Why does the meat scale weigh cuts that aren't there? What's behind the freezer door marked 'Private Stock' that's been locked for years? Which customers pay for orders they never placed? And why do the cleaver marks on the butcher block spell out words in a language no one recognizes?
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either you get eaten by a wolf today or else the shepherd saves you from the wolf so he can sell you to the butcher tomorrow
― Ogden Nash, I’m a Stranger Here Myself
The brass bell above the door chimed as Sarah stepped into Thorne’s Butchery, its familiar weight somehow heavier today. The shop had been in her family for three generations, but something felt different since she’d inherited it from her uncle last month. The afternoon light filtered through grimy windows, casting long shadows across the tiled floor.
She approached the massive wooden cutting block that dominated the center of the shop, running her fingers along its scarred surface. Uncle Marcus had always been meticulous about cleaning, yet a dark stain marred the wood’s center---a stain that seemed to shift and writhe when she wasn’t looking directly at it. She’d scrubbed it with bleach, salt, even tried sanding, but it remained, growing larger each day.
The meat hooks suspended from the ceiling rail swayed gently, their chains creaking in an almost musical rhythm. Sarah had checked for drafts, examined the ventilation, but found no explanation for their constant movement. Sometimes, late at night while doing inventory, she could swear she heard them whispering---soft, urgent voices speaking in a language that made her teeth ache.
Behind the counter, the walk-in freezer hummed with mechanical persistence. Uncle Marcus had given her every key to the shop except one---a peculiar brass key he’d clutched in his dying hands, muttering about “keeping them cold, keeping them quiet.” She’d searched everywhere for the lock it belonged to, until she noticed the small, almost invisible keyhole beside the freezer’s main door.
Sarah had never used that key. Something in her uncle’s final, terrified expression warned her away. But business was slow, and she needed every inch of storage space. The regular customers had been dwindling since the reopening, complaining that the meat tasted “wrong” and that they heard strange sounds emanating from behind the counter.
Tonight, as she locked the front door and dimmed the lights, Sarah finally approached the freezer with the brass key trembling in her palm. The whispers from the meat hooks grew louder, almost excited. The dark stain on the cutting block began to pulse like a heartbeat. And from beyond the mysterious door came a sound that wasn’t quite human---a soft, patient scratching, as if something had been waiting far too long to be released.
As the key turned in the lock, Sarah realized with mounting horror that Uncle Marcus hadn’t been keeping anything in---he’d been keeping something out.
