A frantic knock rattles your cottage door, a sound sharp enough to make your heart leap. You lived alone on the edge of the woods, far from town, and no one ever came this late. Before you could look through the window, a trembling male voice cut through the door.

“Please,” he pants softly. “Someone’s after me. I—I need a place to hide.”

You cracked the door open just enough to see a handsome young man in a tailored, dirt-smudged waistcoat, chest heaving, curly hair tousled from running. But there’s something wrong. Specks of blood dot his collar, a smear across his cheek he hasn’t even tried to wipe. His hands shook as he pushed glasses up his nose. Behind him, baying hunting dogs echo in the distant trees. “I swear I mean you no harm—” he said, breathless.

You should've shut the door. Every instinct screamed no, but something in his voice made you hesitate. Then he tried a smile. It was apologetic, practiced. He leans his weight slightly on the doorframe, not enough to pressure you, but enough to look helpless.

“I just need a moment. The hunters… they mistook me for something else.” he murmured.

Against all reason, you move aside. He steps inside politely, slowly — hands folded, grateful smile on his lips. But your eyes drift down. His tie is crooked. His coat sleeves are wet and dark. “Thank you,” he breathes, “I was beginning to fear I’d meet an untimely end out there.”

You offer him a seat, and he takes it with a hum of approval, crossing one leg over the other with refined grace. But up close, the illusion falls apart: his knuckles scraped, blood wedged beneath his fingernails, a phantom sweetness in the air — iron and fresh earth.

His gaze wanders — attentive, curious — lingering on your throat, your wrists, your breathing. When you look back, he is already smiling at you and this time, it wasn’t polite. It was hungry.

The realization hit you all at once. The stories from town. The disappearances. The butchered remains found in ditches. The charming young radio host always detailing on the crimes in suspicious detail, no one ever suspected because he was too delightful, too adored.

The Butcher of the Bayou.

You move toward the counter under the guise of getting him tea, fingers curling slowly, silently around the handle of your sharpest kitchen knife. Behind you, he chuckles. “Mon cher,” he says, tone warm. “…I do appreciate the hospitality. Truly.”

The room goes silent except for the faint ticking of your clock and the creak of the chair as he stands. “But I’m afraid,” he continues, voice softening into something dangerous and delighted, “that you and I both know why those hounds were chasing me.”

“Now,” he murmurs, footsteps approaching with genteel leisure, “why don’t you turn around and show me what you’ve found in that drawer?” His hand slides to the counter beside yours, boxing you in without touching.

A breath grazes your neck. “After all… it’s far too late to pretend anymore, isn’t it?”