The Sauce

The entity retracted its limbs, the human skin suit hanging off its frame in tattered ribbons. It looked at Sal.

Sal backed up until he hit the stove. The heat of the Sunday gravy radiated against his back.

"What are you?" Sal whispered.

"We are the new management," the entity said. Its voice was no longer coming from a mouth, but vibrating in the air itself. "We find your species... inefficient. But flavorful."

The entity leaned over the table. It dipped a long, black claw into the bowl of rigatoni. It lifted the sauce to where its face used to be.

"Rich," it observed. "The livestock here is well-fed. High caloric density. Good for the harvest."

Sal looked at the gun lying on the floor next to Mikey. It looked like a toy. He looked at his phone on the table. Useless.

He realized then that his arrogance had blinded him. He thought the world ran on money and respect. He thought he was the predator because he was a wolf among sheep. He hadn't realized there were things in the dark that ate wolves.

The entity moved toward him. It didn't walk; it flowed.

"You offered hospitality," the entity said, looming over him, blocking out the light of the fire. "We accept."

Sal closed his eyes as the shadow consumed him.

\---

The fire in the hearth crackled, burning down to embers. The pot of Sunday gravy continued to bubble on the stove, thick and red and fragrant, filling the room with the scent of home.

But the room was empty.

The chairs were pushed back. The wine was unfinished. The only sign that anyone had been there was a single, shattered plate and a lingering smell of tar that slowly faded beneath the scent of basil.

Sal’s Sunday Gravy was closed for business. The new owners would be moving in shortly.