curiosity.

They were making almost identical sounds.

Dr. Vale offered to take it.

By then, Mara had stopped going to work.

Food spoiled in the fridge.

She ate crackers.

On the phone, Dr. Vale asked whether she was still experiencing pleasure.

“Sometimes.”

“Interest?”

“In what?”

He was quiet.

Then he said, “I think you should come in.”

“Will you take the thing?”

“We can arrange appropriate care.”

“Does it have to come back?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Mara, do you understand what you’ve created?”

She looked toward the stairs.

“Something inconvenient.”

The last procedure was supposed to remove attachment.

There was still something in Mara that responded when the bathroom door shook. Some small, inconvenient part that made her pause outside it.

She wanted that gone.

But Dr. Vale wouldn’t prepare the room.

He’d brought another doctor.

They asked whether she missed her husband. Whether she understood why her sister was worried.

Mara answered patiently.

She remembered Daniel perfectly.

She could describe the way he laughed, the shape of his hands, the scar beneath his chin from falling off his bicycle at eleven.

She knew he’d loved her.

She knew she’d loved him.

She simply couldn’t see why any of that should interfere with her life now.

Dr. Vale asked whether she’d remain for observation.

Mara left while they were discussing options.

At home, the bathroom was silent.

She unlocked the door.

The thing sat on the floor with its back against the tub.

It had wrapped itself in a bathrobe.

Her bathrobe.

“Take that off.”

The thing lifted its face.

It was hers at twenty, perhaps. Younger around the eyes. The mouth slightly wrong.

“I was cold.”

“You’ll ruin it.”

Daniel had given her that robe.

The thought arrived intact, accompanied by nothing.

She remembered opening the box. His pleasure when she put it on. The way he’d warmed her cold hands beneath the collar.

Across the room, the thing drew a sharp breath.

Its face crumpled.

“Oh, God,” it said.

Mara watched it begin to sob.

“You remember him?”

The thing nodded.

“How?”

It pressed the heel of one malformed hand against its chest.

“I don’t know.”

Then it whispered, “He called you Bird.”

Mara frowned.

“What?”

“Daniel. He called you Bird.”

“I remember.”

“Because you never sat still. He said you were always getting ready to fly somewhere.”

Mara studied the creature.

“Yes. That sounds like him.”

The thing pressed its face into the robe.

“I miss him.”

“I know.”

“No,” it whispered. “You don’t.”

Mara looked at it.

“He was on the floor,” the creature said.

“Yes.”

“One slipper.”

“Yes.”

“You kept saying you were sorry.”

“I remember.”

“You told him he could leave the cabinets open.”

“Yes.”

The thing’s mouth trembled.

“You didn’t mean it.”

“Mean what?”

“That you were angry.”

“No. Not really.”

It covered its face.

“He knew.”

Mara looked at it.

“What?”

“He knew you loved him.”

The creature’s shoulders shook.

Mara remembered wanting desperately to believe that.

Now she merely considered it possible.

“Well,” she said. “That’s nice.”

The thing made a sound Mara had never heard before.

Not quite a scream.

Not quite a sob.

Something worse than either.

For two days, the creature refused food.

Sometimes Mara heard it whispering Daniel’s name.

Once, passing the bathroom, she heard it say, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

The thing looked up.

“I don’t know.”

“Then stop.”

It lowered its eyes.

“I can’t.”

That night, it came downstairs.

Mara heard the slow drag of its foot.

It stood beside her chair, wearing the robe.

“Anna’s coming tomorrow.”

“You called her?”

It nodded.

“With my phone?”

Another nod.

“She wants me to go with her.”

“Good.”

“She said she can help.”

“Good.”

It waited.

After a while, it asked, “Are you going to miss me?”

Mara considered the question.

“No.”

The creature looked down.

“Oh.”

Then it limped back upstairs.

In the morning, Anna brought shoes.

They were too small for one foot and too large for the other.

She knelt anyway, loosening the laces, folding a sock over the narrow heel.

Mara watched from the kitchen.

The thing kept apologizing.

For the shoes. For the smell. For crying.

“It’s all right,” Anna said. “We’ll figure it out.”

The creature watched her hands.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart. You don’t have to apologize for needing help.”

The thing began to cry.

Anna finished tying the shoes.

Mara noticed that the creature had begun to resemble her more closely.

Its hair was growing in dark, uneven patches. Its mouth had almost straightened. The eyes were unmistakably hers.

“Are you taking the robe?” she asked.

Anna looked at her.

“Really?”

“Daniel gave me that.”

The creature immediately began trying to remove it.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Anna stopped it.

“Keep it on.”

Mara shrugged.

She had other robes.

At the front door, the creature turned.

For a moment, Mara thought it might thank her.

Instead, it asked, “Will you be all right?”

Mara considered the empty house. The quiet bathroom. The evening ahead.

“Yes.”

The thing started crying again.

Anna put an arm around it.

Mara closed the door.

Anna sent photos.

At first, Mara didn’t open them.

Then one afternoon, she looked through the messages.

The creature was sitting at Anna’s kitchen table, wearing an oversized sweater with the sleeves cut short.

In another, it stood in the backyard, one arm around Anna’s shoulders.

Its posture was improving.

The skin had begun to smooth.

Anna had written:

She’s doing better today.

Mara looked at the word.

She.

Interesting.

In the next photo, the creature was smiling.

Almost human.

Almost familiar.

Mara enlarged the image.

She recognized the expression.

It was the smile she’d worn in photos with Daniel.

The one she’d stopped making after he died.

Three days later, something began to hurt.

A tiny point beneath her left breast.

She pressed it through her shirt.

There was almost nothing there.

Still, she knew the feeling.

She called the clinic, but Dr. Vale was unavailable.

The ache persisted.

She opened the cupboard where she kept the specimen containers.

There were three left.

White plastic.

Screw-top lids.

She took one down.

Then her phone chimed.

Another photo from Anna.

The creature was sitting at the kitchen table.

There was a plate of pancakes in front of it.

She asked for these. Remember how you used to make them for Daniel?

Mara studied the photo.

The pancakes were uneven.

One had burned around the edges.

Daniel had liked them that way.

He’d always eaten the ugly ones, leaving the prettiest for her.

She remembered telling him it was ridiculous.

She remembered how he’d winked and said, “Nothing’s too good for my Bird.”

Behind the creature, on Anna’s refrigerator, was a photo of Daniel.

Mara enlarged the image.

Then she noticed the creature’s hand.

Two fingers rested against Daniel’s face.

The ache beneath Mara’s breast deepened.

She remembered the creature standing at the front door.

Will you be all right?

She remembered Anna kneeling in the hallway, carefully tying those ridiculous shoes.

She remembered the creature apologizing for being cold.

For being hungry.

For being afraid.

And she remembered herself, standing in the kitchen, wanting it gone.

Something tightened beneath her ribs.

She had hurt it.

Not accidentally.

Not because she hadn’t understood what it was.

She’d watched it suffer and had done nothing.

For the first time in months, the knowledge troubled her.

Her phone chimed again.

She asked whether you might come for dinner sometime.

Mara stared at the words.

Her eyes began to sting.

A tear fell onto the screen.

It startled her.

Another followed.

Beneath her breast, something shifted.

Mara pressed two fingers against the old incision.

The skin parted easily.

Something small and warm moved against her fingertips.

She withdrew her hand.

A bead of blood followed.

She looked at the container.

Then at the photo.

The creature was smiling.

Mara thought about calling Anna.

She thought about asking whether the thing was sleeping better.

Whether it still cried.

Whether it had learned to walk.

She thought about telling her sister she was sorry.

The pressure beneath her ribs grew stronger.

She began to cry.

It was an ugly, unfamiliar sound.

She hadn’t made it in months.

The feeling was unbearable.

On the counter, the empty container waited.

Mara reached for it.

Unscrewed the lid.

She placed it beside the phone.

Then she pressed two fingers against the old incision.

Something moved beneath her skin.

It recoiled from her touch, retreating toward the center of her chest.

Mara pushed harder.

A thin, wet cry escaped from somewhere inside her.

She stopped.

Her fingers trembled.

She looked at the photo one last time.

At the crooked smile.

At the fingers resting against Daniel’s face.

Then she lowered her eyes to the open container.

She knew what to do.

She had done it before.

She could make this stop.

And somewhere beneath her ribs, something began to beg.

Written for The Human Animal, an unofficial Spooktober writing challenge exploring the disturbing intersection of humanity, flesh, and the things that make us who we are.

If you enjoy body horror that gets beneath the skin, I encourage you to explore the challenge and see what other writers have created: