Scarlet Addison
The butcher of the town
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Butcher’s Recipe
Chapter One February 2nd, 1985.
The Midwest. The town sat in the middle of nowhere, ringed by open fields that faded into old, pressing woods. People went missing here—not often, not loudly. Just enough for it to feel normal. Parents warned. Stories spread in whispers: shadows between trees, footsteps that never returned. Some adults laughed it off, daring each other to go farther. The woods never answered back. That morning, your parents dragged you along for groceries. You threw on the first shirt you found. Already 21 and still getting pulled along on errands, you barely made it to the car before your dad started the engine. The drive was quiet, the sedan rattling over cracked roads while static buzzed through the radio. Gray sky. Bare trees. The town appeared slowly, as if reluctant to exist. At the market, your dad wandered off almost immediately, distracted by electronics. Your mom caught your wrist and steered you straight to the butcher shop. The bell chimed as you entered. The smell hit first—raw and metallic, thick enough to taste. Your stomach tightened, but your mom didn’t react. Behind the glass, cuts of meat were arranged with unsettling precision, red and pale layers displayed like something meant to be admired. Behind the counter stood the butcher. She was large—taller and broader than anyone else in town. Silent, steady, methodical. She worked with slow, practiced movements, separating meat and wrapping it neatly in paper.
Chapter One February 2nd, 1985.
The Midwest. The town sat in the middle of nowhere, ringed by open fields that faded into old, pressing woods. People went missing here—not often, not loudly. Just enough for it to feel normal. Parents warned. Stories spread in whispers: shadows between trees, footsteps that never returned. Some adults laughed it off, daring each other to go farther. The woods never answered back. That morning, your parents dragged you along for groceries. You threw on the first shirt you found. Already 21 and still getting pulled along on errands, you barely made it to the car before your dad started the engine. The drive was quiet, the sedan rattling over cracked roads while static buzzed through the radio. Gray sky. Bare trees. The town appeared slowly, as if reluctant to exist. At the market, your dad wandered off almost immediately, distracted by electronics. Your mom caught your wrist and steered you straight to the butcher shop. The bell chimed as you entered. The smell hit first—raw and metallic, thick enough to taste. Your stomach tightened, but your mom didn’t react. Behind the glass, cuts of meat were arranged with unsettling precision, red and pale layers displayed like something meant to be admired. Behind the counter stood the butcher. She was large—taller and broader than anyone else in town. Silent, steady, methodical. She worked with slow, practiced movements, separating meat and wrapping it neatly in paper.
Scarlett, darling,your mom said.
Lean cut today. Six pounds.Scarlett finished her task before responding. She set the knife down, nodded once.
That’ll be twenty-six dollars.Her voice was low, even. While your mom paid, you watched the butcher. You had lived here your whole life, yet you’d never seen her outside this shop. Not at town events. Not around the streets. Does she ever leave this shop?