1931: In the kitchen.


The kitchen was a marvel of efficiency.

The cooks laughed and joked good-naturedly with one another as they moved from stove to stove and pot to pot. Some slipped in and out of a walk-in refrigerator, removing selections of meat while others prepared vegetables.

None of them noticed me standing in the corner, just to the left of the door.

They were busy preparing a meal which, I must admit, smelled delicious.

At first, I feared they might be cooking some of the slain women, but there was no hint of human in the meal. I’ve seen enough men roasted to know what the smell of a cooking man is.

Still, there was something quite wrong with the meat.

Something unnatural.

I learned the source of it a moment later when a door at the far end of the room opened, and a disgruntled surgeon entered. In his hands, he held a bloody object wrapped in a sheet.

“Another?” a tall cook asked.

The surgeon nodded and replied in a voice filled with frustration. “We were only a week or two away from this one being viable. So close!”

“Show me,” the tall cook ordered, stepping close to the surgeon.

The surgeon threw back the sheet, revealing a twisted body reminiscent of a devil fish crossed with a small ape.

“Not nearly as ugly as the last few,” the tall cook observed.

“No,” the surgeon agreed. “In fact, this one actually took several breaths before blood seeped from its ears and mouth.”

“How bad for the breeder?” the tall cook inquired.

“This one decided the rectum was the place to exit,” the surgeon chuckled. “Wasn’t pretty, but it sure wasn’t the worse I’ve seen.”

“George,” the tall cook called and motioned toward the small body. A cook wandered over, wiped his hands off on his apron and took the corpse.

“I think we could probably sauté the tentacles,” George mused. “Maybe even pull some of the ribs.”

“Excellent,” the tall cook smiled, and he dismissed George as several blenders were turned on. The combined noise was loud, obnoxious, and perfect.

I drew my Colts, and the tall cook noticed me. His eyes widened, and he died as the first slug tore through his open mouth.

It wasn’t a fight in the kitchen.

It was a massacre.

#paranormal #mystery

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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