Toxic Hospitality

A house is standing alone in the middle of the woods. It’s a small log cabin of a house, but still a home for a family of 4. The front door is the only exit, the windows let in sunlight, but none of those windows could be opened. If anyone wanted to come in, they’d have to come in through the front door, and any intruders would not want to deal with the wrath of a southern American family living in the woods.

The house has many overgrown plants outside, and bugs and dirt collect on the porch. The inside is the complete opposite: The counters are spotless, there’s not a spec of dust on the ground, and a person wouldn’t smell anything bad if they walked in. The only smell right now is the meal the family's mother prepares.

The mother softly hums, looking down at the soup she’s preparing. There’s no specific tune she’s humming, but her hums fill the quiet house as she does. The father is on the couch, his head facing toward the TV in front of him. The daughter is sitting in the corner of the kitchen. The child is in front of the building blocks she would be playing with. Finally, the son is locked in his room.

“Ok, everyone, food is ready!” the mother calls out with a strained grin. No one in the family answers. I’ll bring everyone their food, don’t worry.” The mother walks toward the cabinet to grab a few bowls.

She kept humming to herself as she pours soup into four bowls. She walks toward the daughter but stops a few feet further than an arm’s length away. Her legs hesitate to get any closer to her child, and her eyes only lay upon the building blocks. The mother places the bowl on the ground and silently walks toward the father. The mother walks beside him on the couch and places the bowl on the table in front of him, beside the shotgun and the revolver.

“You sure did love those guns, honey.” The mother stares down at them. When the mother made that comment, a scraping noise came from the son’s locked door. The sound is as intense as nails on a chalkboard, but the mother only recomposes herself, “You sure do love those guns, honey! I love that you keep them in the house.” The mother says, and the scraping noise stops shortly after. She stretches out her hand to where the father would be on the couch without looking in his direction, but she quickly retracts her hand and rushes toward the son’s room.

Without hesitation, she places the food in front of the son’s room door and took a few steps away. She turns around, keeping herself as still as possible while she waits. The door to the son’s room creaks open. She listens to the sound of bones popping before the eventual sound of the bowl being dragged across the floor. The son’s door closes back again, and she heaves a sigh.

She walks toward the kitchen counter and eats the soup she made. The entire family has their meals, and the mother’s hums echo throughout the silent house. The mother slowly eats her food as she stares straight at the son’s bedroom door. Her hand is trying to stay as steady as possible as she eats. She continues until she hears a shatter inside the son’s room, and she stands upright before sliding her bowl of unfinished soup into the sink.

“I’m done with my food, I think I’ll go to sleep,” the mother says. She leaves her bowl on the counter and walks to pick up her daughter’s untouched bowl. “Goodnight…Sweetie, " the mother forces out. She pours the soup of the daughter’s bowl down the sink drain. She then walks over to father, whose bowl has also gone untouched. “Goodnight, honey. I’ll clean your guns before bed. I know you’ve been using them all day, and they’re empty.” She says as she grabs his bowl and does the same to his as she did to her daughter’s. “I’ll make sure the door is locked too.” She says as she starts making her way toward the door.

The horrible scratches scrape the door once again as she makes her way to the front door, which stops her dead in her tracks. Her eyes stare longingly at the door before forcing out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, I can see it locked from here. Your father must’ve locked it when he came back home.” She chuckles softly and backs away. The scratches stop, and she walks toward the guns in front of the father.

The mother takes the shotgun and checks inside the bullet chambers, then does the same with the revolver. The shotgun had one shell, while the revolver had four bullets in the chamber. “Both empty, nothing to worry about.” She says. She pauses to take a momentary glance at the son’s room door before walking toward the kitchen. She opens a drawer and takes a rag to wipe off the guns as she hums.

As she wipes the guns, she looks down at the drawer again, looking at the bullets for both of the guns left in the drawer. She quickly tries to grab one of the shotgun shells with the rag. She got it in hand without dropping it. She cleans for a little while longer before shoving the shell into the chamber of the shotgun to make it seem like she was still cleaning the inside of the gun.

She tries again with the revolver bullets. The first one is another successful attempt. The second one drops to the ground, making a sudden clang. Her eyes widen as she stares down at the bullet. She barely contains her body jolting up when she glances over at the son’s bedroom door. The first thing she does is pick it up as fast as she can.

“Oh, I dropped a spoon. That was clumsy of me,” She says, but the loud scratching on the door starts, and it doesn’t stop this time. “I just dropped a spoon on the ground, don’t worry,” she says, but the son’s door starts to creak open.

The mother stops the talk and loads the shotgun. She aims at the son’s doorway and shoots when the doorway is fully open. Then fires a second shot for good measure. She drops the shotgun and runs off with the revolver in hand as she heads to the door. While unlocking the door, she hears a screech behind her. She opens the door and runs out, not wasting any time to turn around behind her. She dashes off into the darkness of the woods as she loads the last bullet into the revolver. The only word she screams at the top of her lungs: “HELP!!”

She screams for help several times, hoping anyone will hear her as she runs, but the only response she gets is the screeching of what is behind her. The dark woods only echo the sounds that both of them made, but there’s no additional sounds that the mother wants to hear. She pushes herself through the mud and shrugs off the trees she hit. All she needs to do now is not be caught.

The screeches only got louder. She tries to shoot a blind shot behind her as it gets closer, but it only seems to aggravate the screeches. She can’t be caught now; she knows what would happen to her if she did. She shot a second time, a third time, a fourth, and a fifth. She is not going down without trying to fight for her life.

She tumbles down a small hill to try to get away, hoping that she will have some more time to catch her breath, but the screeches are coming way too fast and she doesn’t know how long she can run anymore. The mother is hyperventilating and has no choice but to lift her gun and let one last gunshot run out through the woods.

The screeches stop, the chase is over. It wouldn’t be too long before the mother’s body is back in the house. The mother would soon be back in her place in the kitchen. No humming, just pure, peaceful silence.

The father is on the couch, his eyes are wide open, his tongue is hanging down his mouth with no jaw to house it, and his body is placed to lean back and face the TV. The daughter is in the corner of the kitchen with both of her legs torn off, which makes the toddler look shorter, her hands are on the building blocks to make it look like she’s playing with them. The mother is standing up in the kitchen, one of her hands is placed on a pot while the other is holding a large spoon to make it look like she’s stirring something, her head is facing down to look at the pot, and the large holes on both sides of her head is still letting some flesh fall into the pot. Finally, the son’s room door is completely open, with nothing but a dark, empty room inside. The bodies are all preserved like dolls staying in their places. A moment with the family preserved forever.