Martha

Chapter 2

It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I started getting concerned. I tried to text her, I tried calling her, but Emily was avoiding me. We’ve shared a cold shoulder with each other before, it's only inevitable working so closely together, but it never lasted this long. I pulled up to her house, and immediately I had a pit in my stomach.

Her front lawn was completely unkempt, her trash cans were overflowing with garbage, and all the lights were off in her house. I parked the car and slowly crept up to the front door and knocked loudly. I heard a slight crash and a meager voice call out, “It’s open!”

I turned the knob and pushed my way in. My eyes were met with a shocking sight. Emily’s living room was a complete mess, with empty pizza boxes, chip bags, candy wrappers, and take-away containers scattered across the hardwood. The air was thick with the smell of grease.

And then I saw Emily.

She was lying on the couch, heavier than I’ve ever seen her. Her stomach protruding out so far I’d swear she was pregnant. Her shirt was stretched to its limits, barely covering her huge belly. The buttons on her blouse were straining trying to contain her newfound girth. Her face was dotted with drops of sweat, as if she was in the midst of an intense workout, and crumbs and grease were smeared across her cheeks and chin, and sauce stains littered her bosom.

“Hey…Emily…How are you feeling?” My voice was practically a whisper.

She glanced up at me. Her eyes said to me, “oh, its you,” as if she was expecting someone else. “I’m so hungry,” she moaned, her voice barely audible through her labored breathing.

“I can see that,” I gestured to the piles of empty food containers around us, “but maybe you should take a break for a little while.”

“No, I need more. I need more food.” She was demanding, her voice growing louder and more desperate. “I have to keep going; Martha wants me to eat more.”

I was taken aback by the desperation in her voice.

She struggled to lift herself from her couch. Her bulging flesh threatened the seams of her sweatpants and little keyholes opened to reveal her flabby belly between the buttons on her shirt. “I need to eat more. God, I’m just so fucking hungry.” She lumbered closer to me; I could see her body shake and jiggle with each passing motion. The floor vibrated every step she took. “I’m so stuffed but Martha’s so fucking hungry.”

There was that name again.

“Emily, who…who is Martha?” She plodded closer, her thighs rubbed tightly together, her hips wobbled.

“Did you bring me more food? I need to eat more.”

“Who is Martha?” Emily finally reached me, she was swaying back and forth, struggling to hold herself up. She fell forward, latching hard onto me, her eyes looked crazed…dare I say it…possessed.

“I can’t eat another bite, but I’m so fucking hungry. Feed me, please! Feed me! Martha needs more!” I struggled to hold her up and her weight through me off balance, we both tumbled to floor amongst the spoils of her gluttonous endeavors. She landed hard causing her stuffed, fat body to quiver on the ground, and as she looked up at me, a small stream of blood fled from her nose. She started writhing on the ground, slowly crawling toward me.

“Please, feed me. I need more food. I’m fucking starving. I need to get more for Martha.”

I didn’t know what to do. I scrambled backwards as this slogging, bloated mass that was Emily came closer to me. I finally made it to my feet and ran out of the room with her screaming “FEED ME! PLEASE, FEED ME!” over and over again until the front door slammed shut behind me. Once out on the front step, Emily began screaming obscenities instead, the barrage of muffled vitriol that spilled from her mouth scared me almost as much as what just happened. I ran to my van and as I swerved around the corner, I swear I saw at least 2 delivery cars pull into her driveway.

I was shellshocked. I hid myself in my room, I avoided my phone. She terrified me. That wasn’t the Emily I knew. That wasn’t my best friend. Finding new resolve, I had to do something to help her. Anything. Over the next few days, I tried to call our Ghost Hunter association for help, but they thought I was crazy. Useless. I tried to call a priest for an exorcism. Hell, I called every religious figurehead that would take my call, and all of them told me to check her into a facility, and that their prayers were with her. Fucking useless. I tried calling the local hospital and without being her immediate family, I could do nothing more than try to convince her to come in on her own. I was helpless. I couldn’t go back there. I couldn’t go back to that house.

I found myself spiraling. That name. That name kept ringing in my head. Martha. We didn’t know a Martha, so the only logical thing I could think was whatever was at that restaurant, somehow came back with us and latched onto Emily. I delved into our research. I went over copies of newspaper clippings and heritage reports. I went through registrar’s documents and police reports. Nothing. Its like she didn’t exist.

I got in my van and began to drive. Martha, who the fuck is Martha. Eventually, I found myself back at the restaurant. It was the middle of dinner service, and sure enough, just like the owner said, I saw countless bloated women, fattened, stuffed into there clothes, bellies bulging in front of them, each with several plates piled high with fattening meals. Every last one of them, a pained look on their face as they shoveled their next bite into their mouths. As I stormed through the front, I heard them moan and talk to themselves:

“Oh God, no more.”

“I’m so full, I’m gonna pop.”

“Please, I’m so stuffed, I can’t take another bite.”

But despite their pleas, their opened mouths were met with another shoveling of food, stretching their bellies further. I slammed into the kitchen and stormed to the manager’s office. Swinging the door open I shouted at the man, “Who the fuck is Martha?”

The man was shocked, “w-what?”

“Who the fuck is Martha,” I stormed closer to him, I could feel the vessels on my head bulging.

“How…how do you know that name?” He tried to make himself small. So very small. I grabbed a paperweight off his cluttered desk. The fluorescent lights flickered while singing a soft, numbing hum.

“You KNEW?! YOU KNEW?!” I flew into a frenzy. The man was an insect. Something to stomp out, to crush, to destroy and if it wasn’t for his kitchen staff, he would have been a bloodstain on his floor. They dragged me out the back door, my kicks knocking over pans and plates and cups making a huge racket. They wrestled me outside and threw me to the ground screaming at me to leave.

I was in tears. I’m so close to the truth, so close to learning what really happened here. And maybe if I could figure that out, maybe it could all stop. I picked myself up off the ground, clutching the arm that broke my fall, blood streaming from a small gash on my elbow, dripping by my feet. I struggled to my vehicle, and when I slipped inside, I noticed a VHS tape sitting on the front seat next to me. I picked it up and, on its label, it read, “Martha.” I looked up back at the restaurant, to see a waitress glance away and avert her eyes as she shoved a dessert into her mouth.

There was nothing more I could do here. I drove the 4-hour drive back home.