The criminal case of the police investigation into the male mummies...

The house stood crooked, as if a distracted and indifferent god had let it fall from a great height, its foundations groaning under the weight of its own absurdity. Inside, the air smelled of mothballs, formaldehyde and a persistent but slight odor of burnt toast - although no one in the family remembered the last time someone had used the toaster. The walls were covered with wallpaper that may have been floral once, but now resembled the nervous system of an extraterrestrial cephalopod.

At the heart of this architectural delirium was the Smith family: a ragtag group of misfits so strange that even their shadows hesitated before following them. There was the father, a man who called himself Hannibal Lecter but only ate overcooked spaghetti, and the mother, a woman who permanently wore a wedding veil and claimed to be the reincarnation of Ophelia, although she had never read Shakespeare. Then there were the twins, Edgar and Allan, who spoke a language composed solely of clicks, whistles and bursts of static, as if their vocal cords were tuned to a radio frequency from another dimension.

The maternal grandfather, a man who claimed to be both Dracula and a retired taxidermist, spent his days stuffing squirrels into teacups and mumbling about the virtues of drinking moonlight. The paternal grandmother, a woman who wore a necklace of dried apricots and called herself Lady Macbeth, was often found scrubbing invisible bloodstains from the floor while humming The Sound of Silence backwards.

And then, of course, there were the uncles and aunts - characters so disturbing that even the family dog (a three-legged Chihuahua named Jack the Ripper) avoided them. Uncle Norman, who collected antique shower curtains and had an unhealthy fascination with stuffed birds, was often seen whispering to a taxidermied crow he called Mother. Aunt Annie, who always carried a rolling pin and had the habit of bursting into songs about the virtues of arsenic, was reputed to have once baked a pie so disturbing it made a local priest renounce his faith.

But the real trouble began when the police arrived.

It was a Tuesday, or maybe a Thursday (time had long since lost its meaning in that house), when Inspector Patrick Bateman, a man dressed in designer suits who had the unfortunate habit of quoting American Psycho during interrogations, knocked on the door. He was accompanied by his partner, Inspector Clarice Starling, who carried a briefcase full of psychological profiles embedded in living eyes composed of membranes, fluids and nerves - and whose gaze betrayed perpetual exhaustion.

We have received a tip, declared Bateman in a voice smooth as a freshly sharpened blade, concerning unusual activity in your basement.

The family exchanged glances. The twins clicked in unison. The grandfather hissed like a punctured tire.

What kind of activity? asked the father, twirling a limp noodle around his finger.

Human remains, replied Starling. Mummified. And not just any mummies: male mummies displaying a very particular characteristic.

Anorexia, added Bateman. Permanent anorexia of the kind that leaves only unknown bones.

A long silence followed. Then Aunt Annie began to hum.

The basement, when they descended, was a cavern of shadows and whispers. The walls were covered with jars containing what might have been pickles, but strangely resembled fingers. The air was thick, permeated with the smell of old books and something metallic, like a coin left too long under the tongue.

And there they were: the mummies. Leaning against the back wall like forgotten mannequins, their skin stretched over fragile skeletons, their eye sockets empty. They wore suits that had once been elegant, but now hung like deflated balloons. Their hands were clasped before them, as if in prayer... or perhaps surrender.

Who are they? asked Starling, in a barely audible voice.

The twins clicked rapidly. The grandfather hissed again.

They are us, said the mother adjusting her veil or what we will become.

Bateman's smile didn't reach his eyes.

Explain yourselves.

The father sighed, dropping his spaghetti on the floor where it writhed for a moment before going still.

It's a family tradition. With each generation, the men of this house... shrink. Not physically, no: metaphysically emotionally, spiritually. They consume themselves from within until nothing remains but bones and the echo of their own remorse.

The twins nodded in unison. One of them murmured something that sounded like Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (Родион Романович Раскольников), but it might have just been the wind.

You mean this is... natural?

The grandfather burst into shrill laughter, revealing teeth sharp as needles.

Natural? Nothing is natural in this family. We are a living paradox. An absurd joke aware of itself.

Bateman took out a notebook, his pen hovering above the page.

So you admit to having corpses in your basement.

Corpses? sneered the mother, with a sound like breaking glass. Oh no, inspector; these are not corpses, these are warnings.

Suddenly, the twins spoke in unison, their voices merging into a discordant Gregorian chant: Hunger is eternal. Hunger is sacred. Hunger is the only eternal truth.

And then the lights went out. When they came back on, the mummies had disappeared. In their place stood the twins, their eyes black as ink, their mouths stretched into smiles too wide for human faces.

The case was never solved. The inspectors left, their reports filed under Unclassifiable. And the house remained there, crooked and groaning, its basement filled with whispers and the distant echo of someone, somewhere, laughing in the darkness.

Hunger, after all, was paradoxically eternal.

By Carlos del Puente relatos