After Eric’s mom passes, his dad makes a deal with a demon to get her back, but the demon grants his desire by transforming Eric into a copy of his own mom in Mothered, only on Smashwords.
Eric has returned home for his mom’s funeral. He’s staying with his dad until he can get back on his feet and the two of them have never been close. But when his dad makes a deal with a demon to get his wife back, they’ll start becoming closer than ever before.
Eric is transformed into a physical duplicate of his mom, but his thoughts are still all his own. For now. Each time his dad takes him, Eric loses a little more of himself and becomes a little more like his mom.
Can Eric break the spell before he loses his identity entirely?
This story contains non-con and themes of humiliation.
Eric’s life was already going before he found out that his mom had died. He’d been laid off by his company, dumped by his girlfriend and was about to be evicted by his landlord. When he got the news of his mom’s death he packed up whatever would fit into his car and drove the thirteen hours back to the town where he’d grown up.
He’s pulled up to the squat, single story house and sat for a time just looking at it, steeling himself for what he had to do. When he finally knocked on the door of his childhood home, his dad, Brett, opened it up and stood looking at him for a beat. His rheumy eyes were red-rimmed and distant. Brett had never been in good shape at the best of times but he looked somehow even worse now. His stained undershirt stretched across his vast gut, failing to conceal his hairy stomach. In the time since Eric had been away, Brett had lost what little hair he had. His bald head gleamed in the harsh overhead hallway lights. Patchy stubble dotted his cheeks. His misshapen nose was red and raw, and he sniffed as he looked at his wayward sun in silence. Eric had towered over his dad since puberty, but his dad looked even more diminished now in his sorrow. Finally, Brett stuck out a sweaty hand.
“Welcome home, son,” Brett said flatly.
Eric shook his hand once. It was as much contact as they’d had in the nearly eight years since Eric had moved away. His mom, Lilly, had been the linchpin between the two, calling Eric to check up on him, repeatedly asking him to come home to visit, translating Brett’s grunts into something approximating emotion. Now that she’d passed, Eric expected this visit home would be the last he would see of his father for some time. If he was lucky enough to get away.
Brett glanced down at the bag at Eric’s feet. Eric cleared his throat. “Can I stay here for a few days? Just until I get back on my feet.”
He hated to ask. It was like admitting defeat.
Brett looked at him for another beat, swaying lightly on his feet. It occurred to Eric that the old man was drunk. After a second or two, Brett stood aside and let Eric enter, closing the door behind him. Brett belched and the scent of stale beer made Eric wrinkle his nose.
“You know where your room is,” Brett said, gesturing vaguely before turning and stumbling back to the living room, where light from the television flickered over the mess of empty beer cans, dirty dishes, and old takeout containers.
Eric hauled his bag through the living room and down the hallway to his old bedroom. Cardboard boxes were stacked around the unmade bed and bric-a-brac had been carelessly piled up in one corner. Eric pushed some of the cardboard boxes aside to make room for his suitcase. This would just be for one week. Two at most. Enough to attend the funeral and find a job somewhere that would take him back out of this town before the crushing gravity pulled him in for good.
There were some bedsheets in the closet, which Eric fitted onto his bed. He rubbed his gritty eyes. Ran his hands through his greasy brown hair. He’d slept in his car on the trip here to save money and it was catching up with him. He was exhausted but stank after the long drive.
The shower was as gross as the living room. Without Lilly to keep order in the house it had all fallen apart. Soap scum and mold decorated the tiles. The toilet hadn’t been cleaned. Hair and toothpaste littered the sink. But the hot water made Eric feel better at least. As he washed, he considered the situation. He felt he had an obligation to try to connect with his dad. At least make sure the old man was doing okay.
Eric changed into clean clothes and joined his dad in the living room, moving a dirty bowl from the easy chair to the overflowing coffee table. Brett sipped his beer and turned to look at his son.
“How was the drive?” Brett asked without affect.
“Long. Tiring. How are you?”
Brett shrugged. Sighed. The leather couch creaked as he leaned back into it and drew one hand down his face. “I miss her.”
“I know. Me too.”
That was the extent of their conversation for the night. The funeral was the following day. The next morning Eric roused his father and pointed him to the bathroom hoping he could make himself presentable. Brett slumped into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later looking better. Awful, but better.
The little church was full. People Eric barely remembered gave their condolences as he and his dad stood in the entryway. A huge picture of Lilly stood next to her coffin on the dais. In it she was smiling at the camera, her light brown hair tucked beneath a straw hat tied with a yellow ribbon that matched the flowery sundress she wore. She was cute, with a little slip of a nose. She showed her age, with crow’s feet beginning to appear around her eyes and melasma across her cheeks. Her eyes were wrinkled with crow’s feet. Eric got his looks from her, an almost feminine appearance he’d tried at various times to disguise with beards.
The priest spoke. Family and friends said a few words. Brett even managed to get up in front of the crowd and thank everyone for being there without stumbling drunkenly over his words.
After the funeral they hung out in the funeral home while people came by to express more condolences. When it was over, Eric drove his dad back home. The silence in the car was oppressive.
For the next few days, Eric couldn’t bring himself to look for a job. His mom’s death was too fresh. He despondently scrolled the internet but gave up before applying for anything. It all seemed too hard. Finally, in an effort to stop the depressing thoughts rolling through his mind, Eric put himself to work organizing his mom’s things, going through the boxes and the closets, clearing out the detritus, separating everything into piles. Keep. Discard. Give away. Ask Brett. It helped to have a task. To do something instead of wallowing in sadness.
Brett seemed to cope by throwing himself into his work. He left early for the factory each day and returned late. Sometimes he would bring home the remains of a meal, but most often Eric was left to fend for himself using his meagre and dwindling savings. When Brett was home, he barely took any notice of Eric. He sat on the couch and drank. Or started a task and got distracted, staring vacantly out the window. It was only when Eric heaved a large cardboard box onto the small dining room table one Sunday afternoon that Brett snapped.
“What the hell are you doing? Don’t touch that, it’s hers!”
“You have to get rid of this crap. It’s not healthy to keep it around,” Eric insisted. “I mean, look at this,” Eric said, pulling out an old corded telephone. “You’re never going to need this again.”
Brett snatched it from him. “This was the phone that she bought when we moved here.”
“It doesn’t help to have it around.”
Read the rest on Smashwords.