A Taste For Revenge

The wind howled outside like a banshee, its icy fingers curling around the worn cabin walls. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and bubbling broth. Alma stirred the pot, her wooden spoon scraping against the sides with a soft clink, echoing secrets in the silence. Shadows danced under flickering candlelight, whispering tales of vengeance as she prepared the feast.

“Tonight, they’ll come,” Alma murmured to herself, a sly smile curling her lips. “They’ll come for what they think is a feast, but it will be their final supper.”

Fifteen years had passed since the villagers burned her sister, Maren, at the stake. The flames had licked at her skin, turning her into a charred offering to the gods of ignorance. “Revenge is a dish best served cold,” Maren had whispered before the flames consumed her, and Alma had sworn to make the villagers pay for their cruelty.

Alma had always been the odd one, the strange girl with wild hair and a penchant for the unusual. Maren, with her warm smile and gentle laugh, was her opposite—an anchor in a stormy sea. The sisters shared a bond that transcended words, woven through the laughter of childhood and the shared secrets whispered under moonlit skies. They had explored the dense forests together, danced in the rain, and dreamed of a future where they would be free from the shackles of the village’s superstitions.

But those dreams shattered one fateful night when a villager accused Maren of witchcraft, claiming her beauty and kindness masked a sinister heart. “She cast a spell on my son!” the man had yelled, his voice rising above the crowd. Fear and ignorance fueled the mob, a living entity of rage and revenge, bent on punishing the innocent.

Alma had fought to defend her sister, but her voice was lost in the cacophony of screams and chants. They dragged Maren away, and Alma’s heart shattered as she watched, helpless, while the flames danced hungrily around her sister, consuming everything she was. Maren’s last words echoed in her mind: “They’ll pay, Alma. They’ll pay in blood.”

For years, Alma had plotted her revenge, studying the ways of the forest, learning the secrets of herbs and roots. She became an expert in the art of deception, honing her skills while the villagers went about their lives, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in her heart. She learned how to prepare meals that would leave an unforgettable taste, a concoction that would lure them in and seal their fate.

As dusk fell, a knock echoed through the cabin, a sharp rap-rap-rap that sent a shiver down Alma’s spine. She opened the door to find three villagers, faces drawn and cold as the moonlight. They stepped inside, bringing with them the chill of the night.

“Alma! We’ve come for the feast,” one of them said, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “You’re the talk of the village. They say you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

Alma smiled, a sly twist of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, I have indeed. Sit, enjoy the warmth. The meat is nearly ready.”

They settled around the table, their breath visible in the cold air, as she ladled thick, steaming broth into bowls. The liquid sloshed, glug-glug-glug, filling the room with its savory aroma. The villagers leaned in, eager for the warmth and comfort she offered, unaware of the true nature of the meal.

“Is that lamb?” one asked, his eyes wide with hunger.

“Something like that,” Alma replied, her voice a silky whisper. “It’s a special recipe, passed down through generations.”

As they feasted, the sound of chomp-chomp-chomp filled the air, mingling with their laughter. They savored the meat, oblivious to the darkness hidden in every bite. Alma watched them with gleaming eyes, heart racing as the sweet taste of revenge filled her senses.

“I must confess,” she said, leaning closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. “This meat has a unique flavor… a hint of sweetness, wouldn’t you agree?”

They nodded, blissfully ignorant, the warmth of the broth enveloping them like a lover’s embrace.

As their laughter faded into quiet satisfaction, Alma felt a thrill surge through her. “You wanted a feast, didn’t you? Well, I made sure to prepare a real delicacy.”

The villagers looked up, confusion clouding their features. “What do you mean?” one stammered.

Alma’s smile widened, revealing teeth glistening in the candlelight. “You see, my dear friends, revenge is indeed a dish best served cold… and you’re the main course.”

In that moment, she lifted a small carving knife, its blade shimmering like ice. The realization hit them too late, but their screams echoed through the cabin as Alma descended upon them, the wind outside howling a wicked tune. The fire crackled, and the meat continued to roast, a grisly reminder of what had been served—sweet, succulent revenge, savored in the darkness.

As the villagers fought against their fate, Alma felt a strange sense of liberation. The years of pain, the nights spent mourning her sister, all washed away in this moment of dark triumph. She became the embodiment of her sister’s vengeance, the rage of a thousand nights manifesting in her swift movements and the sharp edge of her blade.

The flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows on the walls, mirroring the chaos that ensued. Alma reveled in the fear in their eyes, the betrayal they felt, knowing too late the monster they had created.

And when it was done, the cabin was quiet once more, the only sound the crackling fire and the distant howling wind. The villagers lay lifeless, their faces frozen in expressions of horror and disbelief. Alma wiped the blade clean, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the savory aroma of the feast that was meant to be.

“This is what you wanted,” she whispered to the air, as if her sister could hear her. “This is for you, Maren.”

Alma carefully prepared the remains, her movements methodical and precise. She recalled every tale of cooking she had ever heard, every hint of flavor she had ever savored. The meat, tender and rich, was cut and seasoned, transforming into a feast worthy of the darkest celebration. Each slice was deliberate, each piece a reminder of the innocence lost, the bond shattered.

When the preparations were complete, Alma set the table again, arranging the plates with care. The hearth glowed warmly, and she lit more candles, their flickering flames casting an eerie glow on the walls, illuminating the dark corners that whispered secrets of old.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, sending a shiver down her spine. The sound was too innocent, too ordinary after the horrors that had unfolded. She approached cautiously, the air thick with tension. When she opened the door, she was greeted by a fourth villager, a young woman named Eliza, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Alma!” she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of joy and relief. “I heard about your feast! Everyone is talking about it! They want to come and—”

Eliza’s words died in her throat as she stepped inside, her gaze falling upon the remnants of the gruesome banquet. Horror washed over her face, eyes darting from the bloodied table to Alma’s composed demeanor. “What… what happened here?”

Alma’s smile was both warm and chilling. “I was just preparing the most exquisite dish, Eliza. You’re just in time for the main course.”

Eliza staggered back, her breath hitching as she took in the scene. “You… you can’t be serious. What did you do?” Her voice trembled, each word like a knife, slicing through the silence.

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” Alma repeated, the words dripping with malevolence. “And I’ve waited a long time for this.”

Eliza turned to flee, but Alma was quicker. She lunged forward, the knife glinting in the dim light. “You’re not leaving, dear Eliza. You wanted to come to the feast, didn’t you?”

“No! Please!” Eliza’s plea was drowned by Alma’s laughter, a sound that resonated like a chilling melody.

In that moment, as the blade met flesh, Alma felt an exhilarating rush—a surge of power unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was the culmination of years of suffering, the weight of her sister’s death lifting as she exacted her final retribution.

As the last villager fell, Alma stood among the remnants of her banquet, her heart pounding with both satisfaction and something darker, a hunger that could never be sated. She glanced around the cabin, the walls closing in around her like a hungry embrace.

The fire crackled, and the shadows deepened, shifting and swirling as if they had come alive. Outside, the wind continued its mournful wail, a haunting serenade to the horrors that had transpired.

Alma approached the table, now laden with the evidence of her vengeance, and began to serve the plates once more. The meal would be shared with those who still believed in her charm, those who would come seeking warmth and hospitality, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited them.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The relentless pounding of the villagers’ footsteps echoed in the distance. They had heard the commotion and were drawn in by the tantalizing scents wafting through the air. Alma smiled, her heart racing with anticipation.

“Come in, come in!” she called, her voice a syrupy invitation. “There’s plenty for everyone!”

The door creaked open, and a crowd of villagers entered, eyes wide with hunger and curiosity. They filled the room, oblivious to the truth that lingered in the air like a fog, thickening with every passing moment.

“Alma! We heard you have the best feast in the village!” one man exclaimed, his hands rubbing together in excitement. “What’s cooking?”

“Something special,” she replied, the knife glinting ominously in the candlelight. “You’re just in time for the main course.”

As they settled around the table, Alma ladled the steaming broth into their bowls, the thick liquid swirling with the rich flavors of her revenge. They leaned in, inhaling the enticing aroma, unaware that they were partaking in the dark legacy of their past.

The room filled with the sounds of slurping and satisfied murmurs, punctuated by the ominous creaking of the cabin, as if the walls themselves were watching in anticipation. Alma watched, her heart racing as the villagers devoured the meal, their laughter mixing with the echo of her sister’s cries.

“Delicious, Alma!” one villager exclaimed, wiping his mouth. “You’ve outdone yourself!”

“Why, thank you!” Alma replied, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “I hope you enjoy every bite.”

As the last bite was consumed, the atmosphere shifted. Confusion clouded their features as they began to piece together the horror that lingered in the air. The taste of the meat, rich and unfamiliar, began to twist in their stomachs.

“What… what did you put in this?” one woman gasped, her face pale as realization dawned.

Alma’s laughter echoed through the cabin, chilling them to their core. “The taste of revenge, my dear friends. A recipe that was passed down through generations.”

Screams erupted as the villagers realized the truth, panic spreading like wildfire among them. But Alma merely watched, her heart swelling with satisfaction, knowing that they would finally understand the cost of their ignorance.

In that moment, as the chaos unfolded, she felt a strange sense of liberation. The years of pain, the nights spent mourning her sister, all washed away in this dark triumph. The laughter and screams intertwined, a macabre symphony that filled the cabin, resonating with the spirits of the past.

Alma lifted the knife high, its blade gleaming in the dim light, and for a brief moment, she felt her sister’s presence, urging her on. She plunged it into the heart of her final victim, the sound of the blade sinking deep accompanied by the thud of flesh meeting steel.

“This is for you, Maren,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. The villagers fell silent, the warmth of their laughter replaced by the chilling realization of their fate.

As the fire crackled and the wind howled outside, Alma knew that her revenge was complete. She had served her feast cold, and in doing so, had forged a bond with her sister that would transcend death itself.

With a final glance at the remnants of the villagers, she turned away, stepping into the darkness of the forest beyond. The cabin, once a place of warmth and family, was now a monument to her vengeance—a haunting reminder of what lay hidden behind the veneer of hospitality.

And as the moon rose high in the sky, casting its silver glow over the land, Alma disappeared into the night, leaving behind a chilling legacy of revenge and the echoes of laughter that would never again be heard.