The room was black, utterly mysterious and unseen, just like the foul thoughts a person keeps buried, the ones you’d never divulge to anyone, not even your mother, lest she think you are demented or downright evil. A piney decay permeated the air, with notes of bone broth, sumac, and a lingering fishiness. I held my arms before me to investigate the depth of blackness and saw nothing. My fingers swiped over something moist, and I wiped the wetness across my shirt.
Where was I? The floor felt firm, but I wondered if I was sitting next to a fresh grave where pine trees were too thick for an owl to flap its feathery wings. Cold air moved over my bare arms as something or someone scurried around me. Perhaps the maneuvering was the devil’s minions carrying eternal logs to a caldron to bake my soul to ash.
But it was the sound that truly scared me.
Moist slurping, smooshing, and tearing sounds floated in the darkness. Everywhere and all around, crunching, lips smacking, and the perverse gumming of gelatin. There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. I heard sawing and then prolonged mastication. I swung my hand before me, and something tipped, and water washed over me. “Oh, sorry, miss. Let me replace your water glass. How is your macadamia and sumac-encrusted sea bass?”
I swallowed. “It’s fine. Although, I can’t get the hang of eating in the dark. How can you serve food in complete blackness?” I asked, afraid the waitress would say she was a vampire or worse. I cleared my throat, and looked to where I’d heard her voice. “Frankly, it unsettles me. Can I get a doggie bag?” I added.
“Sure thing. Oh, we memorize the floor plan. But trust me, there’s plenty of accidents,” said the waitress with a demented giggle, before she awkwardly retrieved my plate and disappeared into the gloom.
Across the table, I heard my husband clink a knife across his plate and fumble with his napkin while emitting a dramatic sigh. “Hate is too subtle to describe this meal. I’d rather visit a haunted house than dine in the dark,” he said.
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“A slow burn, supernatural delight that seeps into your soul and sinks its claws in.” ~ Desiree Horton author of Midnight Mother
