—
The small town of Blackstone was a place where secrets festered in the shadows. Tucked away from the bustling trade routes, it thrived quietly, its cobbled streets winding through thick forests and beneath towering mountain peaks. Yet, among the townsfolk, the Blackstone Tavern stood out like a beacon-its wooden beams worn smooth by time, its hearth ever-warm, and its food unmatched in all the land.
The tavern’s success was owed entirely to its mysterious owner, Vincent Charbonneau. Vincent was a man of few words and even fewer smiles. He was tall and gaunt, his black eyes ever watchful, as if he could see straight into a person’s soul. His reputation was as cold as his demeanor, but his skill in the kitchen was unparalleled. No one knew what made his meat pies so delectable, but everyone who tasted them was left craving more.
However, there was one person in Blackstone who seemed to melt the icy exterior of the tavern owner-Rody Lamoree, the tavern’s waiter. Rody was everything Vincent was not. He was warm, lively, and friendly, with a broad smile that could make even the most hardened traveler feel welcome. His auburn hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face that always bore a touch of sun, and his green eyes gleamed with an earnestness that endeared him to all who met him.
But no one was more enchanted by Rody than Vincent. The way Rody moved through the tavern, effortlessly charming the patrons, filled Vincent with a quiet, simmering passion that he kept buried deep inside. It was an obsession that consumed him, one he was determined to keep hidden from everyone, especially Rody.
The tavern was bustling one evening when a group of rough-looking travelers sauntered in. They were rowdy, with coarse laughter and crude jokes, but Rody, ever the professional, greeted them with his usual cheer. Vincent watched from the shadows of the kitchen, his dark eyes narrowed as he observed the newcomers.
As Rody took their orders, one of the men-a burly brute with a scarred face-made a snide comment about the way Rody’s shirt clung to his muscular frame. His companions laughed, adding their own lewd remarks, their eyes raking over Rody like wolves sizing up prey. Rody’s smile faltered, but he brushed it off with a nervous laugh and turned to head back to the kitchen.
Vincent’s grip on the kitchen knife tightened until his knuckles turned white. The sight of Rody’s forced smile, the faint redness creeping up his neck, ignited something dark within him. He had seen enough.
“Rody,” Vincent’s voice was soft, but it cut through the din of the tavern like a blade. Rody looked up, surprised to see his employer standing so close. “I’ll handle their food.”
Rody blinked, a small frown creasing his brow. “Are you sure? I can-“
“Go take a break,” Vincent interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ve done enough.”
Rody hesitated but eventually nodded, grateful for the reprieve. “Thank you, Vincent,” he said with a small, tired smile before heading upstairs to his room.
Vincent waited until Rody was out of sight before turning his attention back to the travelers. His expression was as cold and unreadable as ever, but inside, a storm was brewing. The kitchen became a blur of motion as he prepared the meal, his hands moving with precise, almost mechanical efficiency.
But there was no love in the dishes he made for the rude travelers. No care in the seasoning, no passion in the presentation-only cold, calculated malice.
When the food was ready, Vincent himself brought it to the table, setting the plates down with an eerily calm demeanor. The men barely noticed him, too engrossed in their revelry and crude jokes. They dug into the meal with gusto, not noticing the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of Vincent’s lips.
Hours later, when the tavern had quieted down and the fire in the hearth had burned low, Vincent slipped out of the kitchen. He moved silently through the darkened tavern, his footsteps barely a whisper against the wooden floorboards.
The night was cool, the moonlight casting long shadows as Vincent made his way to the stable where the travelers had stowed their horses. The sound of heavy snoring greeted him as he approached. The men were sprawled out in the hay, their bellies full and their senses dulled by drink.
Vincent’s smirk widened into something far more sinister as he quietly drew his knife. In the darkness of the stable, he made quick work of the men, his movements precise and methodical, like a butcher carving meat. He felt nothing as he worked, only a cold satisfaction that these men would never disrespect Rody-or anyone else-again.
By the time the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Vincent was back in the tavern, wiping the last traces of blood from his hands. He stoked the fire in the hearth, watching as the flames roared to life, consuming the remnants of the night.
Upstairs, Rody awoke to the smell of freshly baked pies wafting through the air. He stretched, feeling well-rested for the first time in days, and made his way downstairs.
“Morning, Vincent,” Rody greeted cheerfully as he entered the kitchen. “Something smells amazing.”
Vincent turned to him, his usual stoic expression softening slightly. “Just a new recipe I’m trying,” he said, nodding towards the pies cooling on the counter. “Try one and let me know what you think.”
Rody grinned, always eager to taste Vincent’s cooking. He took a bite, his eyes widening in surprise. “This is… incredible!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled by the mouthful of pie. “What’s in it?”
Vincent smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A secret ingredient,” he replied smoothly.
Rody laughed, shaking his head. “You and your secrets. Well, whatever it is, you’ve outdone yourself, Vincent.”
Vincent’s smile widened, his dark eyes glinting with a dangerous light. “I’m glad you like it, Rody.”
As Rody continued to eat, Vincent watched him with an intensity that bordered on possessive. Rody was his to protect, his to cherish, and he would ensure that no one-no matter who they were-would ever harm him.
And if that meant spilling a little blood along the way, then so be it.
The Butcher of Blackstone Tavern would do anything to keep his beloved Rody safe.
Anything.
Rody finished the pie with a contented sigh, licking the last few crumbs from his fingers. “You really are a genius, Vincent,” he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Vincent’s smile remained fixed, a slight chill creeping into his expression. “It’s all about using the right ingredients,” he replied, his tone laced with a hidden meaning that Rody didn’t catch. “Freshness is key.”
Rody chuckled, oblivious to the undertones in Vincent’s words. “Well, whatever it is, it’s working.”
The day passed uneventfully, with the usual ebb and flow of customers coming in for a warm meal and a tankard of ale. Vincent kept a watchful eye on Rody from the kitchen, his hands moving skillfully as he prepared dish after dish. His mind, however, was elsewhere, fixated on the thought of Rody’s safety, his happiness, his smile. The smile that was his alone to protect.
As evening approached, the tavern began to fill up once again. The regulars came in first, offering nods of greeting to Rody as they took their usual seats. Vincent noted how Rody’s face lit up with each friendly interaction, but there was a shadow of unease in Vincent’s mind-he knew all too well that not everyone who walked through those doors had good intentions.
The door swung open with a creak, and a group of men entered. They weren’t the same travelers from the night before, but they had the same air about them-loud, brash, and reeking of arrogance. Vincent’s gaze immediately sharpened, his entire being focused on them as they swaggered to the bar where Rody stood.
“Evenin’, pretty boy,” one of them drawled, a leering smile spreading across his face. His companions snickered, their eyes roaming over Rody in a way that made Vincent’s blood run cold.
Rody’s smile faltered, just like it had the night before, but he masked it quickly, trying to maintain his usual friendly demeanor. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get for you?”
The men ordered their drinks, but their attention remained on Rody, their comments growing more suggestive and crude with each passing moment. Rody’s discomfort was palpable, his movements stiff as he tried to keep his distance.
In the kitchen, Vincent’s hands trembled as he sliced through a slab of meat, the blade digging deeper into the flesh than necessary. He had been able to keep his composure with the first group-those men were dealt with swiftly, and the satisfaction of knowing they’d never bother Rody again had been enough to calm him.
But now, as he listened to the disgusting words being thrown at Rody, something inside him snapped.
He couldn’t let this continue. He wouldn’t let it.
Vincent set down the knife, wiping his hands on a rag with deliberate slowness. His movements were methodical, his mind already working out the details of what needed to be done. He stepped out of the kitchen, his presence immediately drawing the attention of the rowdy men.
The leering man at the bar looked up as Vincent approached, his grin faltering slightly at the sight of the tavern owner. There was something in Vincent’s eyes, something dark and dangerous that made even the most hardened men uneasy.
“Is there a problem here?” Vincent asked, his voice low and cold.
The man hesitated, his bravado wavering. “No problem, just havin’ a bit of fun,” he replied, though his tone was less confident than before.
Vincent’s gaze flicked to Rody, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of anxiety and relief. “Rody,” Vincent said, his voice softening just a fraction, “why don’t you take the evening off? I’ll handle things from here.”
Rody blinked, surprised by the offer. “But I-“
“Go,” Vincent insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You deserve a break.”
Rody hesitated for a moment, then nodded, grateful for the reprieve. “Thank you, Vincent,” he murmured, casting one last wary glance at the men before heading upstairs to his room.
As soon as Rody was out of sight, Vincent’s expression hardened. The air in the tavern seemed to grow colder, the flickering candlelight casting long, ominous shadows. The men at the bar shifted uncomfortably under Vincent’s piercing gaze.
“Enjoy your drinks,” Vincent said, his voice as cold as the grave. “They’ll be your last.”
The men exchanged confused looks, their bravado slipping away entirely. But before they could react, Vincent had already turned away, disappearing back into the kitchen. The tension in the room hung heavy, the threat in Vincent’s words lingering in the air like the scent of blood.
The men tried to laugh it off, but there was a nervous edge to their voices as they downed their drinks. They had no idea that their fates were already sealed, that the tavern’s owner was not a man to be trifled with.
Hours later, when the tavern had emptied and the streets of Blackstone were silent, Vincent made his move.
He found the men passed out in the tavern’s common room, the remains of their drinks scattered across the table. The drink had been laced with a special concoction of Vincent’s own making, a blend of herbs and poisons that ensured a deep, dreamless sleep. They wouldn’t wake until it was far too late.
Vincent moved with the practiced precision of a craftsman, dragging the men one by one into the cellar beneath the tavern. The darkness of the cellar swallowed them whole, the flickering torchlight casting Vincent’s shadow against the damp stone walls.
The cellar had seen many such visitors over the years, all of them meeting the same grisly fate. It was Vincent’s sanctuary, his workshop, where the true secret of his meat pies was revealed. He had perfected his technique over time, each kill more efficient than the last. There was an art to it, a rhythm that soothed him as he worked.
As he prepared the men for what was to come, Vincent’s thoughts drifted to Rody. Sweet, innocent Rody, who had no idea of the lengths Vincent would go to protect him. The thought of Rody’s smile, his laugh, the way he looked at Vincent with those trusting green eyes-everything Vincent did was for him.
The first man stirred as Vincent raised the knife, his eyes fluttering open in confusion. But before he could react, Vincent’s blade flashed in the dim light, slicing through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. The man’s scream was cut short as Vincent ended his life with a single, swift motion.
Vincent worked quickly, methodically, his hands steady as he dismembered the bodies, preparing them for the next day’s meals. The blood pooled on the stone floor, seeping into the cracks, but Vincent paid it no mind. His focus was on the task at hand, on ensuring that no trace of these men would remain.
By the time he was finished, the cellar was filled with the metallic scent of blood and the faint, lingering aroma of the herbs Vincent used to preserve the meat. He cleaned his tools with care, making sure everything was in its place before he finally allowed himself to rest.
The next morning, Rody awoke to the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat. He stretched, feeling well-rested and ready for the day. When he came downstairs, he found Vincent already in the kitchen, preparing the day’s meals with his usual quiet efficiency.
“Good morning,” Rody greeted with a smile. “I hope I didn’t leave you with too much work last night.”
Vincent shook his head, his expression unreadable. “It was nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Rody watched him for a moment, a sense of unease creeping over him. There was something different about Vincent today, something colder, more distant. But before he could dwell on it, Vincent handed him a plate with one of the freshly baked meat pies.
“Here,” Vincent said, his voice soft. “I made these just for you.”
Rody’s smile returned as he took the plate, his unease momentarily forgotten. “You’re too good to me, Vincent,” he said, taking a bite of the pie. “It’s delicious, as always.”
Vincent watched him eat, his dark eyes unreadable. “I’m glad you like it, Rody.”
As Rody savored the pie, oblivious to the horrors that had taken place in the cellar below, Vincent allowed himself a rare, fleeting moment of satisfaction. Rody was safe, his smile intact, and that was all that mattered.
No one would ever harm Rody. Not while Vincent was around.
And if that meant spilling more blood, then so be it.
The Butcher of Blackstone Tavern would stop at nothing to protect his beloved.
Nothing at all.
The days passed in a strange, unsettling rhythm at Blackstone Tavern. The crowds continued to flock to the establishment, drawn in by the legendary pies that Vincent prepared with such meticulous care. Rody noticed how the tavern’s popularity seemed to grow by the day, but he also noticed something else-familiar faces started disappearing.
It began with a regular who had always been kind to Rody, a merchant who often stayed late, chatting with him after the last of the patrons had left. Rody remembered the man’s jovial laughter and the way he always tipped extra, but one evening, the merchant simply stopped coming. Rody mentioned it to Vincent in passing, but Vincent had dismissed it with a shrug, saying that travelers often moved on without warning.
Then, it was a group of traders who had made a habit of stopping by every week. They were rowdy but harmless, their loud jokes and easy laughter filling the tavern with noise and life. But like the merchant, they too disappeared without a word. Rody found their absence unsettling, but when he asked around, no one seemed to know what had happened to them.
Vincent, as always, remained calm and collected, his demeanor unchanged. He continued to prepare his famous meat pies, always offering Rody the first taste, and Rody continued to accept, even though a small seed of doubt had begun to take root in his mind.
It wasn’t until one particularly cold and stormy night that Rody’s suspicions began to take a darker turn. The tavern was quiet, the storm outside keeping most patrons at home. Rody had just finished cleaning up for the night when he heard something-a faint, almost imperceptible noise coming from the direction of the cellar.
He paused, his heart skipping a beat. The sound was so soft that he almost convinced himself he had imagined it, but then it came again, louder this time-a muffled thump, followed by what sounded like a low, pained groan.
Rody’s pulse quickened, a cold dread settling in his chest. He glanced toward the kitchen, where Vincent was finishing up the last of the cleaning, his back turned to Rody. Something about the scene felt wrong, but Rody couldn’t place why.
His curiosity, mingled with a growing sense of unease, got the better of him. Without saying a word, he slipped out of the kitchen and moved toward the cellar door. The closer he got, the clearer the noises became-there were definitely voices down there, weak and desperate, as if someone were calling for help.
Rody’s hand trembled as he reached for the door, his mind racing with all manner of horrible possibilities. The moment his fingers touched the wood, the door creaked open ever so slightly, as if inviting him in. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Vincent, who was still occupied with his tasks, seemingly unaware of Rody’s actions.
With a deep breath, Rody pushed the door open and descended the narrow staircase, the air growing colder with each step. The darkness seemed to close in around him, and the strange, sickly sweet scent that filled the cellar made his stomach churn. It was familiar, but far more intense than what he was used to from the kitchen.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Rody squinted in the dim light, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. What he saw made his blood run cold.
There, in the corner of the cellar, lay several figures-bound and gagged, their eyes wide with terror. Some of them he recognized: the missing merchant, the traders, and others who had simply vanished from the tavern without a trace. They were bruised and bloodied, their clothes torn and dirty, and their faces contorted in fear and pain.
Rody’s breath caught in his throat as he realized the full horror of what he was seeing. These people-these poor souls-had been dragged down here and left to rot. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, but worse than that was the understanding of who had done this to them.
The walls of the cellar were lined with tools, knives of all shapes and sizes, stained with dark, dried blood. In the corner, Rody saw a large wooden table, its surface scratched and marred from years of use. Chains hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft, and nearby was a large, blackened cauldron filled with the remnants of something that Rody couldn’t bring himself to identify.
But it wasn’t just the tools or the chained prisoners that horrified Rody-it was the piles of bones, carefully stacked in the far corner, some of them still flecked with bits of decaying flesh. The sight of them turned Rody’s stomach, and he stumbled back, covering his mouth to stifle the rising bile.
The meat pies. The famous, mouth-watering meat pies that Vincent prepared every day, that he had so eagerly devoured. They weren’t just made from the finest cuts of meat-they were made from *them*. From people.
Rody felt a wave of nausea, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as the realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. He had been eating the remains of the very people who had come to the tavern, their flesh cooked and seasoned to perfection by Vincent’s skilled hands.
Rody’s mind raced, a mix of disbelief and horror coursing through him. How could Vincent do this? How could the man he had trusted, the man he had admired and respected, be capable of something so monstrous?
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, creaking sound from the stairs. Rody’s heart dropped as he turned to see Vincent standing at the top of the staircase, his expression unreadable. He held a lantern in one hand, the light casting eerie shadows across his face.
“Rody,” Vincent said softly, his voice carrying a hint of something dark and foreboding. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
Rody backed away, his heart pounding in his chest. “Vincent… what… what is this? What have you done?”
Vincent descended the stairs slowly, his gaze never leaving Rody’s. “I did what I had to do, Rody,” he said, his tone eerily calm. “To protect you. To keep you safe.”
Rody shook his head, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “This… this is madness. You’re killing people, Vincent. You’re-“
“I’m protecting you,” Vincent interrupted, his voice rising with sudden intensity. “Those men, those vile creatures-they didn’t deserve to live after what they did, after what they said about you. They would have hurt you, Rody. They would have destroyed everything that’s good in this world. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Rody stared at Vincent, his mind reeling. “You… you killed them… because of me?”
Vincent nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yes. I did it for you, Rody. Everything I’ve done, it’s been for you.”
Rody’s legs gave out, and he sank to the cold, stone floor, his head spinning. The room seemed to close in around him, the horror of it all too much to bear. “This isn’t… this isn’t right,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You’ve… you’ve gone too far, Vincent.”
Vincent knelt in front of him, reaching out to gently cup Rody’s face in his hands. “I know it’s hard to understand,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over Rody’s cheek. “But you mean everything to me, Rody. I couldn’t stand to see you hurt. I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
Rody recoiled from Vincent’s touch, his skin crawling. The man he had once admired, perhaps even loved, was a monster-a twisted, broken soul who had committed unspeakable acts in the name of love.
“I can’t stay here,” Rody murmured, his voice barely audible. “I can’t… I can’t be a part of this.”
Vincent’s expression darkened, his hands tightening their grip on Rody’s face. “You’re not leaving,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “You can’t leave, Rody. I won’t let you.”
Fear surged through Rody, a primal, instinctual terror that drove him to his feet. He pushed Vincent away, scrambling for the stairs, desperate to escape the nightmare he had stumbled into.
But Vincent was faster, his grip like iron as he caught Rody’s arm and pulled him back. “You can’t leave me,” Vincent hissed, his eyes wild with desperation. “You belong here, with me. No one else will ever care for you like I do. No one else will protect you.”
Rody struggled against Vincent’s hold, panic rising in his throat. “Let go of me! Vincent, please!”
But Vincent’s grip only tightened, his eyes filled with a terrifying resolve. “I won’t let you go, Rody. I won’t lose you.”
In a final, desperate bid for freedom, Rody lashed out, striking Vincent across the face. The blow sent Vincent reeling, and in that moment of surprise, Rody tore free from his grasp and bolted for the stairs.
He stumbled up the steps, his heart pounding, his mind screaming for him to get out, to run as fast and as far as he could. He burst into the tavern, the storm outside raging with a fury that matched his own.
But as Rody reached the door, his hand on the latch, a cold, heavy realization settled over him. He couldn’t just leave-not with the knowledge that Vincent would continue his bloody work, that more innocent lives would be lost in the name of twisted love.
With a trembling hand, Rody turned the latch and stepped out into the raging storm. The cold wind bit into his skin, the rain soaking through his clothes almost instantly. But Rody’s mind was too consumed with horror and anger to feel the chill.
He stumbled away from the tavern, the distant cries of the storm mingling with the echo of Vincent’s desperate pleas. His thoughts raced, trying to piece together what he had just seen, what he had just learned. The man he had trusted, who had guided him, had slaughtered innocent people-and he had done it all for Rody.
He couldn’t just leave it like this. The people in the cellar-if any were still alive-needed help. And Vincent… Vincent had to be stopped.
Rody’s breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to think, tried to form a plan. He couldn’t go to the authorities-not without condemning himself. The town was small, and rumors spread fast. He would be seen as complicit in Vincent’s crimes, and even if he wasn’t, the story of a tavern that served human flesh would ruin him forever.
No, there was only one way to end this nightmare.
His resolve hardened, Rody turned back to the tavern, his heart pounding. He couldn’t leave Vincent to continue this madness-not after what he had seen. He would end it tonight, no matter what it cost him.
He returned to the cellar, his footsteps heavy with the weight of what he was about to do. Vincent was still there, standing in the center of the room, his back turned to the stairs. He was muttering to himself, his voice low and frantic, as if trying to convince himself that what he had done was justified.
Rody’s hand trembled as he reached for a heavy iron poker that hung on the wall. It was cold and solid in his grip, its weight reassuring in its finality. He took a step forward, then another, his eyes locked on Vincent’s back.
Vincent seemed to sense his presence and turned around slowly, his eyes widening as he saw Rody standing there with the poker in his hand.
“Rody,” Vincent whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “What are you doing?”
Rody’s throat tightened, his voice raw and broken. “I’m sorry, Vincent. I can’t let you do this anymore.”
Vincent took a step back, shaking his head. “No, Rody, please. You don’t understand. I did this for you. I love you. I would do anything for you.”
Tears stung Rody’s eyes, but he blinked them away, his grip tightening on the poker. “This isn’t love, Vincent. This is… this is madness. You’ve killed people. Innocent people.”
Vincent’s face crumpled, and he sank to his knees, his hands clutching at his chest as if in pain. “I did it for you, Rody. I couldn’t bear the thought of them hurting you, of them taking you away from me.”
Rody swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’ve hurt me, Vincent. You’ve hurt me more than anyone else ever could.”
Vincent looked up at him, his eyes pleading, desperate. “Then let me make it right. Let me fix this. We can run away, Rody. We can start over somewhere else, where no one will know what happened here. We can be together, just you and me.”
Rody felt a pang of sorrow, but it was quickly swallowed by the cold, hard truth. “It’s too late for that, Vincent. There’s no going back.”
Vincent’s expression shifted, a flash of anger darkening his features. “You can’t leave me, Rody. I won’t let you. You belong to me. You’ll always belong to me.”
The words sent a shiver down Rody’s spine, and he knew there was no other choice. He had to end this, once and for all.
“I’m sorry, Vincent,” Rody whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
Before Vincent could react, Rody raised the poker and brought it down with all his strength. The impact was sickening, a dull thud that echoed through the cellar. Vincent’s body crumpled to the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath him.
Rody stood there, trembling, the poker slipping from his fingers as the reality of what he had just done settled over him. He had killed Vincent. The man who had loved him, who had done unspeakable things in his name-now lay lifeless at his feet.
The storm outside raged on, the howling wind and pounding rain drowning out the silence that had fallen over the cellar. Rody’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled back, his legs giving out beneath him. He fell to his knees beside Vincent’s body, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch the man’s pale, lifeless face.
“I’m sorry,” Rody whispered again, his voice choked with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
He stayed there for what felt like hours, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He had done what he had to do, but it didn’t make the pain any less real. It didn’t make the loss any less devastating.
Eventually, Rody forced himself to his feet, his body numb and aching. He couldn’t stay here-not with the memories, not with the blood on his hands. He had to leave, had to get as far away from Blackstone Tavern as possible.
But as he made his way up the stairs, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would never truly escape. The horrors of what had happened in that cellar, the blood that had been spilled in the name of love, would haunt him for the rest of his days.
And as he stepped out into the storm, leaving the tavern and Vincent behind, Rody knew that the darkness would follow him, no matter where he went.
There was no going back. There was only the endless, empty road ahead, and the knowledge that he would carry the weight of his sins with him until the end of his days.
Comment