I woke in the dim light of a hollowed cave, the air heavy with the stench of decay. My wrists were bound tightly with sinewy cords, rough and alive with a lingering warmth. The last memory I had was of my car breaking down on the lonely stretch of wilderness, where the trees seemed to lean inward as if conspiring against me. Now, I was here—wherever here was—and my captor was singing.
The sound echoed through the cavern, a tuneless melody laced with gurgling coughs. I turned my head to see him: a gaunt figure hunched over a slab of rock, his ribs pronounced beneath his scarred skin. His face was hollow, his lips cracked and peeling. He muttered something to himself, perhaps to the slab before him, which was dotted with rust-colored stains.
"You awake," he said, his voice trembling with an unsettling kind of glee. His eyes, though glassy, burned with a terrifying lucidity. "You look… strong. Stronger than the others."
I didn’t reply. My mind was racing, cataloging the features of the cave: the narrow entrance, the heap of bones in the corner, and the metallic glint of a blade near his feet.
"I’ve been waiting," he continued, as if I had spoken. "Waiting for someone like you. Someone worthy."
"Worthy of what?" I croaked, my throat dry.
He smiled, revealing teeth chipped and brown. "Worthy of being part of me."
My stomach churned. This wasn’t a simple madman. He was a cannibal.
"I’ve consumed many," he said, almost tenderly. "The weak taste bitter. Their fear lingers in the flesh, sour like rot. But the strong? Oh, the strong are sweet. Their spirit is tenderized by the struggle to live. The fight makes them beautiful."
I glanced at the blade again. I had to keep him talking.
"You’re sick," I said, testing the cords at my wrists.
He chuckled. "Sick? Oh, yes. Yes, I am. But this sickness is a gift. It strips away the unnecessary. Makes me… pure. And soon, you’ll be pure, too."
He tilted his head, as if savoring an invisible aroma. His movements were jerky, like a marionette whose strings were fraying.
"Do you know what happens when you eat the brain?" he asked, his tone suddenly philosophical.
I froze.
"You take them in. Their essence, their memories, their fears. It all becomes part of you. I’ve lived a thousand lives. Felt a thousand pains. Seen the world through a thousand pairs of eyes. It’s… intoxicating."
"You’re insane."
"Insane? No. Enlightened." He crouched closer, his bony hands twitching. "But there’s a cost. The sickness. The shaking. The… laughing. But it’s worth it. To know so much. To become so much."
His body trembled, and for a moment, I thought he might collapse. But then he steadied himself, his grin widening.
"I can see it in you," he whispered. "Your resilience. Your pain. It will make the feast exquisite."
He reached for the blade.
Panic surged through me, and I thrashed against the bindings. They dug into my skin, but I felt them loosen ever so slightly.
"You think you’re special," I said, desperation sharpening my voice. "But you’re just a puppet for the disease. It’s controlling you, not the other way around."
His hand paused mid-reach, and for the first time, his smile faltered.
"It whispers to you, doesn’t it?" I pressed. "It makes you believe the memories are yours, that the lives you’ve stolen belong to you. But it’s a lie. You’re nothing but a hollow shell."
His breathing grew ragged. The blade trembled in his hand.
"You don’t understand," he hissed. "I am more than I was. I am… everything."
"You’re nothing," I shot back. "Just another sick animal, feeding on filth."
He screamed—a guttural, inhuman sound—and lunged at me with the blade. But in his fury, his movements were sloppy. I twisted my wrists free and grabbed his arm, the blade clattering to the ground.
We struggled, his bony frame deceptively strong. But his sickness betrayed him—his spasms left him vulnerable, and I managed to throw him to the ground.
I grabbed the blade and held it to his throat, my hands shaking. He laughed—a wet, choking sound that made my skin crawl.
"Go ahead," he said, blood flecking his lips. "Kill me. But you’ll never be free of me. I’ll be in your head. You’ll wonder, every time you eat, every time you sleep, if a part of me is still there. Because that’s the truth of the feast. It’s not the sickness. It’s the… knowing."
For a moment, I hesitated. His eyes bore into mine, wild and unrelenting.
Then I pressed the blade into his throat.
The laughter stopped.
I stumbled out of the cave, the weight of his words clinging to me like a second skin. The world outside was silent, the trees unmoving. But as I walked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence lingered—somewhere deep inside, whispering, waiting.
And when I laughed—just a little, just to myself—the sound wasn’t entirely my own.
