Historical
The late night butcher shop , night cuts fresh meat.
It was a small shop on the bad side of town. No windows. One flickering light. The door was always unlocked, even at 2 a.m. Most people walked past without looking. But if you were hungry enough, or broke enough, you went inside. Leo was both. He hadn't eaten in two days. His last twenty dollars sat crumpled in his pocket. The grocery stores were closed. The shelters were full. But the butcher shop was open. The bell above the door made a sad little sound. Inside, the air was cold and wet. It smelled like blood and something sweet underneath. Like old flowers. Like a funeral home. A man stood behind the counter. He was tall and thin, with pale skin and small eyes that never blinked. His apron was white but stained pink. He smiled when Leo walked in. His teeth were too white. Too straight. Like a row of little knives. "Late night," the butcher said. His voice was soft and kind, like a grandfather's. "You must be hungry." Leo nodded. He looked at the glass case. Inside were steaks, ribs, and round roasts wrapped in brown paper. The labels said "BEEF" and "LAMB" in neat handwriting. But the meat was a strange color. Not red like normal meat. Dark purple, almost black. And the fat was yellow, like old butter. "How much for the small one?" Leo asked, pointing to a package the size of his fist. The butcher leaned closer. His breath smelled like pennies. "For you? Five dollars. But I have something better. Something special. Just came in tonight." He disappeared through a plastic curtain and came back with a white box. No label. No price. He opened the lid. Inside was a piece of meat Leo couldn't name. It was long and thin, like a finger but thicker. The skin was pale and smooth. No hair. No fat. Just clean, pink flesh. It looked almost like... but no. That was crazy. "What is it?" Leo asked. The butcher's smile grew wider. "Try it and find out. One dollar." Leo wanted to leave. Every part of his body said walk away. But his stomach was empty. His hands were shaking. He handed over his last dollar. Back in his apartment, Leo cooked the meat in a dirty pan. It sizzled like normal meat. It smelled like nothing he recognized. But when he took the first bite, he stopped chewing. The taste was wrong. Too sweet. Too rich. And there was something else. A flavor he couldn't name. Like salt. Like iron. Like the air after a bad storm. He finished it anyway. He was too hungry not to. That night, he had strange dreams. He dreamed of a basement with white walls and a drain in the floor. He dreamed of a man tied to a table. The man was crying. A shadow stood over him with a sharp knife. The shadow was tall and thin. It wore a white apron. Leo woke up screaming. His mouth was full of blood. Not from a cut. From his teeth. They were loose. All of them. And when he looked in the mirror, his smile was wrong. His teeth were smaller. Straighter. Like little knives. He ran back to the butcher shop. The sun was up now, but the door was locked. The sign was gone. Inside, the glass case was empty. The shelves were bare. But the back room door was open. Leo pushed through the plastic curtain. The smell hit him first. Sweet and rotten. Like flowers left in water too long. The room was empty except for a metal table. On the table was a white box. His name was written on top in neat handwriting. He opened it with shaking hands. Inside was a folded piece of paper. One sentence, written in the same neat hand: "Thank you for your purchase. You'll last about three weeks. Don't worry—I'll come back for the rest." Leo heard a soft sound behind him. Footsteps. Slow and heavy. And a voice, soft and kind, like a grandfather's. "You left the door unlocked," the butcher said. "That's dangerous at night." Leo turned around. The butcher was holding a very sharp knife. His smile was wide. His teeth were small and straight. And his apron was clean. For now.
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