Across The Hall

I observed Hazel in a picture. I want to cut off all the bad parts of myself and feed them to you so you know how much it hurts to love you and be loved by you. I need to feel your flesh in between my teeth. I want to feel your blood drip from my lips.

The photograph felt delicate in my hands, as if it might disintegrate under the intensity of my gaze. Hazel, unaware and unguarded, smiled softly in the image, completely oblivious to the lens that captured her. I carefully placed it on the wall, ensuring it nestled perfectly among the others. My shrine. Each photo, each moment captured, was an extension of my obsession. The way she laughed, frowned, the elegant curve of her neck—all preserved in the quiet darkness of this room, my sanctuary.

My fingers lingered on the edges of the photo, tracing the outline of her face. The hunger gnawed at me, deep and insistent, whispering promises of satisfaction if I just gave in. But I couldn't. Not with Hazel. She was different. You know when you eat something delicious and the pieces of food remain stuck between your teeth---the proof you've consumed something; proof something is sitting in your stomach, sustaining you. Is that not love? to take a bite out of something?

The conflict twisted inside me, a storm of desire and restraint. The urge to consume her, to feel her warmth inside me, was almost unbearable. But something stronger, something inexplicable, kept me from crossing that line. Hazel had to remain whole, untouched by the darkness that ruled me. She had to stay alive. I wanted her bones, her blood, her tissues, the sinews that bound her together. I would have held her to me though time had stripped away the tones and textures of her skin. I could have held her for a thousand years until the skeleton itself rubbed away to dust. What are you that makes me feel thus? Who are you for whom time has no meaning?

In the heat of her hands, I thought. This place will warm me, feed me and care for me. I will hold on to this pulse against other rhythms. The world will come and go in the tide of a day but here is her hand with my future in its palm.

I stepped back, admiring the collage of Hazel's life as if it were a masterpiece. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, letting the scent of the room fill my senses—faintly metallic, damp, with a lingering trace of fear. The fear of those who had been here before, whose purpose had been fulfilled.

With a final glance at the wall, I turned and walked out, locking the door behind me. My footsteps were silent as I moved through the hallway, the cold floor pressing against my soles. I reached another door, heavier, reinforced, its weight a promise of what lay beyond. The creak of the door echoed ominously as I unlocked it and stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb, casting erratic shadows on the walls. Against one wall, a girl was bound, her wrists raw from the rope cutting into her skin. Her mouth was taped, and her eyes were wide with terror. She was young, carefully chosen, like all the others. I knew by now which ones would taste the best. I chose her in my café, sitting down at a table, laughing with her friends and eating together. I wondered how she would like it when I ate her. She was looking at me desperately for attention, and she gave me her number. So I'm giving her attention right now.

I pulled a chair in front of her, the scrape of its legs against the floor making her flinch. I sat down slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. There was no need to rush. The hunt was over, and now, I could savor this moment.

"Do you know why you're here?" I asked, my voice calm, almost gentle. Her eyes darted around, desperately searching for an escape, but there was none. I leaned forward, studying her face, watching the tears begin to spill from her eyes.

"I like to think everyone has a purpose," I continued, a smile curling on my lips, though it didn't reach my eyes. "Some people, like Hazel, they're meant to be admired, preserved." My voice lowered to a whisper that sent a shiver down her spine. "And then there are people like you."

Her muffled cries began, filling the room with fear so tangible I could almost taste it. It washed over me, feeding my anticipation, heightening the thrill of what was to come. I would take my time with her like I always did. But first, I wanted to speak to her, to let her understand that this was inevitable, that her purpose was about to be fulfilled.

"Don't worry," I whispered, leaning closer, my breath warm against her ear. "You'll serve your purpose well."

Her muffled screams grew louder, echoing off the walls as I sat back, watching her struggle. There was no need to hurry. The night was young, and I had all the time in the world.

I watched her panic intensify, the realization of her helplessness settling in like a heavy fog. Her eyes darted wildly, her muffled screams echoing off the walls, feeding the growing excitement in my chest. There was something intoxicating about the way fear contorted her features, how the light in her eyes flickered with desperation. It was a dance I had witnessed many times before, but each time, it felt new, thrilling.

Standing up, I walked over to a small, unassuming table on the other side of the room. It was laid out meticulously, each instrument gleaming under the dim light. I ran my fingers over the cold steel of a blade, feeling its sharp edge, then picked it up, holding it with a familiarity that felt like second nature.

I returned to her, the blade resting casually in my hand as I knelt before her, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. The fear in her eyes was palpable, almost overwhelming, and I drank it in, savoring every second.

"I'm not going to lie to you," I said softly, my voice almost gentle, as if trying to soothe her. "This will hurt. A lot. But that's the point, isn't it?"

Her screams grew frantic, her body thrashing against the bonds that held her, but she wasn't going anywhere. I reached out, my hand almost tender as it brushed against her cheek, wiping away the tears that spilled over. Her skin was warm, alive, and I reveled in the contrast it offered to the cold steel in my other hand.

With deliberate slowness, I pressed the tip of the blade against her forearm, just enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood welled up, dark and rich, and I watched as her body tensed, a muffled cry of pain escaping from behind the tape. I traced the blade down her arm, not deep enough to do serious damage, but enough to draw out the pain, to let it seep into her consciousness.

The room filled with the scent of blood, metallic and sharp, mingling with the fear that hung heavy in the air. I leaned closer, inhaling deeply, letting it intoxicate me. There was nothing quite like it—the scent of fresh blood, the sound of muffled cries, the sight of life slowly draining from someone's eyes.

Her struggles weakened as I continued my work, cutting and slicing with precision, avoiding any fatal blows. That would come later. For now, it was about prolonging the agony, about savoring each moment as she realized there was no escape, no mercy to be found.

I watched as the color drained from her face, her skin growing paler with each passing minute. Her eyes began to glaze over, the light in them dimming as the pain and blood loss took their toll. I moved closer, my voice a whisper in her ear.

"It's almost over," I murmured, pressing the blade against her throat, feeling her pulse quicken under the steel. "Just a little longer."

Her body trembled, the last vestiges of fight draining out of her, and I waited, savoring the final moments before the inevitable. With one swift motion, I drew the blade across her throat, watching as the life ebbed out of her, her body finally going still.

Silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint drip of blood onto the cold floor. I stood up, wiping the blade clean with a cloth, and looked down at her lifeless body. The fear, the pain, it was all gone now, replaced by the stillness of death.

But it wasn't over, not yet. There was still more to do, more to prepare. This was just the beginning.

I gazed down at her lifeless body, the room heavy with the scent of blood and death. But the work wasn't done yet. No, this was merely the beginning of what was to come. I carefully extracted the liver, my hands steady and practiced, the organ still warm in my grip. The sight of it sent a familiar thrill through me, a mix of satisfaction and anticipation.

With the liver in hand, I made my way to the kitchen, leaving behind the scene of carnage as if it were nothing more than a distant memory. The kitchen was my sanctuary, a place of creation and precision, where chaos gave way to order. I placed the liver on the cutting board, its deep red color a stark contrast against the gleaming white surface.

I moved with the grace and focus of a seasoned chef, pulling out the ingredients I needed. A bit of olive oil, fresh herbs, garlic, and a touch of red wine. The flavors would meld together perfectly, enhancing the richness of the liver. This was no ordinary meal—this was a masterpiece in the making.

I carefully cleaned the liver, removing any remaining blood with the utmost care. Then, I heated the oil in the pan, the sizzle filling the air as I seared the liver, locking in its flavor. The aroma was intoxicating, a mix of savory herbs and the unique, rich scent of the organ itself. I added the garlic and herbs, letting them infuse the oil, creating a symphony of flavors that filled the room.

As the liver cooked, I poured a splash of red wine into the pan, deglazing it and creating a rich sauce that would elevate the dish to perfection. I watched as the wine reduced, thickening into a glossy, burgundy glaze that coated the liver, the steam rising in delicate tendrils. The scene was almost poetic—a perfect blend of art and hunger.

Finally, I plated the dish with the precision of an artist. The liver was tender, cooked to perfection, the sauce a deep, rich hue that clung to the meat like a lover's embrace. I garnished it with a sprig of rosemary, the final touch to a meal that was as beautiful as it was macabre.

I sat down at the table, the plate before me a testament to my skill, my control. As I took the first bite, the flavors burst on my tongue—rich, savory, with a hint of the wine's sweetness, balanced by the earthy herbs. The liver was tender, melting in my mouth, a perfect contrast to the crisp edges seared to perfection.

Each bite was a revelation, a reminder of the power I held, the life I had taken, now reduced to sustenance. The thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill, and now, the pleasure of the feast. It was all connected, a cycle that fed something deep within me, something that could never be sated.

I finished the meal in silence, the kitchen now filled with the scent of cooked liver and herbs, the remnants of a perfect dish. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, savoring the aftertaste that lingered on my tongue. The meal had been exquisite, a fitting end to the night's work.

As I cleaned up, washing away the evidence of my actions, I couldn't help but smile. The world saw me as just another man, living a quiet, unremarkable life. But within these walls, I was something else entirely—a predator, an artist, a connoisseur of the most forbidden delights.

And soon, I would turn my attention back to Hazel. The thought of her, alive and vibrant, was a tantalizing one. But for now, I was content. The night had been perfect, and tomorrow, the hunt would begin anew.

I had just finished cleaning the kitchen, the lingering aroma of my meal still heavy in the air, when my phone rang. The sharp sound cut through the quiet, pulling me from my thoughts. I dried my hands on a dish towel, taking a moment to savor the last taste of the meal on my lips before I reached for the phone.

The name on the screen was familiar—Hazel. A shiver of excitement coursed through me as I answered, my voice carefully controlled, hiding the thrill that surged beneath the surface.

"Hello?" I said, my tone casual, almost indifferent.

"Mateo, it's me." Hazel's voice was soft, almost hesitant. "I… I know it's late, but I needed to talk to someone. Are you busy?"

My mind raced, thoughts flashing to the room I had just left, to the still-warm body that lay in the dark. But my voice remained steady, devoid of the secrets I kept so well hidden. "I'm never too busy for you, Hazel. What's on your mind?"

There was a pause on the other end, the kind of silence that spoke of uncertainty, of thoughts too tangled to easily unravel. "It's just… everything's been so overwhelming lately. I feel like I'm losing myself. I don't know how to explain it."

I leaned against the kitchen counter, the cool surface grounding me as I listened to her. Hazel's voice was a lifeline to the normalcy I presented to the world, a stark contrast to the darkness that lived inside me. I could picture her now—troubled, vulnerable, exactly how I liked her.

"Take your time," I murmured, my tone gentle, comforting. "I'm here."

She sighed, a soft, tired sound. "It's my marriage, Mateo. I don't know what to do anymore. I thought things would get better, but… they haven't. I feel so alone."

Alone. The word echoed in my mind, stirring something dark and possessive within me. Hazel's loneliness was a weakness, an opening, and I would exploit it. But not yet. Patience was key, just as it had been with the girl in the other room. Slow, deliberate steps.

"You're not alone, Hazel," I said, letting just the right amount of warmth seep into my voice. "You have me. You can always talk to me."

"I know," she replied, her voice softening. "You've always been so kind to me, Mateo. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Kind. The word was almost laughable, considering what I had just done, what I was capable of. But to her, I was a friend, a confidant. And I would continue to be, until the time was right.

"I'm glad I can be here for you," I said, my tone sincere. "You deserve to be happy, Hazel. Don't ever forget that."

She didn't respond immediately, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her mind, weighing my words, searching for solace. "Thank you, Mateo. I really needed to hear that."

I smiled, a slow, calculated smile. "Anytime, Hazel. Call me whenever you need to talk, okay? I'm always here for you."

"I will," she said, her voice a little lighter now. "Goodnight, Mateo."

"Goodnight, Hazel," I replied, and then the line went dead.

I stood there for a moment, the phone still in my hand, the silence of the kitchen pressing in around me. The conversation had been a reminder of the careful balance I had to maintain—normality on the surface, while the darkness within me simmered just beneath.

I placed the phone on the counter and turned back to the kitchen. The scene that had unfolded here would remain my secret, just as the darkness that lived within me would. For now, I would keep up the charade, play the role I needed to play.

But the hunger, the need—it would return. It always did. And when it did, I would be ready. Hazel's voice echoed in my mind, her vulnerability like a sweet, tantalizing promise.

Yes, I would be ready.

The scent of the searing liver filled the kitchen, the sizzle and pop of fat in the pan a soothing soundtrack to my thoughts. As I flipped the meat, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction—a primal contentment that came from knowing this meal was the result of my meticulous craft.

But just as I was about to plate the dish, there was a sharp knock on the front door.

My body tensed, the sound jarring in the quiet of the evening. I wasn't expecting anyone. Visitors at this hour were... inconvenient. I turned off the burner, leaving the liver to rest, and wiped my hands on a towel as I made my way to the door.

Peering through the peephole, I saw a man standing on the porch. Mid-30s, clean-cut, a little too polished for my taste. He had the look of someone who belonged in an office rather than here, interrupting my carefully curated evening.

Reluctantly, I opened the door.

"Can I help you?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral, though irritation simmered beneath the surface.

The man smiled, but there was something off about it. It didn't reach his eyes, which were sharp and assessing.

"Good evening," he began, his voice smooth, practiced. "I'm Detective Liam Hayes. I'm with the local precinct. May I come in?"

A detective. How delightful.

I allowed a brief pause, just long enough to appear wary, before stepping aside to let him in. As he crossed the threshold, I couldn't help but study him the way I studied all potential prey—taking note of his build, his posture, the subtle way his eyes scanned the room.

"What brings you here, Detective?" I asked, leading him into the living room. I kept my voice calm, measured, as if we were simply two neighbors engaging in casual conversation.

"We're looking into the disappearance of a young woman named Emily Rivers," Hayes began, his tone professional but probing. "She was last seen about a week ago, not too far from here."

Emily. The name sent a ripple of tension through me, but I kept my expression neutral. She was nothing more than a fleeting thought now, just another face in my collection. But I knew I had to tread carefully.

"That's awful," I said, my voice calm, betraying none of the thoughts racing through my mind. "I haven't seen anyone like that around here. I mostly keep to myself."

Hayes nodded, though I could tell he wasn't entirely convinced. "I understand. But it's a small neighborhood. People talk. You might've seen something without realizing it."

"I wish I could help," I said, shaking my head slowly, "but I really haven't seen anyone."

His eyes lingered on my face a moment longer before he shifted his attention to the room around us. "Mind if I take a look around? Just routine, you understand."

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, but I kept my composure. "Not at all. Feel free."

I followed him as he moved through the house, watching every step he took. The living room, the kitchen—each room passed his scrutiny without incident. But when we reached the hallway, I felt a tightness in my chest.

He paused, his gaze fixating on the door at the end of the hall. "What's in there?"

"Just a storage room," I said, forcing a casual tone. "Nothing interesting, really."

"Mind if I take a look?" Hayes asked, his voice light, but I could sense the underlying suspicion.

"Not at all," I replied, my smile unwavering.

I led him to the door, unlocking it with a key I always kept close. I pushed it open, letting him step inside first. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched him survey the room.

The dim light barely illuminated the shelves cluttered with tools, old books, and other mundane items. I'd arranged it to look disorganized, to give the impression of a harmless, neglected space.

Hayes moved cautiously, his eyes lingering on a dusty tarp in the corner. For a moment, I thought he might pull it back, but he stepped away, seemingly satisfied.

"Just as you said," he remarked, turning to me with a nod. "Looks like you've got nothing to hide."

I forced a smile. "Glad to be of help, Detective."

We walked back to the front door, and as he turned to leave, he paused, giving me one last, probing look.

"If you do happen to remember anything—anything at all—about Emily Rivers, give me a call," he said, handing me his card. "Sometimes the smallest detail can break a case."

I took the card, my smile never faltering. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Nice place you have here," he said, his tone almost too casual. "I imagine it must get lonely, living all the way out here."

I offered him a thin smile. "I enjoy the solitude, Detective. It allows me to focus on the things I care about."

He held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded. "Of course. Goodnight, Mr. Mateo."

"Goodnight."

I closed the door behind him, the lock clicking into place. The calm, controlled exterior I had maintained during the interaction began to crack as I leaned against the door, my mind racing.

Detective Liam Hayes was no ordinary cop. He was sharp, intuitive—dangerous. And now he was sniffing around my territory.

But as unsettling as his visit was, there was also something exhilarating about it. A new player in the game, someone who could challenge me in ways that no one else had.

I walked back to the kitchen, the scent of the liver now mingling with the lingering adrenaline from the encounter. I plated the meal with steady hands, my mind already working through the implications of the detective's visit.

As I sat down to eat, a twisted smile curled at the corners of my lips. Detective Hayes didn't know it yet, but he had just entered a world he was woefully unprepared for.

This could be fun.

I took a bite, savoring the rich flavor, and the delicate texture of the perfectly cooked liver. A new game was afoot, and I was ready to play. Emily Rivers was gone, her name reduced to a case file and a missing persons report. But me? I was still here, still hungry, still in control.

But this time, I wasn't just the hunter—I had become the hunted. And that made the stakes all the more thrilling.