Grandma. The corpse. Maybe. Still meaty but not enough to keep her leathery skin from drooping all over her. Eye sockets sit sagging behind stained glasses secured by some other woman's string of pearls. They fell out, her eyes, or maybe removed. No telling. Neither would surprise. In the right proximity to Grandma you can actually smell them; her eye sockets. They have an odor like no other. Indescribable. Awkward and unpleasant. The grip it takes on the gag reflex doesn't choke because it's pungent but just because of knowing where it comes from.