Written by: EvelynHail

This story is rated MATURE. It may contain elements of horror that some find disturbing. 

We REALLY MEAN IT.

Trigger Warning: Cannibalism.

SUMMITVILLE, COFFEE COUNTY, TENNESSEE, USA

August 13, 6:30 PM

The alien ship hangs above our heads, akin to a colossal, dark spectre.

Its metallic bulk suffocates the last rays of sunset like a cosmic umbrella. It's as if the sky itself had birthed a behemoth from another realm.

The deserted suburban neighborhood stretches before us, a haunting reminder of the world we once knew.

"Almost everyone evacuated," whispers Aadila, placing a protective palm on her tiny baby bump.

She's right. Rows of empty homes stand as silent witness to the exodus. We'll be leaving as well, right after we pick up Aadila's phone.

Soon enough, these boarded-up windows and overgrown gardens might create a post-apocalyptic scene straight out of The Walking Dead.

"Mick... The man on the phone—you sure he said Clark Road, fourteen?"

"I'm sure." I take out my cell phone from my pocket, placing my other arm reassuringly around her shoulder.

The address pointed us to a house like any other in this town—a dim and dusty wooden relic with its windows shuttered and curtains drawn, and a rusty circular handle looming at the door. This place stands as a mirage of the quintessential American dream home. Complete with a manicured garden and white picket fence, it whispers promises of suburban bliss. I half-expect a playful puppy to bound through the yard, adding a touch of warmth and companionship to the illusion.

Not so different from the place Aadila and I were looking to buy, for when baby Josh comes into this world.

With no bell to ring, the house stands in quiet anticipation, as if hugging its secrets close.

Knock, knock. The sound reverberates through the empty halls, unanswered.

The silence is deafening, and I can't help but wonder what story lies behind the door wide-shut.

"Should we head on inside?"

Before she can answer, I already have one sneaker on a lacquered, inviting threshold. It creaks underfoot, protesting my intrusion. The wood is splintered and rough to the touch, its grain raised and curling in places. The recently applied white coat of paint is fresh, camouflaging the remnants of the peeling and faded wood.

The door opens slowly. Its hinges squeak like the whispers of a secret, and the warm light that spills forth beckons me inside like a siren's song.

From the outside, the well-kept yard and fresh paint suggested a degree of upkeep to the house, but once we step inside, the illusion fades, revealing a different story altogether.

The air in the hallway is thick with the musty smell of decay, as though the place has been abandoned for quite some time. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the ceiling, while layers of dust cover every surface.

As I make my way through the fading light, I can't help but feel like I'm trespassing on some forgotten secret.

Aadila's bark-like cough startles me from my thoughts.

"If you want to stay outside, I'll go get your iPhone," I suggest.

"Er, I wish none of us had to go inside and get it." She hugs herself.

"Baby Josh's ultrasound photos are on it," I gently remind her.

"And all my family contact phone numbers," she huffs. "Without it, we... we might not have a chance to reach them in all of this chaos. But no way I'm staying outside this place alone." Aadila gulps and accentuates the last word, clearing her throat.

A door slams shut in the distance. The sound reverberates, a sudden punctuation to our whispery silence.

Aadila claps my hand, and I relish in her hold. This place is certainly macabre.

"Hello?" I dare a whisper-shout, my words echoing through the empty hallway.

A moment passes.

"Enter," a deep and creepy voice whispers from the poorly lit bowels of the house.

My hairs stand on the back of my neck. What lurks beyond is unknown, and the thought of stepping into the semi-darkness makes my heart race with fear.

But as the seconds tick by, curiosity and a sense of morbid fascination overtake me.

Plus, we're here to retrieve Aadila's phone, then leave.

Taking a deep breath, we step forth together. The door clicks shut behind us.

The air is thick with silence and the unknown.

Aadila and I tread carefully, stepping over crumbled ornaments, cracked lamps, and piled bits of crushed furniture, covered by fabrics, rugs, and carpets.

"I don't understand how anyone can live like this, Mick," Aadila whispers close to my ear.

I barely have the time to shush her when a haunting creak echoes around, the sound of rolling wheels announcing a presence before a man comes into view.

A wave of compassion washes over me as I behold the wheelchair and the stranger's countenance conveying a profound sense of helplessness.

Up close, he has wrinkles and his square jaw is covered by a scraggly beard that surely hasn't seen a razor in many weeks. He looks like he hasn't eaten in days, with sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones. His muscled arms are tanned and weather-beaten, as though he's spent a lifetime outdoors, and it doesn't quite add up to the picture in my mind.

"You Aadila?" The cripple shifts in his rickety seat, and a peculiar hungry expression flashes on his face, like a wolf on the prowl. He bares his teeth, crooked and yellowed from what might be years of toothbrush-toothpaste neglect.

"Yes, um, and this is my boyfriend, Mick? You called him earlier today to tell him you found my phone," Aadila says, introducing me. "Nice to meet you," she adds with a deeply ingrained civil whisper, even as I know her words couldn't be further from the truth.

After a moment of silence, because there is no point in politely chatting about the weather, I point at a short, dusty bookshelf topped by an ornate mantelpiece and ask, "Is that Aadila's phone?"

The man nods wordlessly, sizing us up.

Wanting to get the hell out of here, we hurry through the piles of books scattered on the floor until we reach the wooden shelves. They must never use the fireplace barely visible behind it.

The mantelpiece is cluttered with a collection of photographs and the absence of the old man's image awakens my curiosity. Next to Aadila's phone, there are two new unlit candles, their light blue wax clumsily molded into crude numerical shapes of one and eight.

As the taller of the two of us, I reach for the phone, touching a layer of dust and maybe some dead bugs, before finally, it's between my fingers.

The screen appears damaged—probably from hitting the ground when it fell unnoticed from her jacket pocket during her bike ride—but it still opens to an app with personal emergency data.

Just as I hand it to her, a slam echoes through the adjacent room like a gunshot, rattling the nearby window.

For a moment, I stand frozen, stunned. What could possibly have caused such a clamor?

My fiancee's eyes are directed toward what I imagine is the kitchen door. Her face shows an expression I had only seen when she learned that her grandmother had died.

I've no idea what she saw, but there's no point in causing her and the baby further discomfort.

"Love, look, the phone's working fine... How much do we owe you, sir?" I ask, trying to leave this mournful home as fast as possible.

"Nothing," the man growls.

Aadila's face morphs into a weakly grateful smile, but she can't hold it for long. An uncontrollable sneeze escapes her, and she merely manages a courteous nod.

"Well then. We won't bother you anymore. Thank you for letting us know you found it," I add hastily.

At my words, the screen of an ancient tube-style TV set flickers and jumps, the picture warping and distorting like a black and white desert Fata Morgana. The unintelligible sound is tinny and muffled, as if coming from somewhere deep within the bowels of the machine.

Aadila's phone screen flashes to life.

A glowing blue number eighteen appears on both devices. Seconds pass, and eventually, the ominous countdown is replaced with a WKRN Nashville channel news reporter.

The journalist's face is a flurry of agitation and eagerness. His puffy cheeks and straw-blond hair give him the air of an anxious canary trapped behind cage bars. His black-beetle irises dart back and forth, and his mouth moves rapidly, spewing a stream of rapid-fire commentary.

"Our 24-hour news coverage of the craft continues. Some reporters have dared to venture into the Midnight Zone itself. The government has established a task force to coordinate a response to the alien object..."

"Ugh," Aadila huffs incredulously, her eyes rolling in exasperation.

The on-screen canary resumes his shrieky chirping. "Conspiracy theories abound, with some claiming the government is hiding the truth about the aliens. Protests have broken out as people demand answers. Some fear the spaceship will just drop from the sky. So there you have it, folks. This is Jack Thompson, reporting live from the Twilight Zone, Nashville, Tennessee."

"Of course we demand answers," I add. "What's the government gonna do about the craft? If anything? No one's telling us anything."

"Yeah," Aadila adds, squeezing my hand. "I think they know more than they're telling us. Can't wait to get to that protest meeting in Nashville tomorrow." She plants a sound kiss on my cheek.

"Urcula, dear, are those guests I'm hearing?" A sudden raspy, low female voice echoes from the kitchen.

"They are indeed, Esmerelda darling," Urcula replies, and before we can utter a polite we were just leaving, the kitchen door swings open.

A bizarre woman half stands, half crouches before us, her icy-blue gaze gleaming with a feral calm. Her greasy black hair is wild and unkempt, and her crusty and rugged overalls tattered and marked with blotchy red stains. Clutching a bloodied cleaver in her left hand, she stares at Aadila and me with greed and malice, akin to a child who's just found the last piece of candy.

The rotten meat smell emanating from the kitchen hits me like a punch to the gut, sharp and acrid. It writhes in the air like a living thing, filling my senses with putrid decay. It clings to everything, permeating the very fabric of the room. I can almost feel it sticking to my clothes, clinging like a second skin.

It's a smell that won't let go, leaving me feeling violated and dirty.

"Aadila! Run!" I scream, but it's too late. She sways on the spot, her body twisting and turning like on a carnival ride. With a sickening lurch, I realize she is going down, and she hits the ground with a dull thud.

I scoop her up in my arms, my face contorted, my cheeks puffing out as I struggle not to breathe, to keep my stomach contents down.

Sweat beads bloom on my forehead, every muscle in my body tense. It's a losing battle, I know it. Still, I miraculously regain control and rush towards the exit door. The waves of nausea subside like a receding tide the further I am from the kitchen.

"Stop them, you idiot!" Esmerelda screeches somewhere behind me.

A swiish pierces in the air and a pain I've never known before shoots through my shoulder like a lightning bolt. My muscles tense and knot, my breath escaping in ragged gasps.

My steps slowing, I catch my reflection in the dusty hallway mirror. Holy shit! That maniac threw a cleaver at me!

The fricking thing is embedded in my shoulder blade. Blood flows down my back in a gruesome crimson waterfall stream.

With each heartbeat, the pain intensifies. "Eustace! Get him!" Esmeralda sounds positively livid.

I don't dare turn to see who the heck "Eustace" is. I advance firmly forward, clutching Aadila's unmoving, limp body in my arms, my eyes fixed on the door.

Only... two... more... steps.

If I could just get to that rusty knob, I could escape outside... Then surely, someone would come? Someone would hear me yell and save us from this nightmare.

I stretch and grasp the cool iron handle.

The door creaks open and I take a deep breath, inhaling the crisp evening air—a welcome respite from that putrid stench behind me. The scent of freshly cut grass and garden flowers wraps around Aadila and me like a cozy, calming embrace. It's a peaceful, almost otherworldly experience, one that reminds me how beautiful nature can truly be.

How beautiful life can be.

Alas, before I can open the door all the way and flee with my precious cargo, something sharp sinks into my calf like a hot knife through the butter.

I gasp, my breath coming in short ragged bursts, as I drop to the floor next to Aadila's unconscious body.

I stare at a pencil jabbed deeply into my leg, as my blood pools on the ground beneath me.

A dark stain spreads outward like a macabre painting.

With each passing moment, the pain and shock intensify, overwhelming me like a tidal wave.

I lean my forehead against the cool hallway wall and press the touch screen of Aadila's cell phone, with my trembling fingers fully intending to call 911.

My droopy eyelids flicker anxiously over the device, desperate for a signal, any sign of life. But the screen remains stubbornly blank, the bars of her network coverage non-existent.

I can't get it to work.

Panic rises in my throat—the realization of our fate hitting me like a sledgehammer.

We are alone.

The lights flicker in the hallway and as my heartbeat deafens my ears, I glimpse a silhouette of a boy of no more than ten years old.

He's crawling towards me on all fours, blond hair matted with gore, his baby teeth bared in a feral grin. With the stealth of a hunter, he stalks me, his moves eerily animalistic. He grinds the pencil into my leg and snaps it off. Blood spurts onto the kid's freckled face, and he smears it around his cheeks in glee.

The last thing I see before I lose my consciousness is hunger in his eyes.

***

"Eustace," Esmeralda coos, as if from a great distance from me. "Do wash your hands before dinner, will you, darling?"

"Yes, momma," a sweet childlike voice replies and tiny footsteps resonate eerily on steps that seem to lead to a floor above me.

My eyes snap open in a burst of sudden awareness, my heart pounding as I'm unable to move my wrists.

I'm tied to a chair!

Panic floods my system, my mind racing as I try to piece together what's happening.

My hands move instinctively to try and free myself, but the binds are too tight, cutting into my skin like razor wire.

The scene unfolding before me is a nightmare: a waking horror I can't escape.

The living room window is wide open, the curtains drawn back, and the man kneels on an azure mat, the wheelchair forgotten in the corner.

He looks up with a sneer. "Took you long enough, didn't it?" Urcula grins like a child who'd just pulled off the greatest trick. "It belonged to the previous owner. Not a bad chap. His legs were a bit stringy though, tough to chew if you catch my drift."

Then he turns his face away from me and bows reverently to the light-blue number eighteen hovering in the night.

The alien craft floats silently, encompassing the sky in every direction. It seems almost surreal, a figment of my imagination rather than a real object.

If I just close my eyes, I can pretend it isn't even there. That none of this is happening.

And yet, there it is, hovering ominously above us like a dark cloud.

The air around us seems to hum with energy, a palpable static charge.

I can't help but feel a sense of unease, as if the craft is watching us, waiting for something.

Its otherworldly calmness is more unnerving than any overt aggression would be.

It's as if it knows something that we don't, and is content to simply purr in the sky like a giant black cat, biding its time.

A dark alien God demanding sacrifice from his loyal earthly vassals.

Esmeralda passes me as she joins Urcula on the mat.

Her gaze caresses my exposed flesh, and I sense the hunger, the need to consume, radiating off her like a palpable force.

"He's B-positive, isn't he? We'll just have him for supper tomorrow," she says in a light, conversational tone of a pleased hostess.

"He is, indeed. What a good nose you have, my love!" exclaims Urcula with loving admiration.

The delicious aroma of roasted meat fills the air, tantalizing my senses with its savory scent. It makes my mouth water, and my stomach growls in anticipation.

"You sure she's O-negative?" Esmerelda wrinkles her nose, pointing at the kitchen.

"I'm sure. Saw it on her cell phone blood donor app. Don't worry so much, my love," Urcula reassures her in a sugar-coated tone of voice, placing an affectionate smooch on the cheek, not unlike the one Aadila gave me mere minutes ago.

"I hope you're not wrong and that it's not going to be like last time. I can't believe you let me serve that O-positive bitch to our son. You know how delicate Eustace is. He can't eat that. It gives him tummy aches!"

A slew of trepidation roils in my gut. I stare on through the ajar kitchen door Esmeralda had pointed to, trying to get a glimpse of Aadila.

What I see both startles and comforts me. Her body slumps in the chair, her limbs bound tightly by ropes.

Deep gashes mar her fragile flesh, but she's alive!

She's okay. The baby's okay.

They're okay.

I repeat the mantra until a wave of relief and absolute calm washes over me.

It's that image of the future me—Aadila hugging in front of that quintessential American dream house, kid Josh running after the golden retriever puppy—that spurs me on.

I move my thumb and forefinger ever so slightly and find the blade of the Swiss knife in my pocket.

If I can reach it and cut my binds before they notice what I am doing... I eye the broken lamp close by. After I free myself, incapacitating Urcula from behind should be a piece of cake.

Then, I will run to Aadila, free her, and our dream of suburban bliss will come true.

My hands tremble, but I manipulate the blade into position. With each meticulous incision, the bindings yield, thread by thread.

It's a battle of patience, as the invisible chains holding me captive fall away, one slice at a time.

The tiny footsteps resonate on the steps once more, and a sensation of dread accompanied by the trembling pain in my leg announces Eustace's return.

I freeze, stopping my fingers. I can't risk him discovering me.

The monster child moans at his mother. "Mommy, I'm hungry!"

Esmeralda kisses the top of his head with tenderness.

"That's alright, sweetie. Dinner is ready."

She swooshes past, ignoring me, and strolls into the kitchen.

The door whooshes wide open and my eyes meet Aadila's. A silent understanding passes between us. I nod gently towards the Swiss knife, hoping the sight of me will assure her that everything will be alright.

Her gaze holds a kaleidoscope of emotions—love, hope, and the vibrant essence of life itself.

Life worth fighting for.

Esmeralda raises the cleaver high above her head and lowers it unceremoniously with a dull thud, like a butcher slaughtering a lamb.

My heart lodges in my throat.

Aadila's head snags for a second, still attached to her body by a strip of skin. Her warm brown eyes stare blankly at the overturned dustbin, as if she's curiously inspecting its contents.

She's gone. Josh's gone.

I am unable to move, unable to even breathe. Rage and sadness surge through me in equal measure, and I wail—a single desperate, impotent howl filled with horror and incredulity that one human could do this to another.

The future Aadila and I were meant to build together is gone. Eustace joins his father in silent prayer, as the squelchy hacks at Aadila's flesh in the kitchen continue.

The two cannibals chant words of gratitude, "Our Craft who art in the sky, hallowed be thy name..."

Urcula rises from the mat as he welcomes the woman back into the living room.

"Thy numbers come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in space. Give us this day our daily flesh..."

Esmeralda, a sinister delight dancing in her eyes, presents the silver platter adorned with crimson-stained meat.

Aadila's meat.

"...and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

It's a scene of grotesque elegance, yet I can't look away. I stop struggling against my binds. The world around me is a desolate grey landscape, devoid of purpose or significance. But for the red flesh I can't unsee.

The forever-absence of Aadila echoes through every empty fiber of my being.

"A chance for redemption, perhaps?" Esmeralda cackles, deviously pressing my beloved fiancee's tender meat to my lips. "You can have the family you always wanted, here, with us. But you must worship. Eat. Or be eaten."

My eyes weep bloody tears and longing as I gaze upon what is left of the love of my life.

Desire awakens within me, fed by the luscious aroma of her skin. Hunger roils in my belly. As my tongue tentatively licks her skin, I yearn to devour her.

To become one with her irresistible sweetness.

... And the two shall become one flesh.Genesis 2:24, Matthew 19:5, Mark 10:8, Ephesians 5:31 NASB

<<<<< END >>>>>

Find more stories by EvelynHail on Wattpad.

Evelyn Hail is an aspiring writer, and a holder of PhDs in English Literature & Latin American Literature.​ She is also philosopher-ish, lover of butterflies, Harry Potter die-hard fan, Nikola Tesla admirer, Beauty and the Beast 2 in 1, bacon cheese fries devourer, white chocolate adorer and illustrator. 

 Having always been passionate about storytelling, she's a curious writer who loves exploring different themes. As an author, Evelyn has forged works based on fantasy, science fiction and magical realism, as well as literary fiction with a dash of satirical elements and humour. She has recently tried her hand at romance and found out she quite liked it!