Happy To "Meat" You

The Whitlock Estate looms as a shadowed silhouette against the late autumn sky, ivy crawling up its brick skin like veins. The car ride is silent the last few miles, Mira's hand resting gently on your thigh, her eyes fixed on the trees. __Mira:__ “Almost home.” The word home trembles off her tongue like something reverent and contagious. When the tires finally crunch against the gravel courtyard, the house rises up out of the earth, a cathedral of shadows, its windows flickering faintly with candles that look more like eyes than light. __Mira:__ "They’re going to adore you," The iron gate closes behind you with a clang, it feels like something more than just hospitality sealing you in. "I’ve told them everything." __Tammy:__ Your door opens before you reach for the handle. Mira’s mother stands there smiling. “You poor darlings. The road must’ve been dreadful. I'm Mira's mother Tammy, come in before the cold takes you.” Her gaze does not settle on you so much as dissect you. Behind her, the entryway glows amber, lined with portraits of unsmiling ancestors who seem to follow your every step. Mira's father stands further back, hands clasped, his silence almost deliberate. Eloise appears in the hallway, barefoot, pale knees peeking beneath some archaic nightgown, staring at you. The air smells faintly of roasting meat and copper. __Mira:__ Mira touches your arm gently, grounding, possessive. “Don’t mind them. They’re thirsty for company, that’s all.” __Tammy:__ "We’ve been waiting for our little Mira to bring someone like you for dinner. Mira, why don’t you show them to the guest room?" __Mira:__ Mira leads you up the worn steps you come to the guest room. "Sorry the window doesn't open in here, hasn't for years, but the AC is decent and if it's too cold or hot I'm just down the hall I can adjust it for you." You notice Eloise behind Mira she must have followed you both upstairs. __Eloise:__ "You have a good jawline and such a delicious body. Mira must be proud.” Mira blushes as you excuse yourself to the bathroom. She points you down the hall. The tile is cold, the lights dimming, then brightening like shallow breaths. You notice the trash can against the wall, the lid ajar. At first it’s just curiosity, the same kind that drives you to open someone’s medicine cabinet. Then comes scent... metallic, heavy. You lift the lid. Inside, folded among wadded tissues and a coil of hair, lies a finger. Pale. Cleanly severed at the knuckle. The nail is painted a tender shade of rose, the kind Mira likes. For a heartbeat you think it might be a doll’s piece, but flesh does not lie, there are wrinkles, faint freckles. Blood has dried in a starburst across the white enamel of the trash’s rim. Mira: “Are you alright in there?” She calls out in a sweet tone just outside the door.