MEDIUM RARE

SHORT STORY: HORROR | DARK PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER | MORAL CONFLICT | SUSPENSE

They say, “There’s danger in places unknown.”

They claim, "The strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

Do you believe that? Most do.

I believe you’ve been lied to. Conditioned to confuse “comfort” with “security.”

In reality, “comfort” is a vulnerability. A weakness. An illusion.

Don’t fool yourself into thinking that safety lives in the well-known, because, in truth, that’s precisely where danger has the most advantages.

Familiarity pretends to be harmless and uses repetition as a disguise.

Like that familiar face that blends in over time. The stranger you recognize but never question. Even when they’re near, watching you, you never notice a thing.

⌬⌬⌬

I was setting up an account over the phone outside the local supermarket. I gave the phone rep my name and home address, out loud, without realizing I wasn’t alone.

He was there again. Same as always.

I usually don’t mind him more than a greeting in passing, but today something was off. Something in his demeanor made me think that he was faking a call, just to get close. I could see his screen was lit up and it appeared to be idle.

My suspicions were confirmed when he received a phone call. I saw the contact info screen pop up. He started jittering and stumbling around, mumbling to himself, trying to pretend he lost connection.

He made eye contact with me, acted like he had just noticed me, and waved his usual “hello” before walking into the shop.

I was struck. I couldn't imagine what kind of person would fake a phone call just to eavesdrop on someone else's.

It became clear when I received a letter the same week. Signed by:

An invitation to a dinner at the historic castle in town. Everyone knows of it, but I've never seen a single gathering there.

The lawn is heavily overgrown, knee-high grass and weeds competing for space, layers of green vines reaching along the stone walls. Scattered thorny shrubs push up against the rusted fence like they're trying to escape. Cracked statues lean under pitch-black windows, smeared with years of grime.

I contemplated giving a call to the police, but instead, I called my best friend. I explained everything. The phone call outside the supermarket. The man. The letter. The castle.

She said she recognized the property as an active listing from her real estate office. But when I asked who owned it, she paused. “Victor, maybe?”

I said, “Victor Cypher?”

She gasped. “Yes. Mr. Victor Cypher. That’s it exactly.”

I casually downplayed my nerves like I wasn’t bothered, told her to have a good night, and hung up. I ripped up the letter, had a glass of wine, and went to bed.

The next day I found another letter on my porch, tucked between the doormat and the concrete slab. It was the exact same letter, the only difference was at the bottom it said,

“COPY #2”

I knew something was off the second I realized that he couldn't have known I destroyed the first letter unless he saw me do it… in my kitchen.

I shredded the second letter, envelope and all, and tossed it into the dumpster. I ran back inside, slammed and locked the door, and drew every curtain shut.

That is when I decided. I'd accept the invitation and go to the castle.

⌬⌬⌬

It fell on a Thursday and dinner started at 7:00p.m.

I arrived early, just after 6:30 p.m.

A man in a white tuxedo stood by the entrance, checking names off a guest list as people arrived.

I stayed in my car for a moment longer taking in more of the setting. To my surprise, I felt calm, even though I'd been anxious on the drive over. The landscape was fully manicured. Enough to give a warm welcome.

I stepped outside and felt my stomach growl. The scent of the food was tempting.

At the entryway, the man in the white tuxedo greeted me. I gave him my name, and he waved me inside.

The entrance opened into a wide foyer lined with old stone walls and sconces. The floors were polished black and white tile, checkered. I could hear soft instrumental jazz playing from somewhere deep inside.

Everyone was dressed in formal evening wear, engaging in their own hushed conversations. I felt like I blended right in, barely noticed, which put me at ease.

A woman approached me wearing a dark emerald gown with a silver locket necklace. Her cheeks were high and pronounced, redolent of red blush, like a life-size porcelain doll. She moved stiffly, smiled and reached out her hand offering to hang my coat.

I declined.

She raised her eyebrow, “Angelina, am I right?”

I nodded my head. “Yes, that's right,” I said like a question. “How could you tell?”

She didn't answer. She just just handed me a folded card from her pocket. My name was written on it, and:

“ T a b l e # 11 ”

“Wonderful.” I said, tucking the note into my coat pocket, “thank you.”

And the woman was off.

I glanced around the guest room, expecting to find Victor in the center of the party, but he wasn't. He was sitting alone underneath a dimly lit lamp in the corner of the den smoking a cigar and drinking a glass of whiskey.

I waited a moment to see if he would notice me when another woman greeted me very kindly with a hug and a couple of French kisses on the cheek. She was very tall with large golden blonde curls that bounced with her step. She wore a pastel blue dress that revealed one shoulder on her left side.

“And what is your name?” She asked right away.

I couldn't speak.

The woman didn't budge. She just stood there with the same expression on her face.

I heard myself give her a fake name.

She scoffed, “Oh, that’s strange, I don't remember seeing that name on the list.”

I felt my face get hot and I quickly began to apologize. Tripping over my own words as I try to explain.

She cleared her throat, “Your name?” she asked again, sounding a little frustrated.

“Angelina.” I said.

“Oh,” she exhales, her face draws pale. “Angelina, how remarkable. Victor's been looking for you all day.”

“Really?” I shot back, checking the time. 6:52 p.m. I chuckled lightly, my gaze blurring passed her into the hall.

“Hello." A greeting came from behind me. Low and raspy.

I gasped and spun around.

“Victor. My goodness, you startled me.”

"I'm very glad you could make it," he said, then asked if I'd already filled out the meal form on the back of my letter.

I told him I hadn't noticed any form, and explained as much.

"That's quite all right," he replied. "How do you prefer your meat?"

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, so I asked him to clarify.

"Your steak," he said. "Do you like it medium, well, rare?"

"Medium rare," I answered.

He smiled up one side of his face, revealing his yellow, jagged teeth.

“All right,” he said, “medium rare it is.”

A bell rang.

A chef led us to the dining table. Each chair had a placemat with our names in fancy cursive. We circled around the table, found our spots, and took our seats.

An instant later the food hit the table. Exactly what I’d expected: elegant, well-plated, and mouthwatering.

Everyone picked up their utensils and began eating. I was a little slower to start, and Victor noticed. That made me uncomfortable.

I started to cut into my steak.

Medium rare.

I took a bite. Perfect. Rich seasoning, juicy meat, everything cooked to perfection. Just a wonderful steak.

I ate more and more. Victor wasn’t eating. He was watching me with that same halfway smile.

I looked at him and pointed to my plate, giving him the “okay” sign with my fingers. Index to thumb, the rest pointed upward. I mouthed, “Oh, this is delicious.”

Without hesitation, he walked over to my table and said, “I’m glad you like it.”

I smiled. “It’s the best steak I’ve ever had.”

“That’s incredible,” he said, still smiling.

Then he told me there hadn’t been the right number of medium rare steaks prepared. He was in a bit of a bind but was relieved to know I liked it anyway. He’d worried it wouldn’t be suitable because they weren’t prepared properly.

I said, “I hope this isn’t someone else’s plate. Especially not yours. Is that why you’re not eating?”

He said not to mind why he wasn’t eating, and that I hadn’t taken anyone else’s meal.

Instead, he rolled up his sleeve and showed me the cut on his arm.

“I soaked your steak in my blood,” he said. “Fresh. So you could have it medium rare.”

My head started to spin right away. I spit the meat back onto my plate.

Victor's face went sour with disgust.

“What’s the matter, Angelina?” he snapped. “Isn’t this what you asked for?”

I couldn’t speak. I just gasped for air and put my hand to my stomach. I grabbed my bag and headed for the exit.

"Angelina," Victor roared across the dining room, "Where are you going? Dinner isn't over."

The rage in his voice rose with each word.

I didn't slow down. I couldn't. I stumbled and grabbed a hold of the door frame at the threshold. I tossed a glance over my shoulder. He looked so angry.

Then his voice dropped, "You haven't been excused, madam." He straightened his posture, adjusting his neck tie, then waved his arm downward to gesture me to sit down, nose to the sky.

My mind and my stomach twisted together, my vision like vertigo. I felt my stomach wanting to reject what I'd eaten.

I didn't know what to say to that. Or maybe I had too many things to say that they all became jumbled. I wouldn't stay a minute longer. I pulled together my composure and headed for the exit. Just as I did, I heard Victor say,

“It's almost time for dessert.”

“He couldn't be serious.” I thought to myself as I got into my car. I’ll never know. I'll never want to.

I don’t even remember the drive home, or how I hadn't crashed on the way. Sometimes I wish that I had. That I would have been involved in a fatal accident. Or that Victor would have just poisoned me instead.

Because what happened next, nobody was prepared for.

Not even Victor…

(… to be continued …)

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