Photo Courtesy: IWKing


Phil A. McGutt let out a gutturally contented sigh, inhaling deeply, the familiar fragrance of freshly flecked flesh. He was jostled awake by an unmistakable odour wafting through his nostrils. Yet fitful sleep deprived Phil of physical rest, but more offensively, of mental refreshment. Phil's eyes fluttered open, contentedly taking in his dimly-lit chamber. The only source of guiding light, a single flickering candle, had cast eerie shadowy shapes across the unkempt parquet linoleum floor, and spackled tile walls. The air was thick, with a dank musty odor of tattered cookbooks, and frightful macabre trophies. Even so, the savory scents that jostled Phil were calling to him, urging his waking.
As Phil stretched his chiseled arms above his head, he let out a long, satisfied cry; a decrepitly trite yawn, as if hailing the oncoming day's events. He felt an insatiable hunger welling inside himself; a pang that could only be sated by the taste of warm, succulent flesh. Phil snorted, climbed to his...