Meet the Parents

Content Note: This story contains some dark themes including implied cannibalism and unsettling imagery.

Bill was not necessarily looking forward to meeting his new girlfriend’s parents. Not because he didn’t like his girlfriend or because he’d heard bad things, but because he didn’t do so well with small talk and new people. His girlfriend, Mary, explained that it was really important to her that they meet. She’d been trying for a few weeks now, but he kept dodging with excuse after excuse until he finally ran out of reasons.

They were likeable people, but it was as he feared… polite chatter interspersed with awkward silences and the clinking of silverware.

“So,” Mary’s father, Sam Devon, broke the silence, “Mary tells us you work in insurance?”

Bill nodded and wiped his mouth with the lace lined napkin. “Yes, sir. I’ve been working in insurance for twelve years now,” Bill answered, picking his fork back up to continue. The quicker he ate his meal, the quicker he could go home.

“And how do you like that?” Mr. Devon asked.

Bill put his fork back down and forced a smile, “Well, it involves a lot of travel, which allows me to see the country and meet a lot of interesting people.” Bill had ten more responses like this filed away for small talk.

Mary’s mother, Sarah Devon, made a loud sympathetic sound. “Oh, doesn’t that get lonely? I can’t imagine being on the road for so long with no one to talk to!”

“Well, I listen to a lot of great podcasts,” he said, smiling at Mary, “and Mary keeps me plenty of company on the phone.”

“But, what about your parents? I’m sure your mother must worry!” she said.

Ah, shit. He had hoped he would avoid this conversation— he hated the sympathetic looks and awkward condolences.

“Well, um,” he cleared his throat, “my parents passed away a long time ago. It’s just me now.”

Sarah gasped, covering her mouth with a hand.

“No brothers or sisters?” Mr. Devon asked, his firm voice from earlier softening.

“Um, no sir. It’s just me,” Bill said with a small chuckle, ready for this line of conversation to be over.

“Oh dear. Well, please consider us your second family!” Mrs. Devon placed her hand over Bill’s hand, her expression warm but her skin cold. Bill slid his hand out from under hers and went back to eating.

Mr. Devon took a long sip from his scotch, no doubt figuring out the next topic for small talk. Bill raised another bite of roast to his mouth. The conversation was painful, but the food was delicious.

“How’s the meal?” Mr. Devon had decided on another topic.

Bill chewed quickly, desperate to get an answer out. Why did people always ask questions the moment someone took a bite? “It’s wonderful! This roast has been cooked to perfection,” he said; it was the first genuine thing he’d said all night and he meant it.

Mrs. Devon laughed happily, clapping her hands together. “Oh good! Good! I’m so glad. I worked so hard, and Sam did such a great job aging the meat!”

“You age your own meat?”

“Yes, yes. It’s become somewhat of a hobby! I started by making my own jerky after things got a little tight during a winter storm a couple years back—” Mr. Devon swirled the scotch in his glass, his eyes distant as he recalled a bitter memory. “Anyhow, I’m chuffed you’re enjoying it!”

“It must be such a delight to eat a home cooked meal— I can’t imagine there are a lot of options while on the road,” Mrs. Devon said, reaching out to touch Bill’s hand again, but Bill lifted another bite to his mouth instead.

“I try to eat healthy when I can,” Bill replied in between bites, “I won’t lie, it can get difficult. So I really appreciate this meal.” Mr. and Mrs. Devon shared a smile with each other.

“Then you must enjoy the vegetables, too! Would you like some more?” Mrs. Devon asked, already getting up to refill his plate.

“No, no. I’m about stuffed! And fruits and vegetables are the one thing I eat often— no cooking involved!” Bill pushed his plate away, placing his hand on his belly.

Mrs. Devon began collecting the plates and ushered Bill toward Mr. Devon and the side room.

“Come on, Bill,” Mr. Devon said, laying a heavy hand on Bill’s shoulder, “let’s go have a drink and chat.”

“Well, I should probably—”

“Nonsense. We still need to talk. You’re not gonna deny me a chance to get to know the man dating my little girl, right?” Mr. Devon left no room for argument.

The side room was dark, an old vintage radio from the ‘50s playing on low. A large elk head was mounted on the wall, surrounded by several other game trophies. Mr. Devon motioned for Bill to take a seat in a large, dark leather arm chair next to a taxidermied duck. The animals were impressive, almost lifelike.

“Do you hunt, Mr. Devon?” Bill asked, trying to wave away the glass as he wasn’t much of a drinker.

Mr. Devon continued to hold it out to him, his eyes hard until Bill relented and accepted the glass. Mr. Devon patted Bill’s shoulder, then let out a long sigh as he lowered himself into his own chair, a second stuffed duck next to him. He reached out and patted its head.

“I do, indeed. My pappy used to take me hunting. It was important to him that we knew how to provide for ourselves,” he chuckled. “He made us learn how to sew, too! Told us any man worth his salt knew how to mend his own clothes.”

Bill nodded along, sipping the scotch. It burned on the way down, making his eyes water, but he resisted the urge to cough.

“You know, Bill, Mary usually introduces her boyfriends to us after a few weeks. She certainly took her time to bring you home!”

Bill stiffened. Mr. Devon either didn’t notice or he didn’t care.

“Has Mary–uh–had a lot of boyfriends?” Bill asked, his words beginning become slow. He needed to pace himself, it wouldn’t be any good to get blind drunk during their first meeting.

“Son, my Mary is a charmer. But, none of them last too long,” Mr. Devon laughed.

Bill’s eyes widened as he took another sip, this time coughing as it hit the back of his throat. Mr. Devon laughed harder. “There ya go, son! It’ll put some hair on your chest!”

Or in the back of my throat, Bill thought.

There was a lull in the conversation and Bill’s gaze began to drift around the room. An oil painting of what looked like an older Mr. Devon hung on the wall. Pappy, Bill assumed. Next to Mr. Devon was a writing desk with an oil lamp burning low, providing a soft orange glow to the room. Stacks of papers were tied neatly together. He faintly wondered if Mr. Devon was a writer along with all of his other skills.

“Looking at my papers?” Mr. Devon asked, grabbing a stack and handing it to Bill. Bill reached for them, surprised by the weight– it was heavier than he thought it would be. “This is a special kind of paper. I made it myself.”

“Of course you did,” Bill mumbled, unsure if he had spoken out loud or not..

The paper felt soft with an almost waxy texture. He rubbed it between his fingers, vaguely aware of whispering behind him. He blinked a couple of times when a face appeared in front of him– Mary’s features coming into view. Hand gripped his arms, guiding him up and down… a hall? He wasn’t sure.

Bill tried to apologize, but Mrs. Devon shushed him. “That’s alright, dear. You’ve been working so hard! It’s no wonder you’re tired. Come on, you can sleep it off in the guest room.”

He protested weakly, but the words never left his mouth.

Something cold pressed beneath him as he was lowered to what he assumed was a bed although the material below him didn’t feel like sheets.

“Just leave the plastic there, dear,” Mrs. Devon tutted, laying him back. “I’m so glad Mary decided to bring you home. It had been so long since she—” she trailed off, the sound of cabinets opening and closing. “Ah, here it is!”

A warm cloth wiped his face then down his arm. It smelled oddly like peanuts.

“What was I saying? Oh yes.” Bottles clinked together before the cloth returned, this time the cloth felt grainy and smelled like citrus. It reminded him of the marinade his mother would soak meat in before cooking a stew. “Times have been so tough! We weren’t sure she’d find another so soon! I had to be creative with Simon.”

Bill tried to open his eyes, but she covered them with a thin cotton fabric.

“Simon was the last one she brought home. He was absolutely perfect—such a fantastic blend of marbling,” she sighed like she was reminiscing. “You seemed to enjoy him, too!”

“Wh–” The darkness closed in, blanketing him in the heavy, soft fog of incoming sleep.

“Shh, dear. You rest now.”