The Consumption

The cellar was cold, smelling of earth and vintage wine. Cillian slammed the heavy oak door and threw the bolt. He dragged a heavy shelving unit in front of it.

He backed into the corner, his gun pointed at the door. He was shaking.

"Come on," he whispered, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Come on, you bitch."

He waited.

Minutes passed. Hours? Time had no meaning here.

The candle he had brought down flickered.

The door didn't break down. There was no banging. No screaming.

Instead, the wood of the door began to steam. It dissolved, turning into mist, drifting away until there was nothing barring the entrance.

Elara stood in the doorway. She wasn't the monster now. She looked like the woman he had met—sad, beautiful, human.

"You can't hide from the house, Cillian," she said softly. "You are the house now."

"I have money!" Cillian screamed, kicking the duffel bag toward her. "Two million dollars! Take it! Let me go!"

Elara looked at the bag with genuine confusion.

"Paper?" she asked. "Why would I want paper? I want your cruelty, Cillian. I want that cold, hard knot in your chest that let you plan to murder a woman who cooked you dinner."

She stepped into the room.

Cillian fired his last rounds. They sparked against the stone wall behind her.

She was in front of him. She reached out and cupped his face. Her hands were burning hot now.

"Please," Cillian begged, the narcissism finally shattering, revealing the terrified child beneath. "I don't want to die."

"Oh, you won't die," Elara promised, leaning in. "Death is a release. You are going to serve."

She kissed him.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a vacuum.

Cillian felt his breath, his memories, his will to exist being pulled out of his lungs. He felt his name being ripped away. He felt the specific, sharp arrogance that defined him dissolving into her mouth like sugar in hot water.

He tried to scream, but he had no voice.

The world went white. Then grey. Then silent.