It was a starving town. In the Norman Rockwell-like setting of Canaan Hollow, being “hungry” had an unsettling connotation. The residents’ grinning faces and cheery nature showed all the traits of helpful neighbors, yet a cult-like shadow loomed over the community’s serene avenues. Unwelcome visitors, often arriving lakeside, were welcomed only on Tuesdays; the mayor or sheriff and his deputy practically insisted on it, and no traveler entered a home unattended. Truth be told, the townsfolk’s hunger was not for customary dishes; they craved darker sustenance. They fed on more than the goodwill of their neighbors.
On the Monday afternoon before the hungriest day of all, along the ragged dirt path between the asphalt and the public park grass, a child in tattered clothes with dried blood under his fingernails walked to Bobby’s Grocery, kicking a bitumen chunk ahead of him. After four blocks, he was completely absorbed by it. A breeze off the lake carried the sweet air of mud, rotting wood, a slight fishy smell, and other unexplainable decay. He detected the sweetness of old grease, a sharp whiff of gasoline, fresh tires, spring dust, and, from across Main Street, the faint essence of tuna casserole at the Bottomless Catch. A stout figure in blue overalls with an unkempt beard waved and disappeared inside. The boy sucked on his fingernails and kicked the chunk at the curb, then lofted it over the sidewalk to Maxwell’s Grease Shop. He followed the chunk a few more doors south to Bobby’s window, which displayed expired canned goods and a mournful cardboard pig marked with the names of cuts. An old man sat on Bobby’s paint-peeled bench, silver hair as fine as spun glass poking out under his green fedora, snoozing as the late afternoon sun reached under the faded brown canvas awning up to his belt.
He was not Bobby. Bobby was the gaunt man in the white apron who had stepped out the back door of the store, away from the meat counter, to get a breath of fresh, meatless air. He stood on a rickety porch that looked across the lake, butcher knife in hand, a stone’s throw away. The beach there was stony; the sandy portion where visitors docked was four blocks back to the north. A frail girl, perhaps one of his, stood on the diving dock, plugged her nose, and executed a perfect cannonball, and he heard the dull splosh. The sun created a trail of shimmering lights across the water. It was about to set. It would make quite a picture if you had the right lens, which nobody in this town had. And on top of not having a camera, nobody had a computer, smartphone, Wi-Fi, or other post-2000 technological gadgets, either.
The woods surrounding the twisting roads and hollow were filled with red oak, maple, spruce, pine, birch, and thick brush, except where cows were slaughtered. The municipal boundaries, nestled inside an old Native American canyon, included unpopulated pasture and cropland with wheat, corn, oats, and alfalfa—God’s way of keeping this farmland hidden and discouraging newcomers. It also housed about three hundred people, mostly in small white framed houses with buckets of blood and guts on their porches, large vegetable patches with curious gravemarkers, and modest lawns. Many yards featured cast-iron deer, small windmills, clotheslines, plaster animals like squirrels, lambs, elephants, and other eerie taxidermy. At each driveway’s end were white and gray painted rocks, a bed of petunias and wilted tulips with a white tire, and some had a shrine in the rock garden. The Blessed Virgin stood demurely behind an old 19th-century nunnery, her eyes averted and arms slightly extended, above a bed of peonies and marigolds. She stood on a tall brick pedestal, meeting the boy’s gaze with deep sadness for the world’s sufferings, including what happened on Tuesdays in this town.
It was a quiet community where you could stand in the middle of Main Street for much of the day without being in anyone’s way. Not forever, but as long as you wanted. It felt like a “township” or a “burg,” a sleepy place six days out of seven where life had a peculiar charm and moved leisurely. People drove old cars, nothing modern or fancy. You could find Studebakers, Ford Fairlanes, even one or two Bel Airs, and Dodge and Chevrolet Sport Trucks for heavy transporting. But what were they hauling? What was in the back of those pickups? The double white stripe was for show, as were the six parking meters. Six was all they could afford. Merchants called it downtown; others said uptown.
Most men wore their belts low, accommodating their prominent bellies, some large enough to have names of their own. These men were elders, and they didn’t hide their obese stomachs in loose flannel shirts. The excess adipose told a different story; they were still consuming or digesting something (or someone) over time. They let them hang free, patting and stroking them as they stood around and talked. The buildings were two-story red and whitewashed affairs, crafted by bricklayers with false fronts, trying to be inconspicuous. The first stories had newer fronts of aluminum, fake marble, stucco, and fiberglass stonework, meant to appear modern. But that was all deception.
There were telltale signs of decay in certain areas, if you knew where to look. The crack in the sidewalk that no one had bothered to repair. Even a few rusted, uneven streetlamps flickered uncertainly at night. The creeping ivy snaking up the sides of buildings, thick and stubborn, like a forgotten hand reaching for something it could never touch. This particular district was where they celebrated the most important day of the week.
The boy didn’t have a name, but that didn’t matter. He was one of the many children in Canaan Hollow who were patient, who knew what Tuesday meant. He understood how sacred this day was to the town. Things had happened long ago in this place, dark and terrible things, in the silence and cravings of forgetful generations. Tuesday was the day of ceremonial hunger beyond the stomach.
The boy stood there purposely, as the night cast long shadows over the crooked streets and footsteps stirred on the sidewalks. He sat at the edge of a bench and waited. Windows opened, doors unlocked. He watched as the old automobiles and once-empty square with its dried-up fountain hummed with eerie anticipation. Residents from nearby houses gathered in clusters, hushed voices mingling. A couple of nervous glances were exchanged; some voices pitched low like a choir of ghosts. At the heart of it all was the mayor, a towering figure with a face as unreadable as the stony cliffs looming over the lake. His eyes were dark, almost black, glinting with the same coldness that now chilled the air. Beside him stood the sheriff, a man with a flesh-embroidered hood and the broad frame of a bull. For a law enforcement official, his demeanor suggested someone who had long forgotten the difference between right and wrong. Together, they orchestrated the ritual in a practiced dance that had proceeded for decades.
Now pushing his way to the front of the crowd, the boy felt the static in the air teasing the hair on his arms. He stood with the townsfolk, waiting, watching. Here was a sacred rite that united the natives in ways outsiders could never fathom. This square was where the procession began, where the butcher’s table was placed, surrounded by old wooden crates and neatly arranged flowers, though the bright hues couldn’t mask this particular day’s dark purpose. There were even buckets to collect the blood. Everything was gathered and rightfully portioned. Nothing went to waste. The boy’s mouth watered at the intoxicating smell of roasting meats mingled with the earth and pungent bodies.
One young girl jumped up and down because she couldn’t see. She begged her mother, “Can I have a piece of that young girl’s leg? I’ve never had leg before. Oh, please, Mommy. She’s already dead. Been dead since last week.”
A guy in a newsboy cap looked at his watch and mumbled, “Almost midnight. Tuesday again. I never get tired of this. I’ll get the freezers cooling.”
Putting on meat-packing gloves, his partner added, “The spare parts, like the bone marrow, go in the warehouse. Don’t let one vat go empty. Everybody gets fed. That’s the rules. And save the bones. They can be ground down to make seasoning.”
Time seemed to stop moving. The boy heard the low hum of voices, the swishing of worn aprons, their black and white checks stained with red. The citizens of the hollow moved as one. Their footfalls were heavy but deliberate, each man, woman, and child guided by instincts older than the lakeside itself. Their faces under the blood moon had an oddly detached look, as though they had become part of something larger, something sinister.
The first new victim was brought forward, an old man unknown to the population. Judging by the whispers, he had come into town just a day before, a stranger standing by the lake with a rowboat, unaware of his fate. His face showed kindness, and his eyes held a youthful curiosity. Simple innocence made him easy prey. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, the wind tugging at his coat, and for a moment, he seemed quite happy, like a man who had unexpectedly found an oasis. He didn’t see them coming.
Bobby was the first to emerge from the shadows, butcher blade in hand. The crowd watched silently as the ritual began. There was no hesitation, no mercy in the butcher’s movements. Then other grocers, meat cutters in their own right, joined him. Two hardware store owners, toting hatchets, entered from the opposite side of the square, and a tall, lanky man with an ice scraper emerged from nearby bushes. The mayor gave a nod. His voice was soft but commanding, like the whispered wind carrying the scent of decay. Then he muttered ancient, hollow words while the sheriff picked up a giant woodcutter’s axe. A minute later, the other residents closed in on the man.
The boy felt his pulse race; hunger emerged within him, carving out his throat as if to make room. The ritual was performed with purpose and reverence, as if it were a secret handed down through the ages. The townsfolk treated the victim like an offering, their voices rising in harmony as they formed a circle around him. With wide-open eyes, the boy saw how the man’s struggles slowed until the ritual’s weight rendered his body limp. His blood thickened and pooled on the ground, then into the supplied buckets, completing a necessary detail that would satiate the town for another week.
Although life left the man, part of him was devoured right there in the square. Then he was dragged around the corner, leaving a trail of red. Smirking and glistening with another Tuesday’s evidence, the residents withdrew, fading into the shadows like specters satisfied with the night’s grim work. Tiny utterances flowed from those who remained, their whispers scattering into the renewed silence that blanketed the atmosphere once more. Yet, in the boy’s chest, hunger gnawed still.
As the town slowed back to its torpid rhythms, the boy walked home. His stomach churned, not with hunger, but with something darker, like a memory within a memory. The houses of Canaan Hollow faded into silence, flickering into darkness, mere paper stars against the fog-lit sky. Men ambled back to kitchens, rubbing overfed stomachs. Women with hollow eyes and lacquered hands lingered over pots that were too deep, bubbling too slowly.
Long ago, the boy learned that feasts always followed the Tuesday sacrifices; a grim tradition. The townspeople cleared their bowls for these special church sacraments, reserving them not for ordinary fare, but for a specific offering: flesh. But not just any flesh. It was the flesh of those who strayed too far into the hollow, deceived by the mayor’s sweet smile or the friendly chatter at Bobby’s Grocer. Sometimes, if the supply exceeded the demand, they would end up on the menu at the Bottomless Catch. This was no genuine kindness, nor was it kinship.
The boy stood before his home, a familiar green wood house. Peeling paint over mismatched shutters attested as much to his blood as to his home. Inside, the table was set. A sweet, pungent, savory aroma came from the kitchen. Mother, in her Heart is in the Kitchen apron, stirred a big pot with a large metal spoon. Her face was pale yet serene, and she had purposely stayed up as though this was a casual late night. Smiling at him, her eyes glinted with that familiar emotion. She never questioned the tradition, never asked where the meat came from. She didn’t need to. It was simply delivered to her doorstep, and it was simply life in Canaan Hollow. “Sit, my son,” she said sweetly, like the whisper of leaves. “Dinner’s up.”
The boy slid into his seat like he had done a thousand times, his heart beating strangely fast, but he paid no attention to it. This was no place for doubt. Only hunger. Only need. She set a plate before him; steaming, red meat drenched in gastric juices that shimmered in the light. The boy trembled slightly as he grasped the fork, but did not falter. There was a cadence to the ritual—an art, slower, more deliberate, and purposeful. He cut into the tender flesh, the knife slicing through it with affectionate ease. The meat was sheer perfection. Soft, warm, seasoned with something he couldn’t name. He brought a piece to his mouth, and the taste—God, that sumptuous taste—was like nothing else. Sweet, rich, almost addictive.
His mother watched him eat; her eyes never left him. He didn’t need to look up to know she was watching him, as she had every Tuesday, for as long as he could remember. The boy hesitated for an instant, the fork halfway to his mouth, and a thought momentarily entered his mind: What if I didn’t? What if I stopped eating, just one Tuesday? But, no, that thought receded before its roots could take hold. He clawed at hunger and unlocked what would happen if he didn’t partake.
After all, this was a feast, and he had a belly to fill.
The boy’s gaze followed his mother’s movement, crossing the room to the stove, then to the cabinet where jars of pickled vegetables and preserves sat. His heart stopped as he noticed something that shouldn’t have been there. Jars of excess meat. Slabs of it; fatty deposits too. Not the usual cuts of pork, beef, or chicken. No. These were different. The labels were faded, almost unreadable. But there was no mistaking the shape of the flesh inside. The subtle, almost untraceable curve of a jawline. The delicate curve of a shoulder. A vital organ or two… or three. A hand, frozen in time, wrapped in the amber hue of the pickling juices. A shudder ran through him, but his mother turned back with a jar steady in her hands. “We all pull our weight,” she said, her voice calm, as though detached from any emotion. “Without sacrifice, the town’s appetite is never fully sated. We each give what we can, and next week it’ll be somebody else’s turn.”
The boy’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the food. The reality slammed down on him, and he finally understood what it was to belong to the hollow. And at that moment—the ritual still going on all around him—he knew there would never, ever be an end to the hunger. Not for him. Not for anybody. Not until the last bit of flesh had been consumed.
