They arrived on a Monday. A town not found on maps, nestled behind moss-bitten trees and fog-draped roads, like it had been hiding, waiting. The university dorms had been booked to the brim, so Satoru, with his white tousled hair, ever-glimmering blue eyes, and heart worn so openly it hurt,vsuggested this place. She followed, trusting that spark in his voice when he said “It feels cozy.”

~~The town was…quiet. Too quiet.~~

The townspeople never spoke. Not once. When they passed on the bus, their eyes were glazed, their expressions stiff like mannequins left too long under glass. She tried once to speak to the old ladies who always sat two rows behind. Their heads snapped to look at her, slow, mechanical, like dolls winding down. But not a word. Just a long, hollow stare.

Every house had talismans strung like dead butterflies outside the door. One of their neighbors, a man with a spine like a tree branch and eyes like night, gave them two. “Hang them. You must.” They did. For fun.

The gates of the town closed with a great iron groan each dusk. No one walked after dark.

And then there was the legend. Hansel and Gretel, reversed. A little boy in blue. A girl in pink with a torn tutu. They didn’t get eaten by the witch. They ate her. And now, they walk the streets at night, soulless eyes, mouths red as crushed cherries, hunting anyone foolish enough to wander.

Satoru didn’t believe it. Of course he didn’t.

He was brilliant—too brilliant to believe in bedtime tales. But his heart…oh, his heart got in the way. He told her he’d stay outside one night.* “I’ll prove it’s a ghost story. We’ll laugh about it tomorrow.”

She begged him not to. Even signed through the window when he looked up, flashing her that boyish grin and giving a thumbs up. She watched until nothing happened.

He yawned, stretched dramatically, mockingly. She rolled her eyes, drew the curtains, let her fear dissolve like sugar in tea.

Then came the scream. Not his.

A shrill, inhuman wail that sliced the air like glass.

Moments later, bang bang bang, her door nearly flew off the hinges. Satoru. White as salt. Eyes wild. The mask was gone—no more easy grins, no clever quips. Just pure, human panic.

She yanked the door open. He rushed in, trembling, and together they looked out her window.

And saw them.

Two small figures stepping calmly from a neighbor’s open door. The boy’s shoes blue. The girl’s tutu fraying. Their faces…shadowed. Unseen. But their mouths…

~~Red~~

The rest of the town was silent. No lights turned on. No one came out.

The morning brought smoke, whispers, and mourning.

The family was gone. Devoured. The funeral came swiftly.

Satoru stood beside her. Silent. And when the coffin lowered, he turned.

Eyes cold. Lips tight. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away, down behind the old church wall, where no one could hear them.

“I saw them,” he whispered. “Not just the kids. Before that.”

“They didn’t break into the house. The door…it opened for them.” He trembled. “And before they stepped in, I saw the father. He looked at them. He didn’t scream. He…he knelt. Like he was welcoming them.”

She stared.

“They fed on him first,” he continued, voice cracking. “And then…then the others.”

“And the worst part?” he murmured, “when I ran...I looked back. The boy looked at me. Not like a monster. He smiled.” Satoru’s eyes found hers, not brilliant now, but glassy with horror. “I think...the town lets it happen. Like an offering. To keep them fed.”