Southern Hospitality

Content warning: gore

“I know it’s not ideal but I can’t come get you. You could possibly walk into town and catch a ride from someone?” I shake my head and sigh into the phone. I was supposed to be driving up to my cousin’s house to spend the night for my job interview because he lives close to where my new job would be, however, my car decided this was the perfect time to break down.

“That’s how people get murdered, Cory,” I deadpan. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m stuck at work all night tonight. Boss sprung third shift on me today.” I can’t help but feel slightly guilty since Cory works long hours being a nurse, and my predicament probably isn’t helping to ease his constant stress at all. 

“It’s alright, it’s only a few miles into town from here,” I decide being cooperative is the best thing to do right now. Although, I can’t imagine very many people in this small town being willing to give a stranger a ride so close to dark. 

“Okay Mallory, text me when you get into town.”

“I will,” I say, taking note of the worrisome tone in Cory’s voice. ‘Great,’ I think to myself. Now for the hard part.

About an hour later, I think I’m around halfway there, but I honestly lost my sense of direction a long time ago. I’m starting to get thirsty and the sun seems to be going down a lot faster than I had originally planned for. There’s not a single tree, bush, or pond in sight, and believe me, it gets boring very fast. 

I’m walking down the old dirt road, kicking a pebble around with my feet when I hear a low rumbling sound. I look upwards to the sky and see a flurry of dark clouds rolling in, lightning striking far into the distance. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I groan and pick up the pace a little. The little light provided by the setting sun is blocked and I look back to see the storm directly behind me, almost as if it was chasing me. I’m walking as fast as my legs can go without jogging now, the sound of thunder taunting me from behind. I feel a few tiny drops of water hit my face and I decide now would be a good time to run. I’m so caught up in outrunning the storm, I barely hear an old pickup truck pulling up next to me. 

“Need a ride?” I look up and see a man squinting at me, seemingly amused as he watches me struggle to escape the storm. 

“No thanks, I’ve got it all under control,” I say through gritted teeth, eyeing the dusty red truck warily. 

The man seems to find this funny and snorts, “Yeah, sure looks like it.” We both look behind us as we hear more thunder, only a lot louder and a lot closer. 

“...fine,” I give in, seeing his persistent look.

“So, where ya headed?” 

A few minutes later we roll into town after enduring torturous small-talk. I found out the man was 26, a few years older than me, and his name was Doyle. Rather old-fashioned in my opinion, but when I asked if he was of Irish descent, he only chuckled and gave a vague, “something like that.” 

“Thanks for the ride, uh, Doyle,” I say only to be polite.

He seems to take note of this as he responds with a tight smile, “Anytime, Mallory. I won’t hesitate to help out a stranger.” 

Something about the way he says it makes me uncomfortable, but I shrug it off as I prance up to the familiar blue house. I go for the handle, but to my dismay, it appears to be locked. I frown and try again.

Still locked.

I decide to go around and try the door on the garage, which wasn’t attached to the house, to see if there was maybe a spare key in there. The door was also locked.

“Everything okay?” I turn around and see Doyle leaning out his truck window, head getting wet from the still pouring rain.

“Yeah, just locked out is all,” I call over my shoulder, very surprised to see he is still here, and a little creeped out, to be honest.

“It’s pouring out, just come back to my place with me and wait for your cousin to get back.”

I contemplated just texting Cory for the garage code and staying in there, but change my mind as the rain starts coming down even harder, if that was even possible. “Ok, ok I’m coming,” I reluctantly climb back into the truck.

“So, Mallory. Where ya’ from?” Doyle muses, staring ahead at the road.

“Originally from Nevada.”

“How’d you get all the way out here into South Carolina then?” 

“New job,” I say blankly. I wasn’t going to engage too much if I didn’t have to. 

“Oh, what do you do?” 

I debate with the small, weary part of me over lying to him but decide not to. I shouldn’t lie just because I feel uncomfortable. “I’m a crime scene detective.” 

“Sounds exciting, I run a small business.” 

“What do you sell?” I ask, feeling slightly more comfortable.

“This and that,” he explains, deflecting the question.

“Cool,” I say, turning to look out the window. 

“Well, here we are. Home sweet home,” Doyle says, pulling into the long driveway up to a big house. 

‘Small business? What does he run, a black market drug dealership?’ I snort to myself. 

“What?” Doyle asks, seemingly having heard me laughing at my own jokes. 

“Uh, nothing,” I say with an innocent smile to hide the uneasy feeling in my stomach. 

We walk through the front door into a big foyer/living room area. I’ve gotta give it to this guy, his place looks like a Disney Princess castle. Candles hang in holders on the walls, and a luxurious red rug spreads across the tile floor. There aren’t any visible windows from where I’m standing, which is a tad weird but I shrug it off. 

“I’ll show you to the guest room so you can throw your stuff there and shower,” Doyle interrupts my thoughts. 

“Uh, ok. Thank you,” I stutter out, turning to follow his disappearing figure up the stairs. 

“Here we are,” we stop a white door and Doyle pushes it open for me, “I’ll be downstairs, just holler if you need anything!” 

I peer around the room and admire the neatly pressed dark gray comforter on the bed, and the spotless white curtains hanging from the glass balcony doors. The room was surprisingly bright compared to the rest of the house, with the many windows and the big chandelier, the room didn’t match the theme of the main floor. I snap out of my trance and make my way into the bathroom, taking my time to admire the plank floors, sage green cabinetry, and the huge tub in the middle of the room. 

“I could get used to this,” I say, preparing my bath. 

Half an hour later I’m done and dressed in some extra clothes Doyle lent me. I decide to head downstairs, following a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I pause when I see the huge front doors slightly open, and Doyle and a stranger bickering over something. 

“Get out,” I hear Doyle hiss and try to close the door, to no avail, “I told you, I have a visitor. We can do business tomorrow.”

The stranger scowled, “You better have my packages tomorrow,” the stranger threatens in a deep voice, “I would hate to have to shut this little operation down.” 

I pry my eyes harder when I see something metallic in the stranger’s hand reflecting off the light. Okay, so this Doyle dude is involved in some shady stuff if he’s getting strangers in trench coats threatening him with knives on his front doorstep. 

I’m shaken from my thoughts as Doyle finally hisses out, “I’ll have your stuff now leave,” and slams the door in the strangers’ face. But not before I catch the strangers’ eye, him giving me a malicious smirk before allowing Doyle to shut the heavy doors on him. Doyle heaves a heavy sigh and flinches in shock when he sees me standing at the bottom of the staircase. 

“How much of that did you hear?” he asks, massaging his temple. 

“Not much, just the part where you slammed the door on his head,” I say, purposely leaving out the part about the knife and the packages. 

“Sorry about that, business tends to follow me around.”

“Right,” I reply, the uneasy feeling from earlier returning.

“Anyways, I have some soup on the stove waiting for us. Shall we?” Doyle gestures to the kitchen and I follow him into the dining area. 

An awkward silence fills the atmosphere as we sit at the long table, eating our soups. It seemed neither one of us really wanted to address the interaction that had just occurred, but I couldn’t help myself from prying more.

“So Doyle, you mentioned running a small business,” I finally address the question itching at my brain, and continue not bothering to wait for his response, “What was it you said you sold again?” 

I see Doyle shift uncomfortably as he figures out how to respond, “We offer a mixture of services and some product,” he finally says. I frown at the deflection.

“I see, I see,” I put on a fake cheerful act so he doesn’t catch on that I’m suspicious of him. 

“Which brings me to something I forgot to tell you about,” Doyle starts, “I run my business out of my basement, so don’t worry about going down there. I don’t want you to accidentally get hurt.”

I ponder over the phrasing for a second. He’s obviously hiding something and using his fake concern for my safety to help take some attention off of the sketchy words. It is then and there I decide I am going down to the basement, “ok, don’t worry about me. I’ll stay out of your way.” 

I see Doyle visibly sigh in relief and the entire atmosphere changes into one of a more cheery mood. 

“So uh, what kind of soup is this?” I change the topic.

“Special recipe, don’t worry about it,” Doyle says with a wink. 

Dinner finished rather quickly and less grave after that. I walk into my room, still pondering the conversation that just took place. I try calling Cory who unshockingly doesn’t answer. I sigh and look towards the window, only to almost let out a scream when I see a dark figure standing on my balcony.

“SHH! Don’t scream!” the man rushes forward, slapping his hand over my mouth. At this point I’m practically hyperventilating, gasping for air while simultaneously trying not to flip out. I compose myself and elbow him in the stomach, escaping from his grasp as he hunches over and grabbing the candelabra off the desk next to me, holding it like a baseball bat.

“You?” I question in shock when I am met eye to eye with the stranger from the door earlier. 

The stranger snickers at my surprised expression, “the one and only, princess.”

“What do you want,” I grumble, ignoring the pet name and still holding the makeshift candelabra bat. 

“Calm down, sunshine. I’m just here to talk.”

“I have a name and it’s Mallory,” I grit my teeth out of annoyance.

“Okay, Mallory,” he put emphasis on ‘Mallory,’ as if to mock me, “I know what you’re thinking about that basement of Doyle’s, and I’m here to give you the warning to stay away.”

“What’s it to you if I go in the stupid basement anyways,” I glare.

He sighs, “listen, I’ve done business with Doyle for longer than you can drive. He’s not as innocent as he seems, and you definitely don’t want to be involved in anything he has going on here.” 

“Well, I’m stuck here for the night-”

He interrupts, “And you’ll be fine, as long as you don’t go into the basement or provoke Doyle.” 

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t,” he shrugs. He’s turning to leave when he looks over his shoulder, “you don’t have to believe me, but you will save us both a lot of trouble by keeping your nose out of our business, doll.”

And with that he climbs down the balcony, disappearing into the darkness of the night. Well then, that was extremely sketchy. Do I appreciate the warning? Yes. Am I going to listen? Absolutely not.

I sneak down the stairs, checking for Doyle each step of the way. I crouch on the last step for a while, and once I am convinced he is off in his room or in the bathroom, I make my move. 

The staircase down to the basement is very steep and very cold since the steps are made of cement. The further down I get, the darker and more stuffy the air becomes. There’s a musty smell, and it smells like bleach or some other kind of cleaning solution. 

I creek open the door and am met with a completely concrete room, brownish red stains littering the cold floor. But the most shocking part is the many sets of chains lining the walls, with handcuffs at the bottoms. I try to convince myself that maybe he has very aggressive dogs, although I know that isn’t true. 

I walk into another dimly lit room, a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, flickering. In the middle of the room sits a lone dentists’ chair, a tray of metal tools next to it. I inch closer to see blood covering the tray, along with a pair of pliers.

I stumble backward, bile rising in my throat when I see a few teeth and fingernails sitting on the tray. I lean against the wall and get ahold of the dinner that was quickly making its way up my throat. 

I look up once I have composed myself and find I am eye to eye with a refrigerator. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach as I reach out for the handle covered in a red substance I can only assume to be blood. 

I take a deep breath and rip open the door, to be met with several containers of meat, each labeled with a certain meal. I frown. Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding, and Doyle just sells animal meat?

My eyes wander to the only container that seems to be partly empty, with the label, “soup.” So this must’ve been what Doyle made our soup from tonight. I go to close the door when a jar with a spherical object floating in it catches my eye. I pick it up and turn it over. 

This has to be some sick joke. Two human eyeballs float harmlessly in the water. I almost drop the jar in shock. Wait…If the in the jar is human eyes, then the other meat in the fridge is-

I turn around just as that soup makes it's way back up my throat. I empty the contents of my stomach onto the floor, unable to stop the stream of tears that had begun flowing from my eyes. I take a deep breath, trying to shove the thoughts of my cannibalism to the back of my brain.

There’s one room I haven’t seen yet. I whimper to myself before warily walking through the doorway into the next room.

A girl lays, bleeding, in the middle of a cage against the wall. I rush over and try to shake her awake, taking any chance I have of getting her out of here alive. 

After a minute or so of me trying to wake her up, her eyes finally open and she looks at me in confusion.

“Come on, I can help you get out of here!” I urge her to stand. She goes to reply but instead focuses on something behind me, whimpering. I grab at her again, “Come on! We don’t have much time!”

A shadow darkens my view of the girl, “That’s right you don’t have much time.” 

I gasp and turn around, Doyle standing behind me with a bloody knife in hand. I look behind him to see the stranger standing there, holding a piece of pipe, a sadistically smug smirk on his face, “I, uh, couldn’t sleep?” I suggest. Doyle chuckles humorlessly, his grip on the knife tightening, a look of fury in his eyes, “I swear I won’t tell anyone!”

“I told you to stay upstairs, Mallory,” Doyle mocks, disappointedly. My eyes widen in horror at the angry nature of the statement. I try to back away, only to jump in shock when my phone starts ringing. I ignore it. Whoever that is can wait until I’m out of such a dangerous situation.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away after our little talk,” the stranger chimes in, “sleep tight, princess.” 

The pipe swings towards my head and everything goes black. 

“Hi, this is Mallory, I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.”