The feast was brought out at the baron’s request, of course.

Nimble servant hands placed steaming platters covered with silver domes in front of each guest. I was glad—I hadn’t eaten a thing since that morning—and my seven-hour journey to the estate had well worn me out. Looking around, I saw similar expressions on the others’ faces: watering mouths, licking lips, fingers fidgeting out of hungry anticipation. I believe I speak for everyone in that room when I say we all scrambled to remove that blasted dome from our plates the second the baron gave us his nod of approval.

But as soon as I finally lifted it, I nearly flipped the table in disgust.

The meat was a sick, slimy shade of green, and it quivered with writhing white maggots. Brown, crawling spiders blanketed the baskets of bread; thin, pale yellow, wriggling worms swam in the soup, which bubbled with something sour. The smothering, organic smell of decay choked the entire banquet room. It was beyond repulsive, and yet everyone else began to eat as if nothing was wrong.

My eyes glazed over. A squirming disgust churned in my stomach as they shoved forkfuls of rotting meat into their mouths, crunched on spiders and ants and buzzing flies. Exclaimed how good the meal was, how fine the taste. As if they couldn’t see the rot! I would have vomited right then if it weren’t for the baron’s awkward glance in my direction.

I tried to shake the others—to wake them from whatever rotten spell they were under—but it was to no avail. The woman next to me didn’t even seem to notice I was there; she just kept eating and eating and eating as dark, foul smelling liquid dribbled down her pointed chin.

“Delicious!” she cried periodically, though each time seemed more forced, until it sounded more like an agonized wail, and the banquet hall became a cacophonous symphony of such harsh shrieks. The more I looked, the more I noticed guests’ faces turning pale and jaundice, eyes dulling and dying, bile spilling from their still-swallowing throats.

And the baron, he was still watching from the head of the table, like a hunter daring his game. A sly smile sneaked across his face, and I felt my left eye twitch.

“Well, sir, aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, lifting his spoon and slurping, worms wetly flinging themselves against his lips as he did so. I stared at him, throat tightening. My mind was screaming. I could think of no way to respond, other than to get up and run for the door.