The Horrors of Marlorne

The Soup

An ordinary man had gone to the restaurant that night, alone.

He had ordered carrot soup, not his favorite dish, but certainly one of the best they prepared there. It had been a tiring day, full of thoughts and worries: the sun had suddenly been covered by dark clouds, although the weather forecast had spoken of clear skies; his parents, who had been traveling for some months, had not yet called him on the phone. They usually did so at lunchtime, but this time they seemed to have forgotten. The few friends he had had explained that they were busy with very urgent matters. So there he was, an ordinary man in an ordinary restaurant, with a bad ordinary day behind him.

When the steaming orange soup was poured into the bowl in front of him, a wave of strange smell reached his nostrils: it came from the food. Somewhat bewildered, he asked the waiter what the smell was due to.

<<To a particular spice,>> he replied, <<don't worry. We hope it is to your liking.>>

The man thanked and, reassured, began to eat; despite the strange smell, it tasted great. Soon after, he paid the bill and left the restaurant.

The streets of Nightbane were deserted: only the cold night wind dared to cross them without shivering. The lights of the street lamps vibrated imperceptibly, alternating between moments of dim light and moments of total darkness. Not even the sound of a footstep echoed among the dark facades of the sleeping buildings.

The man walked as he was wont to do after eating. As he walked, he kept wondering what had triggered such a bizarre day; perhaps it was some kind of twist of fate? He did not believe in fate, and he was right to, for the forces at play were quite different. He abandoned the path of worry and stranded those thoughts by concentrating on his steps. But those who leave the road of worry often fall into the road of emptiness.

It had been two hours since he had left the restaurant when he decided it was time to go home. As he was looking around to choose which road to take, he heard a sound to his left and turned sharply: a homeless man had appeared beside him. Dressed in dangling brown rags, he had on his head a grimy grayish cap and in his hand an empty bottle of beer; his gray beard glistened, wet with saliva and alcohol, which still dripped from his open, panting lips. The old man's eyes were reddened and swollen, as if he had rushed there on a matter of life and death.

<<Was the soup good? >> he asked. The man took a step back and pulled out the hands he had stowed in his pocket.

<<Who are you?>> The bum gave a cough, and that was the closest thing to a laugh he was able to emit.

<<Just someone who wants to know if you liked the carrot soup you ate.>> The man was bewildered.

<<Did you spy on me? Did you follow me here?>> The old man scratched his shoulder vigorously, leaving dark marks of dirt on the fabric.

<<I didn't need to spy on you to know. Everyone knows: everyone knows about the soup.>>

The man cast desperate glances at the streets nearby: no one in sight. If that old man had attacked him-which was very likely, as he was obviously insane-no one would have come down to his rescue. People are better at listening to screams of pain than they are at ending them. That soup story, however, was puzzling him in no small measure. What on earth did he mean by that?

<<It smelled strange, right?>> continued the bum. <<They told you it was a particular spice, didn't they?>>

He might have seen it from outside while eating the soup, but it was impossible for him to have known about that dialogue with the waiter.

<<How do you know these things?>> he asked with goosebumps.

<<You're the only one who doesn't know them. Alcohol brings it all out of me, I can't lie, I have to tell the truth. So here's the truth: your parents, your friends, the waiter, the forecast man, it was all agreed upon. You were supposed to die today.>> He brought the empty bottle to his mouth and searched with his tongue for the last drop of beer. The man did not understand, it all seemed so absurd to him. The shadows of the buildings descended on the scene like pools of ink.

<<They are all listening to us, behind the windows. They are all there. They want to know how it goes, what position you lie on the ground, what verses you make as the soup drips out of your mouth.>>

<<What you say makes no sense. I'm calling the police now,>> exclaimed the man in a trembling voice. He pulled the phone out of his coat and dialed the law enforcement number, still backing away and keeping his gaze fixed on the homeless man in front of him. The old man looked at him amused, with a strange madness in his eyes perhaps caused by alcohol.

<<They will not answer you. You will see that they will not answer you.>>

The homeless man bent down and shattered the bottle half on the bare stone of the sidewalk. The shards of glass jumped in all directions with a cold clink. The phone, in the man's trembling hands, kept ringing: how strange, yet that was the number for emergency calls. It was impossible for anyone to hear it ringing.

<<You know what the worst part is?>> the old man asked as he staggered closer with the glass bottle clutched in his sturdy hands. The man could almost hear the heavy breath of expectation of the people squeezed behind their window curtains, their heartbeats rising. The phone kept ringing hopelessly.

<<That my task was indeed to kill you.>>

Weakened by the poisoned soup, the man bled to death amid the old bum's furious blows.