The sizzle of the grill wasn’t just a sound—it was alive, writhing, crawling into my ears and burrowing deep. I couldn’t tell if the heat was coming from the flames or from the thing behind the grill, humming its broken tune. Its apron, splattered and frayed, hung off its too-perfect frame, the stains gleaming dark and sticky in the flickering light. The smell hit me then—sweet, metallic, cloying. It wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right.

“Hungry?” it asked, its voice syrupy and thick, stretching every syllable. Its grin followed, splitting its face like a wound that refused to close. My hands clenched the armrests of the chair, but I couldn’t rise. The heat around me swirled, pressing in on my skin, making my breath shallow. It flipped the sausages, and for a moment, I swore I saw them twitch, their shiny, swollen surfaces pulsing as though trying to escape the tongs.

It leaned closer, the grin widening impossibly. “Special recipe,” it said, almost a purr, and plopped one onto my plate. The sausage glistened, its surface pocked and uneven, small holes leaking a clear, viscous liquid that pooled beneath it. My stomach roiled, but my hands moved on their own, gripping the fork as if commanded. “Go on,” it whispered, its voice now impossibly close, yet I hadn’t seen it move. “Taste the work I’ve put into it.”

My fork pierced the sausage, and for a moment, I swore I heard a whimper. My heart stopped as I stared down at the plate, the sausage trembling slightly beneath the prongs. I looked up, and its grin was all I could see, wide and eternal. The flames roared behind it, engulfing the grill, but it didn’t flinch. It was waiting—not for me to eat, but for me to understand what I had already done.