Grimm walked up the stairs and turned the door knob. He strolled into the house like he lived there and spun around to face us. “We don’t need to break in; they never lock their door.” He smirked and disappeared out of sight.
If life were a movie, this was the part that would be paused as a wise narrator explained just how fucked I was about to find myself. This is the part where they would say I should have turned and ran as if hellhounds were on my heels.
It was the part where I would understand why they called my lover the devil. It was his kind way of giving me the pamphlet version of an introduction to the world he talked about that normal people couldn’t survive in.
Going into this house was the beginning of my end, the catalyst for everything that was yet to come.
Romero kept his hand clasped around mine as we walked forward with Arlen and Cobra. The tip of my boot was barely over the threshold when a woman screamed and a man landed at an awkward angle on the hardwood floor a few feet ahead of us.
“That’s one!” Grimm called down from the upper level.
Blood began to pool around the man’s head. He wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of drawers. His lifeless, wide-eyed stare was locked on us.
Cobra walked around him, goat head in hand, and entered the kitchen. Doors slammed from upstairs and footsteps thundered across the floor, making the ceiling fixtures rattle.
Romero looked towards the staircase and let me go, giving me a little nudge forward. “You two, go set the table.”
“What the hell do we need to do that for?” Arlen asked from beside me when we could no longer see him.
“Romero’s methods only make sense to himself.”
“And him.” She gestured to the kitchen where Cobra was dumping cooking oil into a saucepan.
I walked forward, chalking my jitteriness up to bad nerves and Romero’s precarious mood. The kitchen and dining room were side by side. Spotting a china cabinet in the back corner, I steered Arlen with my shoulder and made a beeline for it.
“This place is filthy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Arlen muttered.
Clutter and dirty laundry were everywhere. There was a thick residual stench of cooked flesh in the air.
Searching the dining room for a light switch, I swept my gaze past the kitchen and saw it was even worse.
Dishes were piled a mile high in the sink, chunks of black grime were smeared on faded yellow tile, and a plastic pitcher with questionable content was tipped over on the counter.
Finding a light switch, I flicked it up with the tip of my finger, having zero desire to touch anything around me.
“Table’s already set,” Arlen pointed out.
“Good, we can get started then,” Romero responded, walking into the room half-dragging a woman by the back of the neck. I instantly recognized her from the day we escaped.
“It was Bill. You know I know the rules! I would never be so stupid, Romero.” She clutched at his arm but he simply shook her off.
“Martha, we had a deal and you violated our terms. You had no business being in my woods in the first place. Did I not provide your family with enough to eat?”
I crossed my arms, watching their interaction with furrowed brows.
These people were cannibals. The only way he was giving them food was by giving them other people. Why the fuck would he do that?
He sat her down in a chair and reached in his back pocket, retrieving the Browning knife he always carried. “Place your hands on the table, Martha.”
She looked up at him with tears rolling down her face and shook her head. Chewing my bottom lip, I glanced back into the kitchen to check on Cobra. He was rifling through the drawers, placing things I assumed he intended on taking with him in a pile.
“I need your help, Cali.”
Bringing my focus back to Romero, I uncrossed my arms and made my way around the table, stopping beside the woman.
“Place her left hand on the table.”
