Horrid 23. The Meat in the Fridge is Whispering

It started as a low hum behind the hum of the compressor. I opened the door to the refrigerator, expecting a loose fan. Instead, I found the Sunday roast. It wasn't graying; it was blushing a deep, healthy crimson. As I reached for it, the muscle fibers twitched.

It wasn't a sound, but a vibration that bypassed my ears and went straight to my teeth. "Wrap us back up," the beef whispered, the sound wet and glutinous. "The cold makes it hard to remember our names." I slammed the door, but the whispering only got louder, spreading to the bacon, the eggs, even the milk. By midnight, the fridge was shaking on its hinges. I peeked inside one last time and saw the various cuts of meat had begun to fuse together into a single, limbless torso. It’s growing a throat. It’s learning my name. And it’s very, very hungry for the parts of me that are still attached to bone.