"The Hunger Within"

Chapter 1: The Invitation

In the isolated town of Grendel’s Hollow, nestled between dense woods and forgotten roads, an enigmatic letter arrived at the doorstep of ten strangers. Each envelope bore no return address, only a wax seal with an eerie symbol — a fork crossed with a bone. The message inside read:

"You have been selected to participate in an exclusive culinary experience at the prestigious Black Hollow Estate. Transportation and accommodations will be provided. Do not bring anything. Everything you need will be provided.

*— The Host."

Each recipient, for one reason or another — curiosity, desperation, hunger for fame or food — accepted the invitation. Among them was Olivia, a struggling food blogger; Marcus, a recently bankrupt restaurateur; Claire and Dean, a young couple on the edge of divorce; an ex-soldier named Cole; timid librarian Ruth; and four others, each harboring secrets.

A black limousine picked each of them up under cover of night, windows tinted so dark the outside world vanished. Hours passed. When the vehicles finally stopped, they found themselves in front of a towering, gothic mansion. The sky above was an inky canvas, and the air carried a metallic scent. Candles lit the gravel path to the front door, which creaked open as they approached.

Inside, a tall, pale man dressed in black welcomed them. He never blinked.

"Welcome, guests," he said in a smooth, chilling voice. "I am Emile, the steward of Black Hollow. The Host will greet you at the Feast. Until then, please, explore. Make yourselves at home."

The estate was lavish, filled with ornate furniture, walls covered in grotesque paintings of hunts, kitchens equipped like surgical theaters. Each guest was given a private room, their name written in red ink on the door.

Dinner was to be served at midnight.

Chapter 2: Midnight Feast

At the stroke of twelve, a bell tolled.

The guests gathered in the grand dining hall. A massive oak table stretched from wall to wall, set with silver utensils, crystal goblets, and steaming dishes that emitted tantalizing aromas. A chandelier above flickered as though swaying in a wind no one felt.

They sat. Emile appeared at the head of the table.

"The Host regrets he cannot dine with you this evening," he said. "But he has prepared this meal especially. Every bite, a masterpiece."

With a clap, masked servants entered, carrying platters. Roast, stew, tartare, pies — the variety was breathtaking. The guests hesitated but soon succumbed to hunger and began eating.

It was delicious — the most exquisite flavors they had ever tasted. Tender, rich, unfamiliar. Olivia, the food blogger, took notes between bites. Marcus devoured plate after plate. Even Ruth, normally squeamish, couldn’t stop.

"What kind of meat is this?" Claire asked Emile.

He smiled without showing teeth. "Only the finest."

Wine flowed. Laughter echoed. The initial tension melted into revelry.

Until Dean, halfway through a thick stew, pulled something from his mouth — a small, golden ring. His face turned white.

"This... this has an engraving... it says 'Forever Yours – Ellie'."

Silence fell.

Emile stepped forward. "Ah. A mistake. Our apologies. Sometimes, old flavors linger."

Dean stood up. "What the hell is going on here?"

"You were chosen," Emile said calmly. "To feast. And to be feasted upon."

Suddenly, the chandelier’s light flared. The doors slammed shut. The guests tried to rise, but their limbs betrayed them. Their legs were weak. Their heads swam.

"The wine," Ruth whispered, collapsing.

Darkness consumed the room.

Chapter 3: The Cold Cellars

When Olivia awoke, the warmth of the feast had been replaced by the biting chill of stone. She lay on a damp floor, her wrists bound with thick leather straps. The flicker of a single torch revealed a small, windowless cell. Iron bars lined one side, beyond which echoed distant, guttural screams.

Her head throbbed. The wine… it had been drugged.

“Hello?” she croaked, her voice dry.

Across the corridor, behind another set of bars, Marcus stirred. He rubbed his temples and looked around, groaning. “What the hell is this place?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia whispered. “But we have to get out.”

Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor. A dim silhouette approached — not Emile, but a different servant. This one was short, hunched, face obscured by a burlap hood. He carried a wooden tray with bowls of grayish stew and a pitcher of water.

“You’ll need your strength,” he muttered, voice like gravel. He slipped the bowls under the bars, never looking them in the eye.

“What is this?” Marcus demanded.

The servant simply grunted and walked on.

Olivia didn’t touch the food.

From a nearby cell, Ruth’s panicked cries pierced the silence. “Please! Somebody help me! Claire’s not breathing!”

Marcus and Olivia pressed against the bars, trying to see into the neighboring cell.

Ruth was kneeling beside Claire’s limp form. Dean was pounding the wall with his fists. “She won’t wake up! Damn it! They did something to her!”

More footsteps. Emile appeared, his black coat swirling like a shadow.

“I’m afraid Claire won’t be joining us further,” he said with a cruel smile. “Her purpose has been fulfilled.”

Dean lunged at the bars, furious. “You son of a—!”

With a snap of his fingers, Emile summoned two masked men who entered the cell and dragged Dean out, kicking and screaming.

“No! Let go of me! Where are you taking me?!”

“To the kitchen,” Emile replied simply.

Marcus backed away from the bars, his face pale. “We… we ate someone last night. Didn’t we?”

Olivia nodded slowly, sick rising in her throat.

“Yes. I think we did.”

Meanwhile, in the upper floors of Black Hollow Estate, Cole — the ex-soldier — had awoken early, his body used to resisting drugs. He lay still, pretending to sleep while observing the servant checking his pulse. When the man leaned closer, Cole struck. A swift blow to the temple knocked the servant unconscious.

Cole grabbed a shard of metal from the floor and used it to slice through the rope binding his hands.

He crept out of the room and down the hallway, avoiding the surveillance cameras he had spotted earlier. His instincts screamed danger at every turn.

In a study, he found a strange journal — thick, bound in leather, with pages full of rituals, lists of names, recipes… and diagrams of human anatomy.

At the bottom of one page, a chilling note:

“The flavor of fear, the texture of desperation. Let them ripen. Then harvest.”

He flipped to another page and saw photos. One was Claire, unconscious. Another — Dean, with a red mark drawn on his chest like a butcher’s cut.

Cole closed the book, sickened.

Then he heard a scream. Familiar.

Dean.

Without thinking, Cole ran toward the sound.

Back in the cellar, Olivia curled into a corner, trembling. The walls felt like they were closing in. She remembered her blog, her dreams, her brother she hadn’t called in weeks.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered.

But it was.

Marcus sat beside her, silent. The stew remained untouched.

Suddenly, the corridor lights flickered. Then, shouting. A crash. A clatter of metal. Then — footsteps racing toward the cells.

It was Cole.

He appeared in front of their cell, keys in hand.

“You okay?” he asked.

“We’re alive,” Marcus said. “Not much more than that.”

Cole opened the cell. “We don’t have much time. They’re butchering people. One by one.”

As they fled, they passed Ruth’s cell. She clung to the bars.

“Please! Don’t leave me!”

Cole broke her lock too.

“Stick together,” he said. “We move fast, we move quiet. And we don’t look back.”

But as they reached the stairwell, a loud voice echoed through the estate.

It was Emile.

“You can run,” he said, his voice calm, distorted over the intercom. “But you are already part of the recipe.”

Chapter 4: The Butcher’s Wing

The stairwell was dimly lit, the stone steps slick with moisture. Each echoing footstep felt like a drumbeat of dread. Cole led the group, his senses sharp, trained from years in hostile environments. Olivia, Marcus, and Ruth followed closely, their breath visible in the chill air.

“Where are we going?” Ruth whispered.

“There’s a service exit through the kitchens,” Cole replied. “I saw it marked on a floor plan upstairs.”

“Kitchens?” Marcus hissed. “That’s where they—”

“I know,” Cole cut in. “But it’s our only way out.”

They reached the ground floor and paused at the base of the stairs. The grand hallway loomed ahead, cloaked in shadows. A grotesque painting now hung where the chandelier had been — a depiction of guests seated at a banquet table, only their faces were twisted in terror, and their limbs were replaced with cuts of meat.

“That wasn’t there before,” Olivia murmured.

“No,” Cole agreed. “They’re watching us.”

He pushed open a swinging door at the end of the corridor. The group entered the kitchen.

It looked nothing like the one they had seen before.

The counters were covered in bloodied cloths and cleavers. Meat hooks hung from the ceiling — some empty, some not. In the corner, an industrial freezer stood slightly ajar, humming ominously. The smell was overwhelming: a rancid mix of bleach and rot.

Marcus turned away, gagging. Ruth clutched Olivia’s arm.

On the center table lay a half-dissected corpse — Dean.

Olivia gasped, stumbling backward. Marcus vomited.

“Keep moving,” Cole ordered, teeth clenched.

Suddenly, the door behind them slammed shut. The lights flickered violently. From the hallway, the sound of heavy boots approached. A figure emerged through the glass — tall, masked, clad in a bloodstained apron, wielding a bone saw.

“The Butcher,” Cole muttered. “Run!”

They fled through the opposite end of the kitchen, bursting into a narrow corridor lined with storage rooms. Shelves collapsed as they brushed past, sending canned goods clattering to the floor.

The Butcher followed, slow but relentless.

“He’s herding us,” Olivia said between breaths. “Driving us somewhere.”

“Then we don’t play his game,” Cole snapped. He skidded to a halt, yanked open a janitor’s closet, and pushed the others inside.

“We wait. Quiet.”

The Butcher’s boots grew louder, closer… then passed.

They waited until the footsteps faded.

“I saw stairs,” Cole whispered. “Down again. Might be a tunnel or—”

Before he could finish, Ruth let out a short scream. A rat had scurried over her foot.

The footsteps returned.

“No!” Marcus hissed.

The closet door burst open.

The Butcher lunged — but Cole tackled him. They crashed into the hallway. The saw whirred, slicing air just inches from Cole’s face.

“Run!” Cole shouted.

Marcus grabbed Olivia and Ruth, pulling them down the corridor as Cole wrestled with the hulking butcher.

They reached the stairs — descending into pitch black.

Ruth fumbled for a light. Her phone screen flickered on, casting a pale glow.

The staircase ended at a rusted metal door. Olivia tried the handle — locked.

Behind them, the sound of the bone saw resumed. Footsteps — fast, angry.

Then, a gunshot.

Olivia turned.

Cole stood at the top of the stairs, panting, the Butcher crumpled behind him.

He held a small pistol, trembling in his hand.

“Go,” he said, voice hoarse. “Now.”

Marcus slammed into the door with his shoulder — once, twice — and it cracked open. They tumbled through into a tunnel, the stench of decay even worse here. Old, flickering bulbs lit the passageway like a scene from a nightmare.

“What is this place?” Ruth asked.

Olivia squinted at the walls. Symbols — circles with bones, eyes, and runes — had been etched into the stone.

“A slaughterhouse,” Marcus said grimly. “For humans.”

Cole joined them, reloading the pistol.

“This isn’t just about food,” he said. “It’s ritual. Cultic. They believe in something.”

Olivia nodded slowly. “They believe we’re ingredients.”

A sudden noise ahead made them freeze.

Footsteps.

And then… laughter.

Someone — or something — else was down here.

Chapter 5: The Feeding Room

The tunnel stretched on like the gullet of some ancient beast, damp and pulsating with distant sounds — whispers, dripping water, an occasional metallic clang. Olivia kept glancing over her shoulder, as though the very walls were inching closer. Ruth clutched Marcus’s sleeve tightly, her breath shallow.

Cole led the way, pistol steady in his grip. He had recovered some of his soldier’s steel, but the haunted look in his eyes betrayed the fear clawing beneath his calm.

They came to a fork.

“Left or right?” Marcus asked.

Cole crouched, inspecting the floor. “Left shows more recent footprints. Blood, too.”

“Then right?” Ruth offered, hopeful.

“No,” Olivia said. “If they’re bleeding, they’re human. Maybe survivors.”

Reluctantly, the group turned left. As they moved deeper, the walls changed. Crude bricks gave way to polished tiles. Then came the smell — familiar now, but never welcome: iron, rot, and fire.

They entered a vast chamber.

It was a feeding room.

Benches lined the walls, each one accompanied by restraints — wrist clasps, ankle cuffs, neck collars. Chains dangled from the ceiling, some ending in rusted meat hooks. A massive table sat at the center, piled with bones — human bones — stripped clean and polished.

Ruth staggered, covering her mouth. “This is a dining hall…”

Olivia approached a wall display. It was a menu — handwritten in ornate calligraphy.

Tonight’s Selections:

• Wine tongue
• Heart tartare
• Finger fritters
• Burnt bone marrow

“Oh my God,” Marcus whispered. “They’re… organized. Industrial.”

Cole moved to a locked cabinet and broke it open. Inside were sealed glass jars, each with a preserved human organ, labeled with dates and names.

“They catalog them,” he muttered. “Like a pantry.”

Suddenly, a sound echoed behind them — footsteps.

They turned.

A figure entered — not the Butcher, but a woman, tall and graceful, dressed in crimson robes. Her face was veiled, her hands bare and stained.

“Welcome to the heart of the Hollow,” she said, voice velvety and cold. “You’ve come far. Few do.”

“Who are you?” Olivia demanded.

“I am Maître Culinaire. The Host’s right hand.”

Cole raised the gun. “Back away.”

The woman didn’t flinch. “That won’t help. He is always hungry. And you’re already inside him.”

“What does that mean?” Ruth asked.

The woman walked slowly around the room, trailing her hand across the benches. “This estate isn’t just a place. It lives. It breathes. It digests. The guests are the feast. But sometimes, the ingredients try to run. That’s when we prepare something… special.”

From a side passage, others began to emerge — robed figures, masked in porcelain, carrying knives and trays of raw flesh.

“Time to prepare you,” the Maître said.

Cole fired.

The bullet hit her shoulder — but there was no blood. She only smiled.

“We’ve been cured,” she said. “Preserved. You can’t kill what has already been eaten.”

“Run!” Cole barked.

The group fled through another door, the cult’s laughter chasing them like a plague.

They tore through a narrow hall that seemed to twist unnaturally. The estate was changing again — floors slanting, walls pulsing like organs. Doors appeared where there were none before; stairs climbed in impossible angles.

“They’re playing with us!” Marcus shouted.

“They’re feeding off us,” Olivia corrected. “Fear is the seasoning.”

A stairwell opened ahead, leading down. They took it.

Another chamber waited at the bottom. This one colder, quieter.

Rows of lockers lined the walls. Names etched into brass plates: “Claire”, “Dean”, “Simon”, “Rachel”, “Olivia”.

Olivia froze. “These are ours.”

Cole opened one.

Inside was a detailed file — photos of Olivia’s family, her blog, her habits, her medical records.

“They’ve been watching us,” Ruth breathed. “Planning this.”

Marcus opened his own. Inside: a letter.

He read aloud: “Your financial ruin was orchestrated. You were guided here. Every debt, every failure — planned.”

He sank to the floor.

“We were groomed,” Olivia said. “Selected for flavor.”

Footsteps again. No time to process.

Cole slammed the locker door shut. “Let’s go. We end this. Or we die trying.”

They pushed onward — deeper into the belly of the beast.

And somewhere in the dark, the Host was finally waking.

Chapter 6: The Butcher’s Wing

The corridor narrowed as they descended further, the walls now lined with cracked white tiles that once gleamed sterile but now bore brownish stains — old blood, dried and forgotten. A low humming echoed ahead, mechanical and rhythmic, like the purr of a sleeping beast.

Olivia gripped the folder she’d found in the locker, her name burning on the cover like a curse. Her hands shook, but she kept moving. Behind her, Ruth muttered prayers under her breath, while Marcus walked in silence, his eyes hollow with realization. Cole, ever vigilant, led them toward the sound.

They came to a door made of metal — thick, bolted, and rusted. Etched crudely into the surface was a single word:

BUTCHER

Cole raised his foot and kicked hard. The hinges screamed as the door swung inward.

Inside, the air was colder. Frost coated the walls, and the temperature dropped enough for their breath to fog. The chamber was enormous, like a warehouse, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights. Steel tables were arranged in neat rows. Hooks dangled from the ceiling, many bearing what could no longer be called human bodies — skinned, segmented, prepared like cuts at a meat market.

Ruth screamed and stumbled back. Olivia turned her head, gagging.

At the far end of the room stood a figure.

Massive. Hooded. Apron soaked red.

The Butcher.

His head was covered by a mask of stretched, leathery flesh stitched crudely together. In his hands, he held a cleaver almost as long as a man’s forearm.

He didn’t speak. He simply turned toward them and began walking, slow and deliberate.

“Move!” Cole shouted, firing his gun.

The shot echoed like a thunderclap. The bullet struck the Butcher’s shoulder — he barely flinched.

Olivia and the others fled into the maze of steel tables, ducking beneath slabs of frozen meat. The Butcher followed, dragging his cleaver, sparks lighting from the metal floor.

Marcus slipped on a puddle of blood, hitting the floor hard.

“Help!” he cried.

Cole spun and grabbed his arm, hauling him up. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

They reached a side chamber — a small control room overlooking the slaughterhouse floor. Cole slammed the door shut and locked it.

They breathed hard, gathering their wits.

“He can’t be human,” Ruth said, trembling.

Olivia scanned the monitors inside — grainy black-and-white CCTV footage flickering from different rooms: kitchens, bedrooms, cells.

And the dining hall.

On one screen, Emile was standing at the head of the long table again. A new group of guests had arrived. Dazed, confused, dressed like they had just stepped out of a limousine.

“They’re doing it again,” Olivia whispered. “It’s a cycle.”

Ruth pointed to another screen — cages. Inside, they saw Claire.

“She’s alive!” Ruth gasped.

Beside her was Dean, bloodied but breathing. They weren’t alone — two others shared the cell, both unconscious.

Marcus wiped sweat from his brow. “We need to save them.”

Cole nodded. “We find the cage room, we get them out, and we burn this place down.”

“Burn it?” Olivia asked.

“There’s fuel. Always is. A kitchen like that needs propane or gas. We can overload it.”

They turned to leave — but the door burst open before they could move.

The Butcher had found them.

Cole fired again — this time hitting the monster in the knee. It staggered, but again, it didn’t fall. With unnatural strength, the Butcher hurled the cleaver. It buried itself in the wall just inches from Olivia’s head.

“GO!” Cole screamed.

He lunged at the Butcher, slamming the door shut behind them.

“COLE!” Olivia screamed, pounding on the door.

“Get them out!” he shouted from the other side. “Finish it!”

There was a struggle. Grunts. Metal clanging. Then silence.

Marcus pulled Olivia away. “He gave us a chance. We can’t waste it.”

Staggering back through the slaughterhouse, they took a different path — one that led toward the cage room shown on the monitor.

They didn’t speak. Words had lost meaning. Only one thought kept them moving:

End this nightmare.

Chapter 7: The Cages Below

The hallway leading to the cage room twisted downward into darkness, the flickering lights giving out one by one as Olivia, Marcus, and Ruth pressed on. The air turned damp and heavy, thick with the stench of rot and old iron. Their footsteps echoed, not just from behind them, but ahead — and it was impossible to tell if it was their own, or someone — or something — else moving in the dark.

Ruth clutched the folder Olivia had given her earlier. Though she didn’t open it, she felt its weight like a stone in her hands. Inside were secrets. Proof. Horror documented and organized. She wondered if knowing more would help them — or destroy them faster.

At last, they reached a heavy steel door, partially ajar. The groaning of metal on metal signaled someone had forced it open recently.

They stepped into a room that smelled of wet stone and blood. The cage room.

Lined along both walls were narrow prison cells fashioned from rusted iron bars. Olivia rushed forward, spotting Claire immediately — curled on the floor, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Olivia?” Claire whispered hoarsely.

“It’s us,” Olivia said, fumbling with the lock. “We’re getting you out.”

Dean stirred in the corner of the same cell, groaning as he sat up. Bruised and bloodied, but alive.

“Where’s Cole?” Claire asked.

Olivia hesitated. “He stayed behind. He gave us a way out.”

“Then we don’t waste it,” Dean said, rising shakily.

Marcus found a ring of keys on the wall, likely left behind by a careless servant. One by one, he opened the other cells. A young woman named Elsa, barely conscious, was among the prisoners. Next to her was a man with deep gashes along his arms — he could barely speak. Ruth knelt beside him, checking his pulse.

“He’s alive,” she said. “But not for long if we don’t get help.”

Footsteps echoed again.

This time, unmistakable.

Multiple pairs. Slow. Deliberate.

Not just the Butcher.

“They’re coming,” Marcus said. “We need to go. Now.”

Claire looked past the cages toward another corridor at the back. “There’s a tunnel. One of the masked servants took someone through there earlier. Maybe it’s an exit.”

“No more maybes,” Olivia said. “We go.”

They carried the wounded man, Elsa leaning on Ruth. As they reached the tunnel, Olivia turned one last time to look at the cage room.

She saw Emile standing at the entrance.

He didn’t pursue.

He simply smiled.

And bowed.

The tunnel was narrow, with jagged stone walls and a floor slick with dripping moisture. Rats scurried ahead of them, disappearing into cracks. Faintly, they could hear machinery above — the hum of the estate, the grind of gears, the slow march of death continuing above their heads.

Then they saw it.

Light.

A pale glow at the end of the passage.

They emerged into a vast underground chamber.

What they saw froze them in place.

The chamber was circular, lined with enormous glass tanks. Inside each tank, suspended in fluid, were human bodies — some whole, some in stages of dissection, others missing limbs entirely. Labels hung above each, written in elegant calligraphy: Delicate, Savory, Marbled, Aged.

This wasn’t just cannibalism.

This was a factory.

Dean staggered toward one tank and slammed his fist against it. “They’re farming people.”

Claire covered her mouth, fighting the scream building in her throat.

Olivia moved to a workstation nearby — stacks of documents, photos, feeding charts, medical logs. She opened a file. Her own picture stared back at her.

Subject 47: Olivia Barnes. Healthy organs. High-quality muscle tone. Recommend slow-aging and dry-cure process.

She dropped it.

Marcus stepped beside her and opened another.

Subject 12: Cole Davies. Muscle-rich. Ideal for charcuterie-style preparation. Note: emotionally volatile.

Ruth read hers silently, her hands trembling.

“We’re inventory,” she whispered.

From a speaker above, Emile’s voice crackled through.

“You see now,” he said smoothly. “This is not horror. This is art. Your lives have purpose. Your flesh — meaning.”

The tanks began to bubble. Mechanized arms stirred beneath the fluid. A countdown blinked on a monitor: PURGING IN 10 MINUTES.

“They’re going to destroy everything,” Olivia said. “To hide the evidence.”

“We can’t let them,” Marcus growled. “We end it. We blow it all up.”

He grabbed a gas line that ran along the wall.

“Let’s torch their masterpiece.”

Chapter 8: Fire and Flesh

Marcus moved with purpose, dragging the gas line through the chamber like a serpent of vengeance. Olivia, Claire, and Dean hurried behind him, their faces ghostly pale under the chamber’s artificial lights. Ruth stayed near the tanks, her eyes darting from one floating body to another, whispering apologies no one would ever hear.

The countdown on the wall blinked red: 7:14 remaining.

“We’ll use this,” Marcus said, pointing to a line of chemical tanks marked flammable. “Crack a few valves open. Leave a trail.”

Olivia hesitated. “If we blow this place, we go with it.”

He turned to her, eyes hollow. “We’re not getting out anyway. Not all of us. But we can make sure no one else ever ends up on one of their plates.”

Ruth stepped forward. “There might be another tunnel. I saw a shaft behind the tanks—looked like a drainage outlet. We might fit through. Maybe.”

“Maybe’s all we’ve got,” Claire said.

Marcus and Dean worked together, cracking valves and opening pipes. The chamber hissed, filling with a noxious mix of gas and fumes. Claire tied a strip of fabric around a metal pole, dipping it into oil to make a makeshift torch. It would only take one spark.

The countdown ticked on: 5:02.

Suddenly, a mechanical hum vibrated through the chamber. The door they came through slammed shut with a crash. Lights overhead flashed red. From hidden speakers, Emile’s voice rang out again — colder this time, and tinged with fury.

“You disappoint me,” he said. “All the gifts I gave, and you throw them away for what? A spark? A scream? You could have been immortal in flavor. But now…”

A loud metallic clunk echoed behind the tanks.

Then came the sound of a motor.

Something massive was approaching.

Ruth backed away. “What is that?”

From the shadows emerged a tall figure in leather butcher’s garb, his face covered by a smooth, pale porcelain mask. His cleaver was nearly the size of a human torso, stained from countless meals.

The Butcher.

He walked slowly, with the confidence of someone who had never lost.

Marcus shouted, “Run! To the shaft!”

Dean, Claire, and Ruth grabbed the injured girl Elsa and sprinted toward the far wall. Olivia lit the torch. She turned to Marcus, who stood firm.

“I’ll hold him back,” he said, not asking for permission.

“You’ll die.”

He smiled. “Better than being dinner.”

The Butcher charged.

Marcus met him halfway, swinging a metal bar with all his strength. It clanged uselessly against the cleaver. Sparks flew. The Butcher didn’t flinch. He slammed Marcus against a tank, glass shattering. Red fluid splashed over the floor, bodies sliding out like grotesque fruit.

Olivia lit the oil trail.

Flames snaked instantly across the floor.

“Marcus!” she screamed.

But he didn’t rise.

As the fire reached the chemicals, Olivia turned and sprinted toward the escape shaft.

The heat built behind her — a wall of searing flame, of screaming pressure.

Claire and Dean had pried open the small grate Ruth found. One by one, they crawled through, pushing Elsa ahead. Olivia dove in last just as the explosion ripped through the chamber.

The ground shook. A wall of fire roared down the tunnel after them, chasing them like a living beast.

The shaft angled downward sharply, then turned into a vertical drop.

They fell.

One by one, they tumbled into darkness.

When Olivia woke, her ears rang. Smoke billowed around them. They had landed in a shallow pool beneath a concrete outlet — a sewer that spilled into a swamp at the edge of the estate grounds.

Above, flames licked the night sky. The mansion blazed like a torch against the stars.

They had done it.

They had burned it all.

Claire lay beside her, coughing violently. Dean helped Ruth and Elsa out of the water, their faces ash-streaked, eyes wide with shock and relief.

“Is it over?” Ruth asked, voice trembling.

Olivia looked back at the burning estate.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Somewhere in the fire, Emile might have burned.

Or escaped.

They had escaped the feast.

But the hunger of Black Hollow — the truth of what had happened — would follow them forever.

They weren’t just survivors.

They were witnesses.

And someone would want them silenced.

Chapter 9: The Taste That Lingers

Two weeks had passed since the fire at Black Hollow Estate. Authorities called it a gas explosion. The story made headlines for a few days, filled with vague reports of a missing "private chef event" and a wealthy estate owner whose name wasn’t on any public records. But just as quickly as it appeared, it faded — buried beneath politics and celebrity gossip.

No bodies were recovered.

No records found.

No answers given.

The survivors went their separate ways, united only by a silence they couldn’t break.

Olivia sat in her apartment in London, staring at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. Her food blog, once a space filled with reviews and culinary joy, now sat abandoned. She tried writing the story — the real story — a hundred times. But each time, her hands shook, and her mouth filled with the phantom taste of that midnight feast.

She had been complicit. She had eaten.

Again and again, her nightmares returned to the ring — “Forever Yours – Ellie” — and the look in Marcus’s eyes as he faced the Butcher.

She couldn’t sleep.

She couldn’t eat meat.

Even her reflection in the mirror seemed less human.

A knock at the door startled her.

Standing there was Claire.

“Found you,” she said with a tired smile.

Olivia embraced her, the warmth grounding her in a way she didn’t know she needed. Claire looked thinner. Her arms were scratched. Her eyes haunted.

“I’ve been seeing things,” she said, stepping inside. “Hearing things.”

“You too?” Olivia asked.

Claire nodded. “I think… someone’s watching us.”

She pulled out a newspaper clipping from her jacket. A small article from a French publication — "Mysterious Disappearance of Local Woman Linked to Underground Gourmet Club."

“Black Hollow wasn’t the only one,” Claire whispered. “It’s bigger. International. They call themselves La Confrérie de la Chair — the Brotherhood of Flesh.”

Olivia’s stomach turned.

Claire dropped another item on the table: a sealed black envelope. Same wax symbol — fork crossed with bone.

“It was in my mailbox,” she said. “No return address.”

Olivia stared at it, her mouth dry.

Inside was a card:

“The feast continues. You cannot escape what’s inside you.”

And a photo.

A recent one.

It showed Ruth.

But she wasn’t alone.

She was sitting at a candlelit table in what looked like a lavish dining room, flanked by masked figures.

Eating.

Olivia covered her mouth. “No…”

Claire’s hands trembled. “I think they got to her.”

The room was silent for a long time.

Then Olivia stood.

“I want to burn them all.”

Claire looked up. “We’re not soldiers. We barely made it out alive.”

“I don’t care.”

Her voice was cold. Steady.

“We know the truth. We lived it. We survived it. And now they’re watching, daring us to come back. We can either hide and wait… or we hunt.”

Claire reached into her jacket and pulled out a flash drive. “I downloaded files from Dean’s laptop before he vanished. Guest lists. Locations. Names. Coded, but we can figure it out.”

“Dean’s gone?” Olivia asked.

Claire’s expression darkened. “Didn’t answer my calls. Police say he left the country. I don’t believe it.”

Olivia looked out the window. The city outside seemed distant, artificial — like a painting over something darker.

“We end it,” she said. “No more dinners. No more victims.”

Claire nodded slowly. “Then we start with Ruth.”

They sat at the table, planning. Searching. Piecing together a path into the shadows. This time, they would not be lured. They would be the ones knocking.

But in the dark, behind their anger, behind their fear, something else stirred.

Something inside.

The taste.

The hunger.

Because Black Hollow hadn’t just fed them.

It had changed them.

Chapter 10: A Feast of Fire



Olivia and Claire moved quietly through the narrow hallways of the private dining club in Vienna. Their stolen credentials had worked. Dressed in black with silver pins shaped like a bone and fork, they passed unnoticed.

It was the same scent — coppery, spiced, rich.

Another feast was being prepared.

They had tracked the Brotherhood of Flesh for months, following coded messages, black-market chatter, and private invitations. Each place they visited led to horrors: underground kitchens, butchered remains, chefs who whispered in tongues. And always — a photo of one of the original ten.

Tonight, they hoped to find Ruth.

A server passed them. Claire handed him a glass of wine, laced with a paralytic compound. He crumpled silently.

They slipped into the back kitchen. Steam hissed. Knives clattered.

Olivia paused. Her reflection in the steel countertop was unfamiliar — colder, sharper.

Had the hunger changed her?

Claire found Ruth in a preparation room, seated at a long table. She wore the Brotherhood's robes. Her eyes were vacant.

"Ruth?" Claire whispered.

She turned slowly.

"It’s not what you think," Ruth said. "They showed me the truth. We’re no different. We all feed. This just makes it honest."

Olivia’s stomach twisted.

"You ate them," Olivia said. "You became them."

"I evolved," Ruth replied.

The confrontation spiraled. Ruth screamed. Alarms blared. Masked figures rushed in.

Claire threw a smoke bomb. Chaos erupted.

They fled, dragging Ruth. Explosives planted earlier in the boiler room began to tick.

The club exploded in a roar of fire and flesh.

They watched from a distance, panting, trembling.

"Is it over?" Claire asked.

Olivia didn’t answer.

From the smoke, a figure stepped forward — burned, but alive. Ruth.

She smiled, teeth sharpened. "You can’t kill what’s inside you. The hunger always finds a way."

Claire raised a pistol.

But Olivia stopped her.

"Not yet. We need her. She knows where the others are."

Behind them, the fire raged. But deeper in the world, new feasts were being prepared. The Brotherhood was fractured — not gone.

The hunt would continue.

But so would the hunger.