The Eater of Men

The Eater of Men: In His Eyes, You're Meat

There are some people who walk into a room and make the air colder. Not because of who they are, but because of what they are. When Malcolm Grieve walked into the diner off Route 41, his smile was wide and pleasant—but his eyes didn’t see people. They weighed them. Counted the ribs. Measured the muscle. In his eyes, you weren’t a person. You were meat.

The locals barely noticed him at first. He was polite, well-dressed, paid in cash, and tipped well. Stayed in a dusty motel three miles outside town, room 6, curtains always drawn. If you asked the girl at the front desk, she’d say he smelled faintly of metal and cloves, and that she never saw him eat breakfast. Never once.

The first to vanish was Jody Whitley, a hitchhiker who played guitar outside the gas station. No one noticed for a day or two—Jody came and went. But then her case was found in the woods, snapped in half like a wishbone. Sheriff Lane filed a report. Nothing came of it.

But there were others. A drifter with a limp, a traveling nurse, a teenager skipping town. Each gone like smoke. Each leaving behind little more than a stain in the silence.

Malcolm visited the diner every Tuesday at 9:13 p.m. sharp. He always ordered pot roast, but barely touched it. Instead, he watched. He studied the waitress’s arms when she handed him his bill. He watched the way the cook moved, the way his shoulders flexed under the grease-stained shirt. His pupils would dilate—not with admiration, but with hunger. A hunger so old it seemed to hum beneath the floorboards.

They didn’t know what he was. Not at first. But he was careful. Precise. And terribly clean.

One night, a drunk named Tyler made the mistake of grabbing Malcolm by the coat, demanding a cigarette. Witnesses said Malcolm just stared at him for a moment—his smile didn’t move, but his eyes darkened, like a light had gone out inside him.

Tyler was found two days later, or at least most of him was. His chest cavity had been opened like a cabinet, the ribs separated with surgical precision. No blood, though. None at all.

Rumors began to circle. “The Devil in a tie,” someone called him. “The Butcher in Room 6.” But no one dared confront him. Fear settled over the town like smoke. Even the sheriff looked the other way. People locked their doors and kept their heads down.

But some people don’t scare easy.

Marla, the waitress, had a brother who’d disappeared. She remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him. The way he smiled as if savoring something he hadn’t eaten yet.

She followed him one night.

It was raining. Malcolm took the back road, the one that led toward the abandoned slaughterhouse. Marla kept her lights off and stayed two cars behind. When he parked, she waited ten minutes before stepping out.

The slaughterhouse had been shut for years, but inside, it smelled like rust and old breath. She followed the light of his lantern through the corridor of hanging chains. Then she saw it.

The table was stone. There were hooks, tools—ancient, stained things. Bones piled like firewood. And Malcolm stood over something writhing.

He was humming. Something soft. Something not meant for ears. His coat was off. His hands worked quickly, folding skin away from muscle as though peeling fruit. The thing on the table cried once. Only once.

Marla couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe. But she snapped a photo. Flash—too bright. Too loud.

Malcolm turned.

His eyes met hers.

And in that split second, she understood what it meant to be prey. She ran—slipped on wet concrete, lungs tearing with panic. She didn’t stop until she hit the road and screamed for help, waving the phone with the photo still glowing.

The police came. Room 6 was empty. The slaughterhouse was burned to the foundation that same night, flames licking the sky like a warning.

They never found Malcolm.

But every year, on the same night, someone disappears. Always someone alone. Always someone strong.

Some say they’ve seen him—at truck stops, in diners, walking the shoulder of some back road. He doesn’t age. He doesn’t change. He smiles with perfect teeth.

And when you meet his gaze, you’ll feel it: the chill of being sized up. Because in his eyes, you're not a soul.

You're supper.