Spirit Steak
A short horror story about medium-rare meat.
Angela sighed as the bright lights of The Forgotten Flower bloomed over the horizon. She had lost count of how many hours she had been driving, staring out an insect-peppered windshield at a road so dark it felt dead.
She hadn’t seen it on the map. Didn’t know a bed and breakfast existed out here. But that didn’t matter. All that did was reaching it.
Its parking lot welcomed her with a dirty crunch. She turned the car off, feeling the hours behind the wheel collecting in her lower back.
She got out, stretching the ache away as she ambled to an entrance framed in bright flora – all colors and pretty petals. The smell of cooking swelled out of the doors as she opened them, and she was reminded of how long it had been since she’d eaten.
“Good evening,” a voice said.
“Oh,” Angela said, turning to face it. A short woman stood behind a wooden desk. She wore thick glasses and a turtleneck sweater pulled so high her hair was caught in it. “What a lovely place.”
“It’s a hidden gem,” the woman admitted. “And we’d like to keep it that way. Are you hoping to stay the night?”
“If you have a room.”
“We do,” she said, smiling.
The woman had dealt with the formalities – taking payment and personal details – before asking Angela if she wanted something to eat. She said yes, and was led to a dining room where she was introduced to a comfy chair and a young man called Neil.
“Welcome to The Forgotten Flower. We have fish and chips, cottage pie, rustic vegetable soup,” he said, filling her glass with water. “And this,” he continued, removing a small, leather-bound menu from inside his jacket. “Is our special.”
Angela took it, noting how battered the leather looked. How worn the texture felt against her skin. She opened it, furrowed her brow, and pointed to the only item written in cursive on its cream page. “What on earth is that?”
“Our special,” the young man repeated, matter of fact.
“Spirit steak,” Angela read.
“That’s right. The owner cooks them personally.”
“Why is it called spirit steak?”
“She adds a couple of ingredients from our own garden that sometimes – and I must emphasize the sometimes – allow whoever eats it to communicate with the dead.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Niall.”
“Neil,” he corrected.
“Neil. I’m too tired for this. I’ve been driving for…” Angela checked her phone, recoiling when she saw the time. “Jesus. Is the kitchen even open?”
“It’s delicious,” Neil pressed, raising an eyebrow in invitation.
“I’m sure it is.”
“Served with carrots and a fluffy, creamy mash.”
“That will what? Turn me into a vampire?”
“No, no,” Neil chuckled. “It’s the steak and only the steak that’s special. That I promise you.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Try it then. If you don’t believe, you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“These ingredients. From your garden.”
“Yes?”
“What are they?”
Neil didn’t say anything. Instead, he drew two fingers across his lips as if to zip them shut.
“Right,” Angela said. “That doesn’t sound promising. Or legal.”
“They haven’t shut us down yet.”
Angela looked around The Forgotten Flower’s interior, absorbing its somber lighting, old floral wallpaper, and slow jazz playing from somewhere she couldn’t see. No one else was dining. No elbows slouched at the bar. As far as she could tell, she was the only one here.
Still, there was something about the place that felt easy. Something that felt like she could, and should, settle into its skin.
“Alright,” Angela said, closing the menu and giving it back to Neil. “Fuck it. I’ll take a spirit steak.”
The steak hadn't fallen apart like butter. It had, even at medium-rare, been a little tough. Bits of it got stuck in Angela’s teeth and she thought it needed more salt. For all the claims it would be delicious, it was nothing more than average.
She closed the door to her room, perching on a bed so soft she felt herself sink. She waited. Sat in silence to see if the food digesting in her belly would blur the line between the living and dead or at least prove her fear that it had been laced with some sort of hallucinogenic.
Nothing happened.
Creaks answered themselves with a flush of water. Cold wind was sourced to a gap in the window. The muffled voice she heard in the hallway was met with a muffled response.
She didn’t feel any presence.
No ghosts.
No demons.
No dead.
All she felt was tired.
So, she showered. Brushed her teeth. Got into bed and turned the light off, inviting not just darkness into the room but more doubts as to whether she did or didn’t believe.
In that doubt, she was surprised to find herself wondering if the coat hanging on the back of the door was a phantom. If the pipe that groaned was a voice. She tucked her feet under the covers in case cold fingers would reach out and grab them.
At one point, she let out a nervous “hello” to see if the air would answer. It didn’t, and she laughed for being so silly.
Eventually, the tiredness of the drive grew too much and she sank back into the pillow, thinking of how good it felt under her head and what she would say to the owner when she was no doubt asked if she had enjoyed her stay.
Angela woke to the sound of birds filtering through a window she didn’t remember opening. Her head hummed; throbbed to the point that it felt like she was looking at the world through frosted glass.
She leaned over to grab her phone, pausing when she saw it had disappeared.
“What the fuck?”
She looked around the room, feeling fear drip down her neck as she realized the details that surrounded her when she had fallen asleep weren’t the same she had woken up to. The wallpaper was different. The carpet had changed. Her shoes were missing.
Remembering her room was at the front of the building, she rushed to the window. Her car had vanished and all she could do was raise a hand to her mouth.
She left, following the hallway’s familiarity down the stairs, rushing past door after door until she reached The Forgotten Flower’s floral entrance. Angela opened it, went to leave, but was pushed back by an invisible force.
She stumbled. Released a frustrated grunt. Tried again to push through an open door that framed blue skies and rolling hills but was met with what she could only describe as solid air. She shouted. Hurled her hands against it, feeling the odd, cold force push her back every time.
Behind her, someone shuffled.
“Hey!” Angela said, turning. When the woman behind the desk didn’t answer or look up, Angela yelled in her face. “Hello? Goddammit, look at me when I’m talking to you.”
The woman ignored her. Carried on as if she wasn’t there. Angela was about to start again – scream that she was trapped – when a shout tore through the building. She turned to face it. Listened as more shouts erupted from the space where she had sat for dinner.
She followed them, aware now that it wasn’t just one shout. There were more of them. Tens, maybe, layered on top of one other in a constant noise of unrelenting anguish and panic.
The dining room revealed itself as it had when she first arrived. Only, it wasn’t the difference in wallpaper that caught her attention, or the fact the lights above the tables had changed. It was the crowd of people gathered around one of the tables.
They clutched each other, crying. Huddled as they yelled at whoever was in their middle.
“No,” they sobbed.
“Stop.”
“Don’t do it.”
“Please, listen to us.
“Please, don’t do it.”
Angela reached their backs, pulling at shoulders and elbows so she could push past them. When she did, and the bodies parted enough for her to see, she found Neil – the same waiter that had greeted her – pouring water into a young man’s glass. Neil looked older now. Tired. Wrinkles dented the skin around his eyes and his hair was thinning.
“Neil,” Angela yelled. “Neil!”
He ignored her. Took no notice of Angela or the screaming mob.
She was about to grab him. Was about to break the circle of bodies and confront him when she saw what the man sat at the table was holding.
It was a menu. Small. Its leather more worn than she remembered it.
“No,” Angela gasped, realization pooling in her stomach. “No. No, don’t do it!”
Then the man at the table started speaking and the crowd around her fell quiet.
They waited.
Watched.
Held their phantom breaths.
“Go on then,” he said, voice vibrating like it was under water. “I’ll take the spirit steak.”
Before you go
My latest book, The Flowers at Flood House, is out now. It’s a horror novella about memories, grief, and lots of flowers. Feel free to check out reviews on Goodreads or click the button below to grab a copy.
If you want to read more of my fiction on Substack, you can check out Lightbulb, 483, A Gentle Rain, Cold House, or Blood Orange, Vanilla, and Musk.
If you want to connect, I love hearing from readers. I keep an Instagram updated and post regularly to Threads and Notes. You can also find me on TikTok.
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Woahhh spooky