Page 8 of Buried Souls
No dust.
No flies.
The room, unlike the rest of the house, is untouched by time.
Copper pots still hang in perfect rows above the grand hearth, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen. The fire cracks low in the grate, though no one has tended it. A great black iron oven stands at the far wall, its doors ajar.
Inside, a pie still bakes.
Stillbaking.
I can smell the cinnamon. The dark, rich fruit, the buttery crust. Just beginning to crisp. And yet, the windows are dark with grime. The corners of the ceiling are webbed with long, thick strands of cobwebs.
Everything should be dead here.
I approach the table, drawn by fascination and dread. My fingers hover over a wine goblet. The liquid inside ripples gently, as if disturbed from within, but I don’t touch it. Ishouldn’ttouch it, and yet something urges me to act brash. To foolishly believe in whatever illusion of safety has been cleverly laid out before me.
The kitchen is still. Too still.
Too expectant.
A feast has been laid. But for who? What guests, when there is no one here but me?
I shake my head, still doubting my own sense of wrongness that is soon overshadowed by renewed awe and my ever growing hunger when I spot a nearby tray of meat overflowing with carrots and lamb chops. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles,agreeing with the foolish idea that’s already taken root in my mind.
“So much food, I suppose the owner won’t mind if I have some.”
A plate of carbonara draws my attention. I go to it, suspiciously inhaling the mixture of parmesan and prosciutto coating the home made pasta. I grimace as I imagine the heart burn that would sure torture me until the early morning should I even attempt to consume such a hearty meal.
A second tray filled to the brim with glazed ribs and sweet peas stands not too far away, its meaty aroma dissolving into the air. I lean in, sniffing the food, then frown at the endless streams of honey I see dripping from a piece of meat.
A third bowl of beef broth with vegetables and potatoes draws my eye, the portion appearing fitting for my stature and healthy appetite. Excited, I go to grab a chair, and suddenly I’m feeling like Goldilocks from the classic children’s tale.
Snorting at the comparison, I try pushing the piece of furniture, but to no avail.
“Why the hell is this thing so heavy?”
I go to push it again, but it’s no use, as if the entire thing is made from a ton of bricks. Immediately, my overactive mind is conjuring up images of some giant plopping down on it as he devours stray travelers that wander uninvited into his ostentatious abode.
A smaller wooden chair leaning against the wall catches my eye, and I hurry over to it, inspecting the impeccable handiwork and finally having decided that it will do, I pull it over to the table.
A loaded stretch of silence passes while I stare down at my plate. The warmth of the kitchen settles around me like a velvetnoose, and the food—the food beckons me. Not just with the delicious scent, but with something deeper. An invitation.
My stomach twists. Not with fear, but hunger.
I haven’t eaten since morning, maybe longer. It’s hard to tell now, in this place where time has no weight.
The silence stretches on, and it feels as if the stone walls and the dark wood, no, the house itself, is listening. Holding its breath.
Waiting for me to take a bite.
“For Christ’s sake,” I grumble out loud, snatching up the spoon. “This is ridiculous.”
I begin to eat, practically inhaling the warm stew in a matter of seconds, and before I know it, the bottom of the bowl is staring back up at me.
I lean back, patting my stomach that’s filled to the point of bursting, and just before true satisfaction can overcome me, something wet and slimy slides out of my mouth. Shards of ice lock me in place as I feel said something slither up my cheek, right before an elongated fat form appears in my field of vision and inches closer to the corner of my eye, as if trying to crawl into the very socket.
I scream, spitting and hysterically smacking myself across the face as I try to rid myself of whatever the hell it is—and fail to realize that I’ve leaned too far back.
