John's eyelids flickered and a gasp escaped his lips. He tried to remember why he was lying on the floor. And why his clothes were torn and ripped. But his memory was foggy and his vision, blurred. From where he laid he could see the room. He recognized it as the living room of his house. But no, the once pale pink wallpaper had streaks of crimson running up them. The furniture were all overturned and sprinkled with a mist of red. So much red. John tried to sit. His fingers wriggled but could not move. The room stank. He moved his head an inch towards the direction of the front door. And his eyes wandered around the room, seeking desperately for answers. The carpet had stains on them too. Blotches much like wine stains. Blood? He had to call for help. He looked toward the front door. It was closed. And clear of any blood. All it had, was a single hole near the bottom. Wood splinters littered the door mat directly below it. The hole was almost a perfect circle, as if someone had carved it out with a knife. There was something dark dangling from the top of the hole, something fluttering in the wind. Ribbons? Black ribbons? John tried to lift his head higher and squinted. What are those black ribbons drifting around the aperture? Then the strands seem to elongate. They seemed to spiral down the height of hole like ink smears. Then a chin descended, followed by a smile that seemed to stretch literally, from cheek to cheek. And teeth, as white as snow, gleamed from its frame of dripping red lips.
When John awoke again, he found he could move his body now. In fact, he felt rejuvenated. He was bursting with energy! But he was still afraid. Who was that person at the door? Why was he smiling? Was the person waiting for him to wake? John scanned the room and decided that the only weapon around was the remote control. He squeezed the plastic plank between both hands and decided he needed a knife. He decided that he had to go to the kitchen.
The smell from the kitchen was nauseating. John gagged. But the knives were there and he needed to get the knives. He crouched and made his way to the kitchen. Inside, it was completely clean, the floor was free of any blood. But on the long main table where John's mother used to lay out the food to cool, now laid John's mother herself. She laid down with her hands by her side, and her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Her apron dress had a hole much like the one in the door. Except that from this hole, John's mother's entrails were spilling out. John fell to his knees and bit his hand to muffle the screams growing inside him. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled. And then he saw. He saw that next to his mother laid a plate. With a knife and a fork placed neatly beside it, and a napkin folded by the side. What was going on?
John shot up from the ground and grabbed a knife from the drawer. He howled and ran out of the kitchen. He screamed for the attacker to show himself. He demanded the person responsible to face him. He went to the front door and kicked it open. He ran into the garden and jumped over the fence into Mr Hopkin's lawn and screamed for help. But there was no one. In fact, there was nothing at all. No sound. No cars humming. No birds squawking. No crickets chirping. Nothing. He looked up at the sun and his mind collapsed.
Again, John found himself lying on the ground. He stood up gingerly, and found that the silence still enveloped the neighborhood. He needed help. The phone! He could phone for help! John picked up himself and ran back to the house.
With the knife held in front of him like a torch, John entered the house. This time however, the house smelt different. Instead of the noxious stank, the house smelt...good. No. It wasn't just good, it was savory. His stomach growled. John dropped his knife. Help can wait. He needed food. He lifted his nose and inhaled. Yes. He needed food.
John stood at the doorway of the kitchen. His mother was still on the table. On the plate however, was a note. John crossed the kitchen and snatched it up. He looked at the note and then towards his mother. The smell was too much. How could a corpse smell so good? He held his breath and pulled up a chair. John looked down at the note. And on the note, written in cursive font, were the words Bon Appétit.