Supper: The Horror Short Story You've Been Craving Read Free Page A

at them.
    “Ruf!” Cliver called down the hallway. “Supper is on, and we
don’t want our guests waiting on you!”
    He turned back to the group, readjusting his horn-rimmed
glasses and smiling apologetically.
    “I’m comin’!” a loud voice announced from out of view.
    Then the house groaned under a footfall. Then another. With
one hand, Stacey grabbed the edge of the table. With the other, she felt for
the purse she had set down at her feet. Finding it, she brought the handbag
onto her lap. She liked the weight of the pepper spray inside of it. Because
right now it sounded like an elephant was coming down that hallway.
    And if it turned out that they had to knock out a
wildebeest, she wanted to be prepared. But what lurched around the corner was
no wild animal. It was way freakier than that. A Clydesdale-version of a
man, she could only assume it was the aforementioned, “Ruf,” lumbered into the
room carrying what must have been a five- hundred-pound woman. If her girth
wasn’t exaggerated enough, she was dressed in a white and yellow polka-dotted
muumuu.
    That couldn’t be a real person, could it?
    Everyone at the table sat shocked as Ruf haltingly, one
booming step at a time, crossed the room, and then set his mother down on a
chair. The wood complained so loudly that Stacey feared that the legs would
smash beneath the woman. Bitsy clearly held the same fears.
    “Cliver! The chairs!”
    The man rushed over and lifted several rolls of fat from
Ma’s right side and put a chair under them, and then repeated the process on
the other side.
    Oh, my God. Stacey thought. Those chairs weren’t for
two extra people, but for two extra sides of Ma.
    Then Ruf leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
    There was something so incredibly sweet about the gesture,
juxtapositioned against the absurdity of the scene, that made Stacey feel
vaguely guilty about judging the poor woman and her family.
    Clearly, Ma was ill. Her left eyelid drooped nearly down to
the corner of her nose and that side of her mouth sagged and pooled with thick
saliva.
    Stroke . Stacey had seen it in her grandfather. At
least Bitsy, Cliver, and Ruf were taking care of their invalid mother. Hell,
her parents had put Grandpa Ralph into a home faster than you could say
“additional care needed.”
    Maybe she had misjudged this family.
    “Ruf, can you get the bowl?” Bitsy asked from the stove.
    Once her brother brought over the enormous dish, the woman
began ladling out the soup. Stacey could smell oregano, potatoes, parsley, and
another ingredient she couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it was
mouthwatering.
    Ruf brought the filled bowl over and set it into the center
of the table. As their hosts took their seats, Tamra reached for the ladle, but
Cliver frowned.
    “Around these parts we always say grace first.”
    Tamra blushed, but Stacey didn’t think it was from
embarrassment. Turning her cheeks red was just one of the many weapons that
Tamra had in her arsenal to disarm men.
    “I am so sorry!” she said averting her eyes. “I’m just
starving.”
    And yes, even this crumpled, bespectacled little man
softened. “Ain’t no worry. Just want to give our Lord his due.”
    Damn! In under three minutes, Tamra had charmed this crusty
guy. Maybe she should rethink her “no plastic surgery” stance, Stacey thought
as the family took hands.
    Then Stacey realized her order in this prayer procession.
Panic spread over Stacey in waves of gooseflesh.
    She didn’t mind going along with the show just to be polite.
And holding Leo’s hand was like holding her really hot, gay, older brother’s
hand. But Ma? Stacey was supposed to hold Ma’s hand?
    How did she get in this position?
    Oh, wait. Another epic-Stacey-fail. She had taken the chair
to be able to sit across from Jonathan, but, of course, he hadn’t even looked
up from Tamra’s boob shelf to notice. And now everyone was staring at her. Even
Jonathan had taken Ma’s other hand.
    As much as she