Húsið Mitt

by Steve Toase

Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:

Thomas Stape waited in front of the train station, hands pressed deep into his pockets against the cold. He glanced up at the station clock, snow landing in his eyes and stinging away his sight. The others were late as always. They would arrive soon, with plausible excuses as always. The train was late. There was a robbery in front of the bus. A car crash on the high street. He’d heard them all over the years and had little patience anymore. He glanced up at the clock again. The gap between the moment and the time of their reservation was shrinking. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

A taxi pulled up nearby, grinding snow into the gutter as the back door opened. Aristotle got out. His real name was Christopher Watchet. When they were all at university he would get stoned and spout crib note philosophy, even while everyone in the room ignored him. The philosophy faded as the years went on. The drugs stayed.

“Tom,” Aristotle said. The skin above his lip was already red and cracked from rubbing away the telltale evidence of his indulgences. His arm went around Thomas’s shoulders, and Thomas resisted the urge to shrug him off. “Just you and me tonight? Hope you didn’t pay too much for the table.”

“They’ll be here. They always come.” Thomas looked at his watch. “Even if they are late.”

“Why don’t you wait inside?” Aristotle said.

“I like the cold.”

A crowd of passengers pushed its way through the double doors and down the steps, Anya, Circe, Dot, and David in its middle.

Anya ran up to Thomas and Aristotle, wrapping herself around them both. “I’m so sorry boys. The others were late, and we missed the first train.”

“You’re here now,” Thomas said.

She grabbed his cheek between finger and thumb, leaving a red mark on his skin. “Don’t interrupt my apologies. I’ve spent minutes getting everything straight.”

If chemicals, plural, were Aristotle’s indulgence, Anya only focussed on one. He knew a half empty hip flask would be hidden somewhere in her heavy winter coat. At previous meet-ups, he’d tried to get her to ease back. Tried to explain how the cheap bourbon she preferred numbed the flavours. She had told him to fuck off and not patronise her again. He smelt the sour mash on her breath, far more sour than the distillers intended, and wondered not for the first time why he organised these annual nights out.

“As I said, the others were late, we missed the train, and I am terribly sorry, but we are still in time to get to our table.”

“We do have just enough time.”

Circe smiled and held out her hand for Thomas to shake. Many years ago they had slipped into some kind of formal cosplay and never found a way to return to their previous closeness. Dot and David did not approach Thomas, as if getting too close might infect them with something. Since they’d found religion in front of their shared laptop three years before, they’d done little to hide their disapproval for the lifestyles of the others. He wondered why they even bothered to turn up, but teenage friendship was a strange thing, and contracts, however informal, made at that time of life had more power than anything to follow.

“Shall we go,” Thomas said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. The others fell in behind him. Around them the city crowds flowed to their own appointments with their own interests.

“What’s this place called again?” Circe said, in step beside Thomas.

“Húsið Mitt.”

“Sounds Norwegian.”

“Icelandic.”

“Are you making us eat piss shark again?” Aristotle’s voice cracked in that way it always did between top ups. He was rich enough for the addictions to be held internally, but they scraped the underside of his skin many times during the day.

“Not as far as I know. I haven’t seen a menu.”

In silence they walked past a row of neon takeaways, each one an egalitarian mix of cuisines, burgers sold over the same counters as kebabs, pizzas, and curries. Thomas felt his own cravings claw at him and took a moment to bury them once more under an appearance of culture that he had to work hard to keep in place.

Around the corner, they walked down a poorly lit street into the midst of tower blocks with concrete cancer and too many boarded up windows.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” David said. Thomas smiled, as much for his old friend’s confusion as for getting a reaction from him.

“There,” Thomas said, pointing to the building nestled in the looming shadow of the nearest tower.

The pink house was far older than the crumbling high-rises and far more worn by time.  Chimneys rose into the night sky from either side of the roof, the ridge undulating like the weight of the slates had become far too heavy for the building to bear anymore.

Several of the windows were blinded with wooden panels, the door too warped to shut properly. In the garden a car of indeterminate age rotted on bricks now replacing long perished tyres.

“This isn’t the place,” Anya said. “You can’t seriously be telling me that this is the place we’ll be eating.”

“Come on,” Thomas said, patience for their reluctance running out.

Over the years they had eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants, and they’d eaten kneeling on carpets by the gutter. Sometimes they’d feasted like kings in hidden country pubs, fingers greased with the fat of pheasant and deer, small bowls by the side to spit out buckshot. Other times they’d sat in rooms more sterile than any operation theatre, sampling flavours so ethereal they were little more than ghosts. Always the experience far transcended the setting.

“I’ve always delivered. Trust me. This is worth putting up with a little discomfort.”

“Is it worth putting up with Tetanus,” Aristotle said. “You lot go on. I’ll meet you inside.”

Thomas shook his head. “The host insisted we arrive together.” Even though Aristotle was getting twitchy, Thomas knew he would obey. The giftbag of premium grade Columbian in Thomas’s pocket ensured obedience.

Thomas walked into the overgrown garden first, not bothering to look back at the others, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice shouted from inside. Thomas pushed the door, putting his shoulder against the peeling wood when it stuck against the tiled floor inside.

“And you are?” The man standing in front of him was at least a head taller than Thomas, broad with his arms folded, a knife in each hand tapping against the front of his dirty white tunic. “Come on, boy. Who are you?”

“Dr Stape. Thomas Stape.”

The man’s face split into a tight smile.

“Why didn’t you say so? Welcome to Húsið Mitt. And these are your guests. They look like a fine – collection of people. Please come in and wait while I arrange your seats.”

The others crowded in behind Thomas. They stood in a narrow hallway, a broken staircase to one side rising to a first floor that no longer existed.

Aristotle kept looking up toward the ceiling, thinking about whether it would give him the privacy to refresh. He glanced from the stairs to Thomas, and Thomas shook his head. While Aristotle struggled with the internal demons that might lead him into a public argument with Thomas, the chef returned, opened the door and stepped to one side to let them through.

“Do you have a toilet I can use?” Aristotle said. Thomas let his nails dig into his wrists.

“If your weak and porous bladder might hold on until after I have seated you and given my little intro speech, then I will more than gladly show you to the toilet.”

Aristotle nodded and went quiet.

Through the door, the ground floor of the house had been transformed into a single room. Across the middle, the ceiling sagged for the lack of a support beam. In several places between the small, paired tables, the floorboards were damaged enough to see the blackness of the cellar below. Old mass-produced string art of harbours and vintage cars hung on bare brick walls, the nails holding them driven into softened mortar.

“If you would be so kind as to take the seats assigned to you, then we can begin,” the chef said. In a confused crowd, they all looked at name cards until one by one they took their places. Thomas sat opposite David and swore under his breath, looking around the room at the equally unsuitable pairings. Aristotle sat opposite Anya and Circe opposite Dot. The chef stood at the far end of the room, waiting like an impatient teacher for them all to settle. Behind him, a further wall had been demolished to open the single room onto the kitchen, not updated since the building was a home.

“My name is Simon Jejune, and I am your host tonight. Well, me and Louis, but Louis isn’t very good at cooking.”

From behind the kitchen counter, a collie walked into view, well fed and well groomed. Far cleaner than anything else in the room.

“The important rule at Húsið Mitt is no one leaves until they are full,” he said, lunging forward until his face was centimetres from David’s. “And I can always tell, so no fucking lying.”

Jejune’s face split once more into a tight smile, skin fissures opening a little around his mouth. He turned to Aristotle.

“Have you managed to hold yourself together for the infinity of time while I spoke? Yes. Not had a little leak? You can find the toilet at the back of the yard. Go through the front door, around the back and across the yard. You might find the stone flags are a little slippy, but I’m sure you can remain balanced.”

Thomas watched Aristotle stand and walk out of the door. Then he stared at David.

“How are you both?” he asked. The last time the two of them had spoken directly was three years before, and then the words were said through broken teeth.

“We’re getting by,” David said. His hand went to the little crucifix on his lapel, and he glanced to where Dot sat with Circe, leaning forward to talk.

Louis padded between the tables, and for a moment Thomas thought the dog was coming to him. He always liked dogs. No time in his schedule for one as he got older, but maybe when he retired, he could get the wolfhound he always wanted.

The collie nestled its head onto David’s thigh, and with an open hand he pushed the dog’s head away, blocking any attempt it made to rest its head there once more. Thomas watched the dog trot off between the tables, back to where Jejune stood in the kitchen, the chef kneeling to fuss over the animal.

“No need for that,” Thomas said, turning his name card over to keep his hands busy.

“Dirty animal, especially in a place like this. Normally I’d say it’s unhygienic to have a dog in a restaurant, but look at the place.”

Thomas said nothing, glancing at the door as Aristotle came back in.

“You waited for me? That was kind, but you didn’t have to. I know I’m the centre of the party, the life and soul, but you can continue living your lives without my presence.”

He took his seat and Jejune stood, taking something from the counter and feeding it to Louis.

“If we’re all ready I’ll start preparing the first course.”

While he worked, no one spoke, but the room was anything but silent. Sometimes the walls moved, sometimes with sounds like something within the walls moved, all the time to the continuous background of Jejune chopping and dicing in the kitchen.

Thomas tried to watch him working. He always preferred restaurants with an open kitchen. Not so he could inspect the hygiene, but so he could watch the chef work. In Húsið Mitt, Jejune kept his back turned toward them. The only detail Thomas could make out was that no oven was turned on, so the first course would be raw or cold.

He tried to eavesdrop on the conversations of the others. The noise from the walls was too loud. Less metallic than the knives clattering in the kitchen. More like an impatient finger tapping an old Bakelite phone over and over.

Jejune stood and slapped his hands down on the counter. Only Thomas paid any real attention.

“Your first course is ready, and in the tradition of those fine catering establishments of our childhood, you will come up and collect your food.”

Thomas went first. The bowl was shallow and chipped, a collection of cut meats piled up on top of each other. He walked past the others and sat back down, watching his old friends one by one repeat the same action.

David sat down opposite and slammed his bowl onto the table. Thomas leant over to glance inside. The dish was filled with a thick gravy, too dense to see what it covered. David pressed his spoon into the mixture and swirled it around. Thomas carefully lifted a slice of salami, folded it and placed it on his tongue, watching David scoop out some of the gravy.

“What the heck is this?” He said. Jejune was beside the table before he’d finished speaking.

“That is a delicate jus made from the finest wheatflower, bone marrow and a stock of chicken carcasses.”

“I mean these,” David said, holding out his spoon. Jejune leant over to glance at the proffered food.

“Dog biscuits. I call the dish Gravy and Biscuits.”

“Biscuits and gravy are something completely different,” David said, letting his spoon fall back into his bowl, a spray of gravy arching out to stain the already dirty table cloth. Jejune crouched beside his seat.

“I know. I did not say it was Biscuits and Gravy. I said it was called Gravy and Biscuits. A completely different dish.”

David continued running his spoon through the mixture like he was searching for something.

“And what biscuits are they?”

“Dog biscuits,” Jejune said, standing and walking to the middle of the room.

“How is everyone’s starter?” Jejune said, with the air of someone who could not care less.

Thomas glanced around the room. Everyone else seemed happy. Aristotle was picking his way through a fresh beef tomato salad, while Circe carefully sliced up a crepe wrapped around melting chocolate. He leant back in his chair and watched David spoon his way around the dog biscuits.

“How’s the gravy?” Thomas said.

“Did you do this on purpose?” David said, leaning back in his chair. Thomas held his hands up.

“I have nothing to do with this,” he said. “Would you like some salami?”

Jejune slammed his hand down on the counter.

“There will be no sharing of meals. Each course is individually chosen for your palette, your peccadillos and your personality. You have no need to worry. All will be fed before they leave. I do expect your dishes to be empty.”

Thomas shrugged and continued to eat the cold cuts of meat one after the other. Each slice was delicate, spiced with pepper or just flavoured with the fat of the meat. Across the table he watched David scoop the last of the liquid into his mouth and rest the spoon on the edge of the bowl. In the kitchen, Jejune checked the oven, then spotted David.

“You have finished.”

“I don’t want any more,” David said, lifting the bowl still half full with dog biscuits.

“You don’t want any more?” Jejune said. “You don’t want any more? Louis has gifted you these precious morsels of food as a peace offering because, from your actions toward him, in his simple dog brain he feels he has offended you. You don’t want to offend him by refusing his gift.”

The dog weaved in and out of the chef’s legs. He reached down and rubbed the scruff of its neck with one hand, the other turning a knife first one way then the other. Thomas watched David transfixed as he picked up the spoon, pushed it through the congealed skin coating the gravy, filled it with dog biscuits then placed it in his mouth. Slowly, he chewed his way through the mouthful of food, and Thomas watched a small amount of paste seep out between his lips as David tried not to be sick.

“And here is the problem,” Jejune said, standing up. Louis curled up around David’s legs and put his head on the expensive leather shoes. “If David here had eaten the dish as prepared, it would have been an explosive taste and texture experience where the biscuits melted in the finer juices of the jus. Because of his weird aversion to my artistry, he has now had to suffer humiliation, not only of his tastebuds but of himself. I will now prepare the next course. The main course. The one which will fill you to bursting. You may talk amongst yourselves. Do not leave your places.”

David pivoted in his seat to try and catch Dot’s eye, but she was leaning across to talk to Circe.

“You know those two were close back in the day,” Thomas said.

David turned and folded his arms.

“Before my time, and all sins are forgiven in the light of god.”

“That’s good,” Thomas said. “Because it looks like some more might be on the way.”

Dot’s hand lay on the tabletop, Circe’s fingers running up and down her wrist as their heads met across the table. Circe was whispering something in Dot’s ear. Having been on the receiving end of both Circe’s words and touch, Thomas had no doubt that Dot’s devotion to both David and her faith was being severely tested.

Jejune strode across the room and slammed his hand into Anya’s back. The hip flask tipped forward, spilling the bourbon into her lap and dripping down onto the floor below. The force of the second blow opened Anya’s hand, the flask itself clattering down, and Thomas watched Jejune’s heel crush the cheap pewter.

“There will be no drinking to dull the flavours.”

“I’m sorry,” Anya said, watching the alcohol seep into the floorboards.

“Apology accepted, but you need to clean your mouth. Wait there.”

Thomas watched Jejune open a cupboard, place a banana on a plate and slam the plate in front of Anya.

“Eat,” he said.

Hardly any of the banana’s original colour survived, the skin brown and black with age.

“I think I’m OK,” Anya said. Even from a distance Thomas smelt the scent of rot.

“You will eat it,” Jejune said. “Or things will go very bad, very very quickly.”

Anya looked at the other diners. With her fingernails, she peeled back the skin. Inside the banana, soft, small blooms of mould were visible on the overripe flesh.

“I don’t have any cutlery,” she said.

Jejune laughed.

“Since when did you eat bananas with knives and forks? Use your fingers.”

Slowly, Anya pressed her fingernails into the fruit, scooping out a little and placing it in her mouth.

“All of it,” Jejune said.

Over the next few minutes, Anya scraped the skin clean, picking away the fibrous, wormlike strings and eating them under the watchful eye of the chef.

“Are you done? Finished? Excellent. Now the main course.”

The friends sat in silence while Jejune tended a vast skillet, scooping out bowls of beans and pasta, and placing them one after another.

“Pasta e Fagioli,” Jejune said.

The meal was simple, but delicious, the sausage rich with anise flavours, the sauce the perfect thickness, and the beans not overcooked. Thomas tucked in, and for the first time was pleased he’d made the right decision.

“Is there a problem?”

Thomas stopped eating. Jejune stood in the middle of the room, one arm across his chest, the other holding a knife down by his side.

“It’s lovely. Smells lovely,” Dot said. She was looking over at their table. Looking over at David for support. David glanced down at his bowl and carried on eating.

“But you are not eating.”

“I don’t eat meat,” Dot said, her voice sounding small in the room.

“You’re vegetarian,” Jejune said, nodding. He knelt down beside her. “And that means you can’t eat the Pasta e Fagioli?”

“Maybe if there is some without the sausage?”

“Then it would not be Pasta e Fagioli, would it?”

“I’m sorry,” Dot said. The room was silent.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jejune said, reaching out and putting his hand on hers. “Eat the food.”

Not looking him in the eye, she shook her head.

The sound was like a fingernail down a comb, and by the time Robert realised what was happening, Jejune had cable-tied Dot’s second wrist to her chair.

“If you will not eat the prepared meal then you will eat.”

David’s speed rising out of his chair impressed Thomas. Jejune’s speed putting the knife at Dot’s neck was faster. With his free hand he threw a bunch of cable ties across to Thomas. Thomas picked them up, the plastic still warm from Jejune’s body heat.

“You’re going to fasten them all in place, or I slit her throat, and however quick you think you are, I’m quicker, and her death will be very slow.”

Thomas did as he was told, moving behind his friends, binding their wrists to the wood of the seats.

“Come here,” Jejune said. With glances to the rest of the diners, Jejune held the knife to Thomas’s stomach and walked him back over, strapping him in place, then checking the bonds on the others.

Once he was satisfied, he walked back to the kitchen, head down, rubbing his eyes.

“I try. I really try. Nobody leaves here hungry. I cook the best meals I can in these circumstances. Look at this place,” he said, waving the knife through the air. “LOOK AT IT.”

He stabbed the knife into the counter, reached into a cupboard and brought out a sledgehammer. Someone was weeping. It took Thomas a moment to realise it was David.

“But you will not leave here hungry. No one leaves Húsið Mitt hungry.”

The sledgehammer came down on the table in front of Dot and Circe, the veneer then the wood splintering. Again and again Jejune brought the hammer down, until nothing was left standing. Thomas watched the chef kneel down, sorting through the fragments until he found one he was satisfied with.

“Eat,” he said to Dot.

Unable to speak, she shook her head.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help you.”

Grasping her jaws, he forced her mouth open and slowly slid the long thin slice of wood into her throat. Reaching down he picked up another and another, the sharp points finding their way out through the cartilage of her neck, each splinter another point of a necklace erupting from within. Pushing his fingers into one of the wounds, Jejune tore free a piece of skin and walked across to Thomas, forcing the still damp flesh between his lips.

“You eat meat. Make sure you chew,” he said, holding Thomas’s mouth shut.

“Why are you doing this,” David said, the sob in his voice breaking the words. Jejune spun around. For a moment, apart from Dot choking and Thomas chewing, the room was silent.

“You. This is your fault. Luckily, when I say no one leaves hungry, I do mean everybody.” Jejune dragged David’s chair away from the table. “Louis. Come here.”

The dog trotted across to his master.

“Food time,” Jejune said, then stepped back. Thomas watched Louis start to chew through David’s shoe, the dog’s teeth scraping the tendons holding his foot together. Over the next ten minutes, Louis feasted, worrying away the toes and bones, until nothing was left apart from a bloodied stump. Grabbing David’s trouser leg, Louis pulled him to the floor, placed his paws on David’s chest, and tore away chunks of his face, ripping off his lower jaw and gnawing away his nose and tongue.

Thomas realised someone was sobbing, and someone was laughing, and he took a few minutes to realise both of them were him.

“I’m glad you find this amusing, Dr Stape,” Jejune said, reaching down for a piece of David’s face. “I blame you most of all. Still, I am a man of my word. No-one leaves hungry, and I mean no-one.” He slammed his hand on the floor three times.

The insects came out of the walls and the floors, swarming over each other, feet clattering on carapace and then over the diners, burrowing under their skin. Into their bones. starting by grinding away the marrow before eating their way out. In the kitchen, Jejune served himself a bowl of Pasta e Fagioli, eating it slowly while the insects consumed the dead.

Want another gripping story by Steve Toase? Read “Dental Hygiene” from Horrific Scribes, August 2025.