Red Room: The Last Supper

No one knew where the Red Room appeared from it simply was. An enigma tucked between alleyways, behind a rusted iron door with no handle and no welcome. People whispered about it in hushed tones, as if speaking too loud might summon it closer to home.

But one night, it found Rayen.

A low hum called to him, like a lullaby soaked in static. Drawn in by the rhythm, he wandered through the deserted streets until the door revealed itself. No sign. No explanation. Just red paint, peeling like skin. He should’ve walked away. But curiosity, as always, was a loyal traitor.

He entered.

Inside, the room pulsed in red. Walls bled with an unnatural glow, as if the heart of the building was on the outside, beating around him. The floor was sticky, like syrup and old blood. A dining table sat in the center immaculate, ornate, and completely out of place. On it sat two empty bowls and a silver cloche that steamed from beneath.

And then, they came.

Two mascots oversized, grinning creatures with frozen cartoon faces. One was a pink bear with glassy black eyes, its fur stained in places. The other, a lemon-yellow dog with a mouth that stretched too wide.

They didn’t speak. They danced.

A waltz of madness, limbs flopping, rubber feet slapping the sticky floor. Rayen stepped back, but the door had vanished.

They stopped. In unison, they turned toward him. Their hollow eyes seemed to burrow into his skull.

“Sit,” said the bear in a voice like broken toys.

He sat.

The yellow dog lifted the cloche.

Steam curled into the air, carrying a scent Rayen couldn’t place familiar, yet wrong. The bowl beneath was filled with thick soup. Chunks floated in it meat, gristle, something stringy and fibrous.

“What is this?” he asked, already knowing the answer he feared.

The mascots didn’t reply.

Instead, a small projector lit up behind them. Grainy footage played on the red wall a home video. His home. His family. His mother’s laugh, his sister’s quiet smile, his father humming while cooking. Then static. Then screams.

His mother’s voice, pleading.

His sister’s last breath.

His father, begging.

“Eat,” the dog whispered.

Rayen stood. “This is a lie. This is sick. They’re not”

“EAT.” the mascots said together, now towering.

He looked back at the soup. The meat was shaped too precisely. That was that her necklace floating in the broth?

His knees buckled.

They forced him back into the chair. Mascot hands, soft and plush, yet immovable like iron, held his arms in place. The bear held his head. The dog picked up the spoon.

The broth burned his lips.

“Every spoonful a memory,” the bear whispered.

The footage changed. A birthday. A holiday. His family, once whole. Laughter echoed across the room, twisting into distorted cries. With every spoonful, the memories were overwritten, replaced by agony and silence.

“You were too busy to visit,” the dog said, voice now like static knives.

“You didn’t answer the phone,” the bear followed.

“You were never there.”

He gagged. He wept. But they kept feeding him. A sudden jolt he vomited into the bowl.

The mascots didn’t stop.

“Lick it clean.”

“No please I didn’t mean to ”

“You never meant anything.”

They pushed his face into the mess. The taste god, the taste wasn’t just physical. It carved guilt into his bones.

They let him go. Finally.Rayen crawled to the corner, broken.The mascots stood side by side, then bowed.

“One final course,” they said in unison.The cloche lifted once more.This time, inside wasn’t soup. It was a mirror. Rayen crawled to it.

His reflection stared back. But not quite. This version of him had eyes sunken with rot, skin waxy and pale. Around his neck: his sister’s necklace. On his arm: his father’s watch. And from his mouth, blood trickled, as if he too had been eating something he shouldn’t.

Then the reflection smiled.The mascots began to peel.Not skin. Not costume.

Peel.

The pink bear folded into itself, revealing nothing. Just a void.

The dog collapsed into dust.Rayen was alone.And the room began to hum again.The table disappeared. The walls pulsed faster.He stood. Or maybe he didn’t.He walked forward. Or maybe he didn’t.The mirror stayed. His reflection stepped forward, reaching through, pulling him in Rayen woke up in his own bed, sweating.

The doorbell rang.He opened the door.Two mascots stood there pink bear and yellow dog. Grinning. In their hands: a thermos.

"Soup's ready," they said.

And behind them, the world turned red.