Banquet Hall

Life serves the food, and Death always shows up to the banquet, like an uninvited guest with nothing in hand to contribute, just to devour everything then leave.

― Anthony Liccione

The invitation arrived on parchment that felt uncomfortably warm to the touch, written in an elegant script that seemed to shift when Margaret wasn’t looking directly at it. The Ashwood Manor Banquet Hall, it promised, would host an evening of “extraordinary culinary delights” for a select gathering of discerning individuals.

Margaret had always been drawn to exclusive events, and the mysterious nature of the invitation only heightened her intrigue. The manor stood at the end of a winding country road, its Victorian architecture imposing against the storm-darkened sky. Inside, the banquet hall was magnificent—soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a long mahogany table set for thirteen guests.

The other attendees were an eclectic mix: a traveling merchant, a professor of antiquities, a widow in mourning dress, and others whose faces seemed strangely difficult to remember clearly. Their host, Mr. Ashwood, was a tall, gaunt man whose smile never quite reached his pale eyes.

The first course was served on bone-white china—a soup with an iridescent sheen that tasted of the sea despite being miles inland. Margaret found herself unusually hungry, each spoonful only intensifying her appetite. The conversation around the table grew animated, though she couldn’t quite follow the topics being discussed. Ancient places with unpronounceable names, rituals performed under starless skies, and always that underlying current of ravenous anticipation.

As the evening progressed, Margaret noticed peculiarities she’d initially dismissed. The servants who glided between courses cast no shadows. The wine in her glass seemed to move of its own accord, forming patterns that hurt to look at directly. And slowly, she became aware that while she could hear her fellow diners speaking, their lips didn’t always match their words.

The main course arrived under silver domes that reflected not the banquet hall, but somewhere else entirely—a vast library filled with books bound in materials that weren’t leather, or perhaps weren’t entirely leather. When the domes were lifted, the aroma that arose was both magnificent and nauseating, triggering a hunger so profound it felt like worship.

Margaret realized with growing horror that she couldn’t remember arriving at the manor. Couldn’t remember the journey, or even deciding to attend. The memories felt thin, borrowed, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. She tried to stand, to leave, but found her body unresponsive, her hands moving independently to lift the fork.

“The final course requires such commitment,” Mr. Ashwood explained, his voice coming from everywhere and nowhere. “To truly appreciate sustenance, one must be willing to become sustenance.”

The other diners were changing now, their human facades melting away like wax in candlelight. What remained were hollow spaces in evening wear, gaps in reality that somehow continued to eat with mechanical precision. Margaret watched in paralyzed fascination as her own reflection in the silver serving dish began to fade, becoming translucent, then transparent.

She understood now why the manor needed new guests each season. The hunger that dwelt in these walls was ancient and patient, requiring fresh vessels to continue its elaborate pantomime of civilization. The banquet hall had to be fed, and its appetite was very particular.

As Margaret felt herself dissolving into the wallpaper patterns, becoming part of the manor’s decorative scheme, she could hear new carriages arriving outside. Fresh invitations accepted, new guests eager for an exclusive dining experience.

The table was already setting itself for the next evening’s feast.