Lisa Marie Presley kept her son Benjamin’s body at home for two months after he passed away.

Lisa Marie Presley was so devastated by the loss of her son, Benjamin Keough, that she kept his body in her home for two months after he passed away. She even invited a tattoo artist to see him so she could get matching tattoos.

This is just one of many surprising details in Lisa Marie’s new memoir, From Here to the Great Unknown, which was completed by her daughter, actress Riley Keough, after Lisa Marie passed away in January 2023.

Lisa Marie (left) next to her beloved son Ben, along with her third husband, Michael Lockwood, and a guest, at the London premiere of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” in November 2010.
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In her book, Lisa Marie shared that she had to fight to stay alive for her other children, Riley and her twin daughters Harper and Finley, who are now 16. She didn’t say goodbye to Benjamin right away because she was torn between burying him in Hawaii or at Graceland, the Memphis estate where Elvis, her father, is buried.

Lisa Marie kept the room at 55 degrees to preserve Benjamin’s body and got so used to caring for him and having him there.

Riley and Lisa Marie decided to honor Benjamin by getting tattoos like his. Benjamin had his sister’s name on his collarbone and his mom’s name on his hand. Riley had her brother’s name tattooed on her collarbone, and a tattoo artist was called to Lisa Marie’s home to add Benjamin’s name to her hand. When the artist asked if they had photos of Benjamin’s tattoos to match the font and placement, Lisa Marie said, “No, but I can show you.”

Riley writes: “Lisa Marie Presley had just asked this poor man to look at her dead son, who was right next to us in the guest house. I’ve had a very strange life, but this moment is one of the weirdest.”

Lisa Marie also knew it was strange. She said, “I think it would scare the heck out of anyone else to have their son there like that. But not me.”

Soon after the tattoo day, Riley remembers that everyone felt like Benjamin wanted to be laid to rest.

Even Lisa Marie said she could feel him communicating with her, saying, “This is crazy, Mom, what are you doing? What the heck!”

The family held a funeral for Benjamin in Malibu, and New Age author Deepak Chopra led the ceremony. Riley said she had to keep her eyes closed the whole time because she was struggling to cope with everything.

Benjamin was buried at Graceland, next to Elvis, and Lisa Marie would later be buried there too.

Riley writes a lot about her brother’s struggles with mental health and how he often went on drinking binges. She doesn’t believe he truly wanted to die.

After his death, she and her mom went through his phone, looking for answers.

Riley writes, “We found a text he sent to my mom a couple of weeks before he died that said, ‘I think something’s wrong with me mentally. I think I have a mental health issue.’ It’s heartbreaking to me that he only realized he might need help just two weeks before he took his own life.”

I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw

I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.

She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”

Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”

“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”

“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”

“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.

“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.

Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.

One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.

That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”

Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”

“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.

She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.

Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.

My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.

“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”

“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”

“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.

We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.