The Final Course
The grandfather clock
struck nine as the silver
platters were finally
uncovered.
Instead of the roasted duck,
a severed hand rested on the
bed of rosemary.
Before anyone could
scream, the mansion's
heavy oak doors automatically
locked.
The lights flickered out,
plunging the grand dining
room into pitch blackness.
A wet, heavy thud echoed
as the host collapsed onto
the mahogany table.
When the candles were relit,
a towering figure stood
holding a carving knife.
A porcelain mask reflected
the frantic, tearful faces of
the remaining guests.
One by one, the crimson
wine on the tablecloth was
replaced by a darker red.
Breath was held beneath the
long drapes as heavy boots
approached slowly.
The figure stepped over the
furniture, whispering that
dessert was about to be served.
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