Fresh Meat.

Around two years ago, I was 26 and had just bought my first house. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I was really proud of myself. I felt like I had finally “made it.” A responsible adult residing in a quiet suburban neighborhood, working from 9 to 5, living the “American Dream.” This delusion was only strengthened when I received a knock at my door. I naïvely assumed that it was a friendly neighbor coming to greet me.

I opened the front door to find an impressively tall and burly man. He had a long ginger beard and was sporting a red-plaid flannel. He looked like a modern-day lumberjack. He also just happened to smell like barbeque ribs. This must be the guy who hosts the neighborhood cook-outs, I assumed.

“Hey there, pal! The name’s Chuck. I saw the moving van this morning. I was mowin’ the grass and I thought I’d come over to see the fresh meat myself!” He offered me his hand, which had to be twice the size of my own. His grip was so strong that I was certain he would break my entire hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Chuck.” I had always been a pretty socially awkward guy, so the formalities of this introduction made me tense.

“Don’t be so jittery, cowboy! I didn’t mean to startle you. Say, would you mind if I try and make it up to you?”

He flashed me a toothy grin. It looked like he had some sort of meat stuck in his teeth. This only made me more unnerved, but I sustained my optimism and I convinced myself that this was just a normal, neighborly thing.

After agreeing to his proposal, he basically dragged me to his house, which happened to be directly across from mine. His lawn was so overgrown that the grass brushed my knees, and his house looked like it was about to collapse. The windows were broken, and it looked abandoned. That was my first clue of something being wrong.

“Just a bit farther, friend! I’ll cook you up somethin’ real special!” I could hear the morbid excitement in his voice, and I knew that I desperately needed to escape. We arrived at a small building behind his supposed house and he turned to look at me, still wearing that gristle-encrusted smile.

“Just give me a second to open the door here, buddy.” His hold on my wrist loosened as he fumbled with a rusty set of keys. I knew this could be my chance at escape if I was careful.

The door had barely opened when I tore free and ran to my house as fast as I could. From the glimpse that I got, all that was behind that door was a metal table and various medical instruments. I called the police immediately, but when they got there, Chuck was gone.

To this day I’m convinced that I narrowly escaped with my life, and I don’t answer the front door anymore.