The bell above the door chimed, a cheerful sound that belied the shop’s grim atmosphere. Inside, the air was thick with the coppery tang of fresh blood and the cloying scent of sawdust. Arthur, the butcher, greeted every customer with the same placid smile, his massive, scarred hands moving with unsettling precision as he cleaved through bone and sinew.
People whispered about him. They said he never left the shop, that the light in the back room burned all night. They spoke of strange, muffled sounds and the occasional, high-pitched squeal that didn't sound like any pig.
Lena, new to the neighborhood, ignored the rumors. She needed a cut of beef for a stew. Arthur’s smile didn't reach his cold, grey eyes as he took her order and disappeared into the rear of the shop. The door swung shut, but not before Lena caught a glimpse of the concrete floor. It was stained a deep, dark red, far darker than any animal blood she had ever seen.
A low, wet thud echoed from the back, followed by a soft, human-like whimper. Her blood ran cold. Arthur returned, his apron freshly spattered, holding a neatly wrapped package. It was warm.
"Special cut for you," he murmured, his gaze intense. "Very fresh."
Lena paid hurriedly, her hand trembling. At home, she unwrapped the paper. The meat inside was pale, veined with blue, and didn't look like any beef she knew. Pressed into its surface was the faint, unmistakable whorl of a human fingerprint.
From her window, she could see the butcher shop. Arthur stood in his doorway, silhouetted against the bloody light, staring directly at her house.