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Dear Reader, I know you don’t believe in the supernatural like your sister. But, I’m writing to you to share the haunting story of my best friend and the ghost that possessed her. Emily and I had been ghost hunting together for years and first met in a paranormal investigation group. We had a shared interest in exploring the unknown and the supernatural. Over time, we formed a close bond, working together on numerous investigations, sharing our experiences and insights with one another. We eventually received a call from a restauranteur who was experiencing some strange and unexplained occurrences in their place of business. The owner informed us that every woman was becoming a regular, sneaking in behind their loved ones’ backs, order copious amounts of food and stuff themselves until they weren’t able to move. Only to eventually leave and come back not 30 minutes later with their families and do it all over again. The owner suspected that there was something supernatural causing this behavior and reached out for assistance. We were intrigued and concerned by the reports and decided to investigate further. As we began our investigation, we were inundated with positive evidence of something. Positive EMF readings, cold spots, etc. and it drove us to do more research on the facility. We found through rumor and circumstance that a woman had once died there, we couldn’t find any information on her in the local records office. But apparently, she was a notorious glutton, known for her insatiable appetite and her obsession with rich, fatty foods. Apparently, she ate herself to death, somehow. The restaurant staff was a little vague, their statements were only really hushed watercooler talk. But still, there had to be something to it, given the amount of evidence we were already gathering. She must not have been able to move on from her earthly cravings. But as our research continued, I felt something was amiss. Emily became increasingly obsessed with this case, spending long hours researching and investigating. She would disappear on me, only to have me find her at the library or the records office, eyes glued to a local history book with the remnants of some take away cluttered around her. It wasn’t until I noticed Emily’s softened love handles bulging over the waistband over her tight, ill-fitting jeans and a slight ** belly peaking beneath her shirt that I started to suspect Emily was being affected by whatever malevolent force we were uncovering here. It frightened me, we had never encountered something like this before, and I was overwhelmed by guilt that I hadn’t noticed anything sooner. In what would be our last meeting with our client, I told him we had to stop our investigation due to personal reasons, and that we would refund him his money. Emily was furious with me. As soon as the door to the restaurant shut behind us and we were out on the street, she exploded saying that I “had no right” and that we were “so close to finding the truth.” She stormed off shortly after. I ended up packing the van back at our hotel by myself. Eventually, she came back despite all my calls and texts to get ahold of her, but when I saw her, I was aghast. She slowly waddled to the side van door, slid it open and clambered inside. Her belly was swollen tight, her pants were unbuttoned, allowing her gut to roll slightly into her lap. She had a dollop of frosting in the corner of her mouth, and she plopped next to her a box of donuts, at least two dozen in count. Her breathing was shallow and despite me trying to get her attention, she just ignored me and shoved a new confectionary in her mouth. Despite the open road being noisy, I could hear her grunting and groaning as she plowed through the box of donuts. I glanced back at her when I suspected she was finished, and her eyes were shut, a pained look on her face as she clutched her overtaxed belly with frosted hands, her cheeks chipmunked as she struggled to finish the last donut. She continued to ignore my attempts at conversation. Even though she’s still mad, at least I got her away from that place. If only that were the end of the story. When we made it back to our hometown, I dropped Emily off at her front door. She didn’t even speak, she just carefully slid out clutching her gut and slowly made her way to her front entry. Unlocking the door, she slipped inside and turned off the porch light. I’m not going to lie; it pissed me off a bit. I’m just looking out for her like we’ve done for countless investigations, and she’s being a little diva about it. I rationalized with myself that she’d have to call and apologize to me for acting like a child. I drove home, climbed into bed, and fell asleep. 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 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 8-hour drive back home. When I finally made it back home, I swerved into my driveway, nearly hitting my mailbox. I swung open the van door, grabbed the tape and ran inside. I could hear the dinging from the door alarm on my van as I crashed into my home. In my basement I tossed boxes aside until I found an old relic that Emily used to make fun of me for keeping, my parent’s old VCR. I hooked it up to the TV inputs and while the TV shown brightly the black and white snow, I took a deep breath to calm myself. With shaking hands, I slid the tape inside the device. The TV switched from snow to a black screen, and then on a distorted tape I watched as the same waitress that averted her eyes a few hours ago was staring back at me only she had to be 50lbs lighter. With crackling audio, I could hear her voice, “I-I’m sorry to not do this in person…m-my fiancé-e-e *tshhh*” static comes in and out. “Runs the restaurant. He’s a good man, he didn’t know anything was going to happen. Today’s day is May 9th, you just stopped your investigation yesterday and I didn’t get a chance to show you this while you were here, as I only just found it hidden in our attic. Martha…the woman who died…was his mother. I can’t even describe to you what is on this tape, you will just have to watch it to see for yourself, but I hope it helps you solve this thing. It needs to end before I’m so big I can’t leave my bed. I never used to believe in ghosts, but now I’m not so sure.” The tape hits a poor signal patch, and the video finally slowly rolls into view. The flickering tape shows a chubby woman in a waitress uniform tied to a chair in what looks like the kitchen of the restaurant. Before her on the service counter sits an enormous feast. Martha’s eyes were wide with excitement. The foods looked decadent and rich, and the man said in too soothing of a voice, “Here you go, my love,” as he shoved the first mouthful into her. “Freshly baked bread, a succulent roast chick, roasted potatoes and gravy, and for dessert, your favorite, a rich, chocolate cake.” Martha’s eyes lit up as the man pushed food past her lips, and she ate with such voracity it was a bit shocking. The tape flickered again, this time the woman was wearing a skirt and blouse. Time clearly has passed, and she clearly looks fatter than before. Martha had a ring of sauce around her lips, that had dripped onto her white blouse. The plates surrounding her grew 4-fold. Several of them, already empty, you could tell she was struggling a bit as her husband fed her. “More…” she asked. The tape crackled again, this time, Martha was downright fat. She was bulging out of her clothes. Her hair was disheveled, her head hanging limply out of shear strain and exhaustion. Food smeared her cheeks and chin. “No more Frank, please. I’m too full.” “Come on Martha, there are plenty of plates left to go through, you need to eat more.” “Huff…Okay…okay…More.” The tape whirred and shook into the next scene, apparently still the same evening. Martha was laying on a bed, moaning while clutching her swollen belly, it rose like a stuffed mountain above her. Frank walked closer to her and joined her on the bed, accompanied by a couple of boxes. He opened one up and pulled out a slice of chocolate cake. “I’ve got your favorite.” Martha’s labored breathing could be heard in the background. “I can’t, I’m so full already. Please I need to stop eating.” “Just a little bite, you’re doing so well. Its just a few more bites and then we can stop.” “Okay…oh god…Give me more.” She clutches her overtaxed belly, and a deep moan escaped Martha as Frank pushed the cake past her lips. The tape flickers again. Martha is unrecognizable. She’s huge, and her lingerie that she’s wearing was far too small. Her face was a mess, and she was completely covered in a smear of foodstuffs. Her cheeks were stuffed full of food, and her fattened belly was clearly a lot larger than before. She looked large enough to roll out of the restaurant’s kitchen. Piles of empty plates surrounded her. Her brow was beaded with sweat, her beautiful hair lay slightly matted against her. She could barely get in a breath, her belly stuffed so full of fattening goodies. Through her mouthful of food, “I can’t…I can’t eat another bite.” “What do you mean you can’t eat anymore?” Franks voice sounded annoyed. “I’m sorry Frank, but…*urp* I’m fucking stuffed, it hurts so bad.” “Come on Martha, you know you want it. Just one more bite, for me?” “Frank no, please.” “You know what you have to do. Its fucking simple. Eat. You just have to eat.” Frank shoved another slice of lasagna into Martha’s mouth. She sputtered. “I…I guess so…Just a few more bites, okay? We can stop then, right?” “You got it babe.” Frank shoved another piece of cake into her mouth. Martha’s face says it all. She’s absolutely stuffed to the gills. “More…” And as Frank shoves the last slice into Martha’s fattened face. Her expression changed a from gluttonous, hedonistic overload to terror and fear, and she let out a shrill scream. And as life drained from her eyes, and through Frank’s frantic shouts, the image sputtered to black. I tell you; I was mortified. Horrified. Terrified. Every mixed feeling smashed into one. I finally found my answer. I just wasn’t ready for it. Now the only thing I can do is try to show that I know what happened and maybe then…Maybe then Martha can move on in peace. I hopped into my van and drove back over to Emily’s. I hadn’t been here in a few weeks and its as if there is a dark cloud over her home. As soon as I stepped out of my car, the air felt heavy, almost suffocating. I pushed through the front gate and made my way to her front door. Her grass is completely overgrown, her property is completely littered with trash, a far cry from who Emily truly was. I pounded on the door. “EMILY?!” I pounded it again. This time, I heard nothing. I opened the door and stepped inside and was immediately hit with the smell of fry grease. The once-tidy home was in an even worse state than before. Empty food containers, wrappers, plates, pizza boxes, everything strewn across every surface. I began checking every room in the house, Emily was nowhere to be found. I eventually went upstairs to where her bedroom was, “Emily?” I called out. I gingerly stepped over mounds and mounds of empty takeout containers. And when I entered the bedroom, my eyes landed on a massive blob lying atop her straining bed. Her belly was gigantic, her fleshy sides spilling over the edges of her California Queen. She was in her underwear, and they were stretched to their limits, her fat, bloated body bulging out every opening, the seams on their last thread. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and as I walked over, I had to lift my hand to set it atop her belly. It was sticky with food mess, as if she wore it like a trophy to show her gluttonous triumph. It was also completely taut, packed so full of fattening food that she had to be close to bursting. I stepped back toward the doorway and called the paramedics. “More…I need more…” It wasn’t Emily. “Martha. You need to leave this house at once. You are not welcome here.” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “I need to eat more…Feed me more…” Emily’s hand heavily reaches around her trying to find something more to eat. “Martha, I know how you died. FRANK killed you.” The mention of Frank’s name sent a whirlwind of through the room followed by a scream between the fabric of this reality. The food containers rose into the air and slammed against me in a wave, almost drowning me in the trash. “This isn’t you; you need to leave here at once!” Another wave of empty food containers pelted me from across the room. “Emily? Can you hear me?” “It’s not my fault,” she hasped clutching her swollen stomach. “She made me do it.” “I know. I know!” The tornado in her bedroom swirled fast, and harder. “Martha, she won’t leave me alone. She’s always so…*urp*… hungry. Always demanding more.” “I understand, Emily, it’s not your fault. You need to fight back, take back control!” The disembodied scream rang loudly into the room. “She always wanted more… More…” I could hear the sirens in the background. “You have to end this, Martha, we know what really happened, you have to move on!” The disembodied scream rang in my ears, followed up by Emily’s own scream as she tried to break free of Martha’s grasp. I felt a blast of wind fly past me as the front door opened, the floating food containers fell to the ground with a thud. I hear a cacophony of voices and of a gurney being rushed up the stairs and her bedroom door slams open. The paramedics rushed in, and were in complete disbelief at the fattened, bloated ball of flesh that was Emily. “What did she eat?” One of them asked me… “E…Everything.” Was all I could muster. I could hear Emily sobbing, saying she was sorry, that it wasn’t her fault, pleading for help. The men took their time, and carefully tried to lift her on the gurney. “She’s too heavy,” one of them muttered. “We need to be careful.” They managed to somehow squeeze her through her doorway, the gurney creaking dangerously under her mass. But it wasn’t until they made it to the staircase that it happened. As they went to lower her down, the legs snapped. I can’t express to you how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t even want to write you such a detailed story but it’s one that has to be heard. One to let you understand that despite what you see at her funeral, despite the rumors you may hear, Emily’s death wasn’t her fault, and her last days weren’t how she normally spent her life. I tried. I tried to help her, to save her. But I failed her. Well, I need to wrap this up. All this talk of food has made me hungry, despite my late lunch and early dinner. I seem to be extra hungry these days. Must be a coping mechanism. Sincerely, Julie Martha