So, one of the main characters in the novel that I been working in has shapeshifting powers. They work with the character moving around the spirits that live inside him around, positioning his broken bones and muscle in a way that resemble the person he wants to look like.

For now, he has done this three times: one in another character’s chapter, and two in his point of view chapter. I’m trying to give it some body horror tones, so I would be quite grateful if you could tell me if I had managed to do so, or–if this isn’t the case–how can I change it to make it so.

PD: Also. You will probably find some grammatical errors. Sorry about that. Not only I am dyslexic, but English is not my native tongue. So I hope that you will understand why there are some errors (although that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t point them out, the only way that someone can improve is by correcting his mistakes)

The sound of broken bone and ripping flesh filled the room, the man’s body morphing as if he was made of clay. His body grew in size, losing part of his thickness to formed a slim body a few fingers shorter than Sedjom. His face morphed with his body, looking as if it was melting, a beard popping through bubbles of skin.

Sedjom did her best not to vomit. Flashes of the man she had killed a week ago–of the sounds he made when her knife hacked through his head–passed through her mind, his face twisting into a expression of perplexion towards his own death.

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The man in front of her was making the same exact noise.

Grima started to transform, the Dark Ones inside him moving his fractured bones and torn flesh at his will. Pain filled the entirety of his body, a pain so intense that he would have passed out from it if it hadn’t been so pleasing for him, so exciting.

Pleasure went through his body alongside the pain, his body twisting with it. He did his best to control it, to stop himself from transforming to much, to be in a constant state of shapeshifting.

Remembering her devouring gaze always helped him to do so. Remembering the suffering that he had lived through always made him recall that this wasn’t what he wanted, that it was something force to him.

Something that should be unpleasing.

But, fucking Ancients, it felt so good, so right. He knew that if someone–maybe one of the Dead Gods that Ons Letas always spoke about–offered him the opportunity to get rid of this powers, this curse, he would laugh at his face. Fuck, if he lost his powers–if the Dark Ones left his body–he would take a knife to cut himself, to allow the Dark Ones to invade his body once again.

‘Let’s start washing that hideo-’ Grima didn’t let the bearded man finish the sentence, his transformation starting the very moment he closed the door behind him.

He didn’t shapeshifted into his original self, nor into another man or woman. His body deformed itself with the sound of broken bone and torn flesh, his body twisting into an abomination too tall and too thin to be considered human. His head followed suit, the face becoming an uncanny amalgamation of all sort of people: from half rotten corpses to little girls, passing through the face of the man frozen in front of him in terror.

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