The family on my dad’s side are never buried or cremated. I know what really happens to their bodies.

Throughout my childhood, I was always told that their bodies were donated for scientific studies or for organ donation and that they just didn’t want a traditional funeral. I didn’t really question it. As a kid, what reason to doubt my father could I possibly have?

The truth was revealed to me a few months ago. 

My grandfather and my uncle had travelled to visit my family. Grandpa had become too old and was in an assisted living facility at the time, leaving his old house, which had been in the family for many generations, to be cared for by my family. The visit was really nothing too special. Normal family stuff.

Until that night.

I was laying in my bed trying to sleep. I had been there for about an hour when I heard a knock at my door. It creaked open as my dad peeked his head in.

“Son? You awake?” He awaited my groggy response. “I need you to come with me.”

I followed him through the dim halls of our home. I figured he needed me to do some normal chore like moving furniture or something. 

I became more confused when he led me into his office, populated by my uncle and grandfather, standing in the center of the room. There was a black plastic bag on the floor in the corner of the room. I felt uneasy.

My dad turned to me as he ushered me in and shut the door. “This may shock you. Don’t be afraid. You’re old enough for this now.”

With a solemn look, my uncle acknowledged me with a nod and looked towards his father.

“I’m ready,” my grandfather said, smiling briefly at us all, eventually resting his gaze upon my uncle’s right hand, which I realized then was carrying a box cutter.

My dad dragged the carpet from the center of the floor, revealing a small hole in a board of wood, the ground beneath it obscured and dark red. I felt a shiver flutter up my spine. 

My uncle walked up to my grandfather and with one swift motion, raised the box cutter and slashed the side of his throat open. I gasped in shock. My dad put his hand firmly on my shoulder.

No blood flowed from the gash. Rather, several red tendrils, thin and wavy, like insulated wires, snaked out and fell to the floor. They travelled along, seemingly with a mind of their own, and burrowed into the hole in the board. The wires began to move faster, and several more protruded out from the grave wound at an alarming rate. They were all being sucked into the floorboard.

“Jesus, dad, what is this? What’s happening?” I shouted out.

He turned and responded calmly. “Listen to me. This is our family home. This is who we are. My side of the family. You. It was his time to go, son.”

“What? What do you mean? The wires? Inside of him?” I said as I watched my grandfather’s skin begin to sag and droop, his body losing support.

“It’s inside me, your uncle, you. All of us.” He walked over to the wall behind him. “Here. You see this drywall?” He pointed to a square patch that had been cut. “This is our family.” He pulled the square out, revealing a writhing mass of gooey, red wires behind the wall. It looked like bloody tapeworms.

The world began to spin and my head felt light.

“I–I don’t get it, this makes n–no sense at all,” I said, falling to the floor. I watched my grandfather’s body deflate like a balloon of human skin, the last of the wires being consumed by the ground. My dad picked up the black bag and my uncle lifted the skin sack off the floor.

“We can talk more about this some other time,” he said as he unzipped the bag. “Just remember: this is a family secret. My family. Don’t tell anyone about any of this.” My uncle slipped the skin into the bag and zipped it up. “Not even your mother or her family.”

“W–why?” I struggled to speak properly.

“Because,” he said, his expression turning into a grimace. “You will face the most dire consequences.” He kicked the rug back over the hole. 

Just like that, they exited the room, grandfather in hand.

Over the next few months I spoke to my dad about what had happened only a couple times. He tended to dismiss the topic in conversation and usually became heated. He never gave me more information and I was left to accept it all as the simple reality of our family.

I heeded his warnings and agreed to never tell what happened to anyone, not even my own mom. Things only changed earlier today.

I woke up late and missed the bus heading to the high school. Because I don’t own a car, I was left scrambling to run to school before first period. My neighborhood isn’t that far away so I figured I could make it in time.

As I approached the back of the school, I had to hop an old rusty chain link fence to get through the practice field. I tossed my bag over the side and hurdled myself over the metal haphazardly, my left forearm snagging on a sharp piece of the fence. I winced as my skin tore from the rusted link. When I made it to the other side, I looked at the wound.

A long, straight gash was centered on the inside of my forearm, starting at the wrist and going down the limb for about six inches. I felt no pain. The opening revealed a thick network of slimy, bright red wires. No muscle, no obvious veins or blood, just the same tendrils I had seen come from my grandfather, and from the walls of the house. 

My teeth gritted and I clutched the arm with my opposing hand. 

Don’t tell anyone about this.

I considered running straight home to get help, but remembered that my dad was gone, and only my mom was home. She couldn’t know. I reached into my bag and pulled out my rain jacket. I put it on, covering my bare wound, and braced myself for a full school day.

By the time I reached the other side of the field and carefully crossed the other fence, I felt a strange tickling sensation at my left elbow. I pulled my arm out of the sleeve.

One of the wires was slithering out of the gash and was working its way deeper into my jacket. I pinched it between my fingers, feeling its warm, slippery consistency, about as thick as a phone charger. Trying to shove it back into my arm didn’t work, as it wouldn’t fit back in place beneath the skin. I let it sit in my sleeve.

When I made it to the entrance, I had to go through a mandatory bag check that the school had recently put in place after a school fight that involved a knife.

I felt the wire trickle down my chest and towards the bottom of my jacket as I waited for the resource officer to look through my backpack. I started to grow anxious as it tickled me. The officer gave me a suspicious look as he handed the bag back to me.

As soon as I was free, I ran straight to the bathroom. I needed a better solution. I tugged lightly on the worm and threaded it through my sleeve, out of the back of the hood, and into an empty compartment of my backpack, where it continued to spool out. Only a small sliver of thread was visible if you were looking closely.

I made it to first period just before the bell rang. I found that the wire had grown long enough that I could set my backpack down next to me with the wire still coming out of my hood without too much trouble. 

Luckily, the first couple classes came and went without too much trouble. But the whole time, I could feel it moving. Slithering past my arm, the back of my neck. Filling my backpack. A pit in my stomach consumed my attention. I was a walking ghost, ignoring everything else around me.

By the third period, I could noticeably feel the increased weight in my bag. I felt tired. Looser. Like I hadn’t slept the night before.

By fourth, the bag was starting to look like it was filled out. I refused to open it. I’d just deal with it at home. I was too scared to look. I noticed that it was more difficult to lift the bag. Not just because of the weight, but because my arm felt weak. I was exhausted.

It was near a breaking point by the last period. It looked like it might burst at the seams soon. Looking at my hand, I realized it was starting to prune, as if I’d been in a pool for an hour. I felt like I could fall apart from a gust of wind. I shook with anxiety and prayed class would end soon.

As soon as the bell rang, I sprang up from my seat and left in a hurry. Lugging the heavy backpack out of the classroom, racing towards the exit, I saw the resource officer checking bags. My eyes grew wide and I stopped dead in my tracks. My tired limbs flung me in a new direction.

I stumbled into the bathroom on deflated, crumbling legs. Quickly locking myself into a stall, I threw my bag to the ground and pulled up my sleeve. I could see the skin on my arm becoming looser and the network of wires now thinner.

I tore the heavy bag open to reveal the contents of the near-bursting compartment. It was filled to the brim with a giant spool of interlocking red wires, all writhing and pulsing, strands of slime sticking between them.

My palms grew cold and clammy as I thought about having a cop find this, or even my mom when I got home. I needed to get rid of this, and fast. 

Grabbing the cord close to my wrist, I savagely bit into it with my teeth, tearing it in half. It was dense and rubbery. Enough chewing allowed it to split, and the loose end attached to my arm fell limp back into the gash. I pulled the other thread from the hood, releasing my rain jacket and leaving me with a disconnected, giant pile of red wires. 

I then observed the gash in my arm. It was wider than it was that morning, and a couple other tendrils were peeking out. I needed to contain it. My mind, terrified, made a rash decision. I pulled the stapler from my bag and readied myself.

Biting down onto my jacket, I pressed the cool metal of the stapler against the edge of the wound. A staple shot out and crimped my skin together, closing the corner closest to my wrist. I felt no pain, but the sight sent my mind reeling. I pulled the wound shut and repeated with about 10 more staples. By the end, the wound was completely shut. 

Turning back to the bag of wires, I considered my options. I couldn’t just abandon it in the toilet or the trash. Someone would find it. I then pictured my grandfather, deflated and dead. 

I needed this back inside of me, now. No matter how it gets in.

I grabbed a fistful of wires and forced it into my mouth. Bitter. Hot. Rubbery, like a bundle of thin erasers. They crumbled after chewing hard enough.

I gagged before grabbing another fistful. Then another. And another.

After what felt like an hour, my forehead drenched in sweat, my chin wet with drool, the wires were all gone. I shakily stood up, and I felt the heavy weight in my stomach. I put the rain jacket back on and slung the light backpack over my shoulder.

I exited the school without more than a concerned look from the officer.

When I finally got home, I made a beeline to my bedroom, avoiding my mom. I put my hand on the wall. I felt it thrum, alive with the same wires that coursed through myself. 

After some debate, I decided to post here anonymously to see what other people think. Father’s rules be damned. I need to understand what’s going on with my family, with me.