Horrid 20. Ten Fingers, But None of Them Mine

I woke up and reached for my phone, but my hands felt... heavy. I looked down and screamed. My arms ended in wrists, but the hands attached to them were wrong. They were huge, calloused, with dirt under the nails and a jagged scar across the left thumb. They were the hands of a laborer, a man who had died forty years ago.

I tried to move them, but they moved on their own. They reached up and began to wrap themselves around my own throat. I fought, but my "new" hands were stronger, fueled by a forty-year-old grudge I didn't understand. As the world began to dim, I saw the ghost of the man standing at the foot of my bed, staring at his own empty, spectral stumps. He wasn't trying to kill me; he was just trying to feel something solid again. And as my own hands detached and floated toward him, I realized I was being disassembled, piece by piece, to satisfy the hunger of the forgotten.