Body Changes

📅 Published on July 17, 2020

“Body Changes”

Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 11 minutes

Rating: 8.80/10. From 5 votes.
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My wife Vicky means more to me than my own life. I’ve consulted doctors after hours, anonymous clinical helplines, even a suicide hotline for Christ’s sake. The only course of action that I have left is to release her into professional medical care. As weak as it makes me sound, I just know that once I do that, I’ll never see my wife again. I’m overly long-winded and even more so when I’m upset about something, so bear with me.

The day started like many others, with the rough sound of wood grinding against wood drilling through my subconscious like a boring bit, rudely rousing me from sleep.

“Alright, hunny,” I mumbled to Vicky, who I knew was pretending to be asleep so I’d get the baby. “Devon’s awake now.” I opened my eyes and stared at Devon, who had managed to scoot his crib across the entire floor to my bedside.

“Stay here and watch him so I can pee. If you don’t let me pee by choice it will happen on its own anyway, causing Mommy to be in a very, very bad mood today.”  Vicky grumbled through sleep-swollen lips as she threw the covers off of herself and rose to her feet.

She kissed the top of my head and handed me some dehydrated banana slices to keep Devon busy as she rushed to the master bathroom. Our puppy Jett was clawing on the outside of the second bathroom door, desperate to drain her own bladder. “Hang on, pup,” I yelled out, letting her know I was aware that she’s awake and had to go outside.

Devon was out of his crib completely by now. I could hear his little feet padding around the kitchen. My temples pounded as I heard giggles scatter throughout the rooms around me. Looking back now, I honestly didn’t know why I was surprised; it’s been like this almost every morning since my baby learned how to walk.

Seconds after Vicky stepped out of the bathroom, her face scrunched up in anger and disgust. “What happened?” I asked, looking down at her feet. Her middle toes were surrounded by a smeary, wet blob on our bedroom carpet. “Ugh! Oh my god, it’s so squishy. The viscosity of it alone makes me want to puke,” she lamented. Surveying the scene, I discovered she’d stepped in two of many pieces of discarded banana slices. After placing Devon behind the baby gate in the living room, Vicky limped to the laundry hallway in search of a dirty towel to clean her foot with. I stifled laughter through my palm as I took care of my own bathroom needs.

I freeze midstream as I hear a dreaded sound of something scattering across the living room floor. To my dismay, in the moments it had taken my wife to cross the house, Devon had found the can of Pringles I’d neglected to put away the night before. By the time I entered the living room, Vicky’s hands were resting atop her head in defeat as both puppy and toddler voraciously smashed and ate at the tiny pieces of chips. Great!

Clumsily vaulting over the baby gate, Vicky grabbed the broom and started sweeping up the mess. “I can get that babe,” I commented, attempting to grab the broom from her. Jett and Devon both swatted at the broom conspiratorially, one more feat on their eternal quest to thwart the ever ongoing cleaning process.

“No. That’s okay,” she smiled, taking a breath of victory as the last of the contained pile was up off the floor and out of their reach in the dustpan. “You have to finish packing,” she lightly scolded.

Just as one issue was dealt with, another arose. Our eldest son Charlie called out from his bedroom that he needed help logging in to his school conference on his computer. “Relax,” I say to Vicky as I kiss her cheek. “I’ll take care of it. I barely have anything left to pack anyway. I’m sorry they’re so crazy today.” I murmur through an awkward smile as I gesture to the two smallest members of our family.

Charlie’s almost fully situated with his laptop when I hear a shrill cry come from the kitchen area.  I bounded out of his room to see her feet twist around each other as she futilely tried to attain balance. I started running for her, knowing full well I wouldn’t reach her in time. The dustpan flies from her hand as she hits the floor with a hard thwack.

“Fucking gate!” I exclaimed. “Jesus Christ, are you alright?”

As my wife lays there waiting for the pain to kick in, our dog Jett tentatively makes her way through the broken section of the fence. The slightest smile formed at the corners of Vicky’s lips, as if she was allowing herself the tiniest bit of comfort in the situation at Jett’s presence. She was probably assuming the dog was coming over to check on her. “Hey girl,” She mumbles. Jett sniffs her face for a moment in response before proceeding to climb over it to devour the Pringles bits scattered on the floor. Great.

The first thing I did after making sure that she was okay was chuck the baby gate out into the yard as far as I could throw it. I continued to check on her intermittently, but shock and adrenaline seemed to carry her through the rest of the day with little to no pain. She said her body felt stiff, sure. But that was about the extent of it.

What we woke up to the next morning was a whole different story. “Fucking hell!” I exclaimed. The covers were pulled from our feet as I swung my legs over the bed to get my bearings for the morning. Vicky’s left foot was swollen and covered by a deep crimson bruise. Her pinky toe was slightly misshapen and set in a different direction than before. She began wincing audibly before my fingers even came in contact with the toe beside it. The end was scuffed and scabbed over, but so far it looked like the pinky toe was the only one broken. I was beyond horrified when the toenail separated at only the slightest touch. I’d imagine it hurt like a son of a bitch. A gelatinous film of where old blood melded with new was visible from underneath the nail. It wiggled against my fingertip, and I just knew the main things holding it in place were her green nail polish and a sliver of skin with nerves attached.

Mind you, I can’t handle all that shit. The scenes in the scary movies where someone’s nail comes off as they grasp the wall for safety as they’re abducted? Can’t even do it. Not to mention the pain. I’m sure it already hurt like hell as it was; it wasn’t likely that yanking the rest of it out would feel any better.

“Are you sure I should go?” I asked worriedly. “I don’t feel right leaving you here injured with two kids. I’ll be in the woods a lot and service is shitty out there. Can you even walk?”

We only had a limited window of time before the baby woke up and I had to leave. So with gritted teeth, she swung both legs over the edge of the bed, placed both feet on the floor and limped to the bathroom.  “I think I’ll be okay.” She called out in the friendliest voice she could manage. A random car horn blared outside, followed very shortly by Devon’s shrill cries. “Goddammit!” She exclaimed. “I love you, I’ll miss you. Call me when you can okay?” She blurts dismissively before planting a passionate kiss on my lips. She means well, just gets stressed easily.

I’m sure the business trip I was about to leave for didn’t help either. But I was up against another guy, Mark for a promotion. He wasn’t able to make it due to family obligations. The joy on my boss’s face as I assured him I’d be there cemented my lingering suspicions. If I did go, I knew I’d look a hell of a lot better for the job than Mark would. It’s just the way things were. I needed a leg up; I deserved that position. Vicky understood and was grateful for the opportunity for a higher paycheck.

The drive was shorter than expected; I won’t bore you with the details. After all, that’s not why we’re here.

We’re here…because of the text messages and voicemails I received throughout the weekend.  As was mentioned previously, leaving her over a hundred miles away with an injury was a little more disconcerting due to the fact that reception was rumored to be a joke where I was. That’s why that location was picked, minimal distractions.

I had a two-mile window of service on the way to the terminal where I was able to check my messages. They began flooding my phone in a symphony of pings.

VOICEMAIL 9:58 AM:  Hey, hunny! Miss you! Your mom just came to pick up the kids, thank god! So… I ran some warm water in the tub, poured in some Epsom salt and bubble bath and stepped right in. I was hoping that swishing my foot around enough would help the damaged nail fall off on its own. The water took on the slightest tinge of pink after I placed my foot under the faucet. Pain seared through my leg like a lightning bolt, it was awful! Sadly, the only thing washing my feet accomplished was to piss me off.  Also, did you know that warm water increases bleeding? A not so helpful tidbit after the fact Chris…

After folding a paper towel into fourths and grabbing my peroxide, I was ready to get it over with. I remember wishing my dad was there. You remember the deal right? You’d have a loose tooth and your dad would tie a string around it, attach the other end to a cabinet or doorknob or something, and then SLAM it. He’s told you about it at least a hundred times. It’s much more anticlimactic than it sounds but yeah, I really wished the same rules of physics could be applied to a fuckin’ nail. 

Anyway, I bit down on a washcloth like I’d seen people do in old war movies, perched my still dampened foot on the ledge of the sink, and grabbed hold of the nail. The paper towel was too slick against the fresh flow of blood to get a decent grip. Or maybe that’s just the excuse I gave myself to avoid intensifying the pain. I’m gonna leave it be for a while and try again later. I wish you were here… 

11:17 AM: My foot slipped off the lip of the damned vanity. It hit the knob to the door on the way down. Swirls of red, black and white consumed my vision as I swore into the cloth in my mouth. The cotton fibers against my tongue threatened to gag me as I bit down after the last k sound of a freshly uttered FUUUUUUCK!

12:02 PM: I found a small, bloodied nub of nail lying dejectedly on the floor. One way or another, I got the fucker, right babe?

5:38 PM: Weird…. So where there was once blood, mar and damaged tissue, now sits a perfect nail. Here I’ll send you a video.

Moments later, a four-second long video clip appeared in my inbox. Four lime green painted toes wiggled effortlessly, with a perfect but unpainted one dancing along with them.

5:42 PM: Okay, Chris, there are two options here:

  1. The replacement nail grew crazy fast all day, which was more like six or so hours, in the damaged one’s place.

  1. I’ve gained access to unexplainable, regenerative powers.

Admittedly I just looked at my screen, dumbstruck. What the hell could I say to something like that? My eyes scanned her words repeatedly, desperate for any signs of levity or humor, there were none. She was dead serious.

I’m writing this today because as terrible and ludicrous as it may seem, my wife believed that she had in fact been granted with miracle regeneration. Chop it off and it will grow back like new, assuming she survives the initial pain and bleeding.

Sunday 8:32 AM: So, don’t freak out but I’ve been running some tests. I started small at first with the tip of my thumb. But it escalated; everyone has little things that they don’t like about themselves.  Hey… what about my chickenpox scars?!

Back when my wife was a child in the early ’90s, there were no chickenpox vaccines. You got it, stayed in bed, and were told not to scratch till you got over it. Vicky was no exception, only her scars from having them were more visible than most. She had the cutest little bangs and had gotten a fresh round of hives just where the ends met her forehead and eyebrows. The more my mother in law got onto her for scratching, the harder she would do it. This resulted in two pockmark scars buried directly in the middle of Vicky’s forehead; one directly above the other, in between her eyes in a straight line.

The reason I made you sit through that anecdote, is because that’s where she said she cut next.

Another voicemail from Vicky said that she was convinced if she cut the smallest sliver of flesh from her forehead, the scars would be out of her life forever. After thirty-three years of painstakingly staring at them in the mirror, she said it would be a dream come true.  A crippling wave of panic and self-doubt must have overwhelmed her the moment she finished filleting the top part of her face because a flurry of messages followed in rapid-fire succession.

Sunday 9:49 AM: Christ, Chris… What if it doesn’t grow back? Did I really let slight discomfort make me replace two small marks with a gaping square? How the hell would I explain the new scar?!  I think I’m gonna take something. Okay, more than one thing, for anxiety, lie down, and anxiously await tomorrow. My forehead is on fire. It seems like it will be almost impossible to fall asleep but somehow I’ll manage.

Sunday 1:18 PM: I woke up with no pain, it must have worked. Peeling the blood crusted gauze away and washing my skin revealed a smooth patch of peach flesh underneath. The marks are gone, along with any traces of my self-surgery. I feel incredible!

Sunday 2:45 PM: I’m gonna try my lips next. You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted fuller lips. Sadly it doesn’t work that way though.

Sunday 3:14 AM: It gives you exactly what you should have had before, no enlargements. In the end, I was just so happy to have them back that I didn’t care what size they were. The stakes feel higher and higher each time I try something new, but I just can’t stop.

I’m writing to you all because my plane leaves in less than half an hour and she says I’m ready to get serious; no more selfish, cosmetic crap. For whatever reason, as much as I still doubt it, it appears my wife has been given a gift, and she’s ready to truly test its limits. A few years back, she started suffering from terrible back problems. For a while, I thought something went wrong with her epidural when Devon was born. A visit to a surgeon revealed that to be untrue.

There’s been a mass slowly forming on the upper middle part of my wife’s back. I remember the cold, confusing weeks that followed as she pushed me away to protect me from her damaged fate. As much as it sounds necessary, my insurance wouldn’t cover surgery until her condition ceases mobility completely, deeming it a life-saving procedure. By then, there would be a good chance that too much damage would have already been done.

My Uber had dropped me off at the house. Though I’d only been gone for three days, the entire aura of our home seemed different… darker. As much as I felt the overwhelming need to rush through the front door to check on her, a part of me was terrified at what I might find. We didn’t have much time to figure this out before Mom brought the kids back home. I almost wanted to call her and tell her not to even bring them. But then I would have to explain why and what was going on. These were questions I wasn’t quite prepared to answer.

The smooth but soul-crushing sound of heartache rang through the house. Vicky was playing one of her mother’s old Tammy Wynette albums. Our home was clean for the most part; I’d expected blood and discarded body parts to be strewn about the apartment. My wife’s humming grew louder along with my heartbeat as she turned the corner. She was… beautiful! I was so relieved to come home to the woman I married that I instantly picked her up and twirled her around. We kissed several times before setting her back down again.

I held her tight in my arms, chuckling with the joy of relief. Then I looked in the living room mirror…

H-Her face separated from my shoulder, leaving strings of puss and blood in its wake. My wife’s forehead was slick with infection, sinew and muscle tissue gleamed against the living room light. I could see every bit of visceral damage done to my wife’s face. Shoving her away, I looked to my shoulder, and… there was nothing. Where the mirror showed a disgusting stain of fluids was crisp, cotton to my naked eye.

I’ve moved most of the mirrors covering the ones too heavy for travel. Sheets adorn our windows, keeping our children from their normal sunlit play. I play with them outside a lot and it doesn’t seem to be a problem, as long as they don’t catch her reflection in the car windows.

I have no idea if I’m losing it or if there really is something fundamentally wrong with her. She is begging me to help with her back, to free her from a life of pain and torment.

I wonder if this has ever happened to anyone else. After all, YouTube and the internet can teach someone to do just about anything.

I’m scared that if I don’t agree to this, she’s ready to do this herself before most of her spine is affected.

What should I do?

Rating: 8.80/10. From 5 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by N.M. Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: N.M. Brown


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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