MicroHorror

Charles sighed at the tinkling of Mrs. Allen’s summoning bell. He rose from his seat at the computer, Mrs. Allen’s dead husband’s bulky leather chair crinkling beneath his movements.

He would’ve quit as her butler years ago, but he was enjoying himself far too much, lately, to even consider departing now.

On his way to the widow’s bedroom, he retrieved a serving tray from the kitchen, ignoring the stench of burned flesh and the splashes of blood on the countertop.

Mrs. Allen snacked on finger sandwiches on Mondays. On Wednesdays, she craved sweetbread. Fridays were reserved for devilled eyeballs. Today was Monday.

After caring for the widow, Charles settled back into his seat, returning his gaze to the live video feed of the fingerless man trapped in the cellar.