The table was long. It held forty chairs. It held silver tureens. It held glasses of wine that looked like dark blood. It held silence.

Maren sat at the head. Her back was straight. Her hands were still. They lay flat on the white linen. They did not tremble. She watched the doors. She waited for the sound. She heard the creak of the floorboards. She heard the shuffling of feet. She saw the faces. They were pale. They were wide-eyed. They looked at her. They did not look at the food.

"Please," she said. Her voice was low. It was steady. "Eat."

No one moved. A man in the corner cleared his throat. It was a dry sound. It broke the air.

"This is..." The man started. He stopped. He looked at Maren. He looked at the door behind her. "This is a strange dinner, Maren."

"It is a dinner," she said. "I cooked it. I made it. It is ready."

"Who is it for?" the man asked. His name was Elias. He was her brother. He was older than her. He was afraid. "Who are we waiting for?"

"No one," Maren said. "Just us."

Elias laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. It was not a happy laugh. "Just us. And the empty chairs. And the dark."

The room was dark. The candles were low. The flames danced. They cast long shadows on the walls. The shadows moved. They stretched. They reached for the people.

Maren stood up. She picked up a chair. She pushed it back. The legs scraped against the wood. The sound was loud. It echoed in the high ceiling.

"I am not waiting for anyone," she said. "I am here. I am awake. I am real."

"Are you?" asked a woman. It was Clara. She was Maren’s friend. She sat next to Elias. Clara’s face was tight. Her lips were thin. "You have been in this house for months. You have not left. You have not spoken to anyone outside these walls."

"I have spoken to you," Maren said. "You are here. You are with me."

"Are we?" Clara asked. She looked at the other guests. They were strangers. They were Maren’s relatives. They were her friends. They were all trapped. They were all hungry. But they did not eat. They watched Maren. They watched the doors.

"There is something behind the door," Clara said. Her voice was soft. It was barely a whisper. "Can you hear it?"

Maren closed her eyes. She listened. She heard the wind. She heard the rain. She heard the house settling. She heard nothing else.

"No," Maren said. "There is nothing."

"Yes," Clara said. "There is. It is knocking. Slowly. Softly. It wants to come in."

Maren opened her eyes. She looked at the door. It was closed. It was solid oak. It was locked. She had locked it. She had the key. She held the key in her hand. It was cold. It was heavy.

"I locked it," Maren said. "It cannot get in."

"Keys do not stop everything," Clara said. "Do you remember when we were children? The mirror in the hallway? We broke it. We threw the shards on the floor. We did not look at our reflections. We ran away. We never looked back."

Maren remembered. She remembered the glass. She remembered the blood on her palm. She remembered the face in the mirror. It was not her face. It was a stranger’s face. It was smiling. It was hungry.

"I do not remember that," Maren said.

"You do," Clara said. "You remember. You just refuse to see it. You build walls. You build tables. You build dinners. You try to feed the hunger. But you cannot feed a ghost with food."

The room went quiet. The candles flickered. The shadows grew longer.

"Elias," Maren said. She turned to her brother. "Tell her. Tell her I am not a ghost. Tell her I am Maren."

Elias looked at Maren. He looked at Clara. He looked at the floor. He did not look at the door.

"I don't know who you are," Elias said. His voice was flat. It was dead. "I don't know if you are Maren. I don't know if I am Elias. I just know that I am cold. I just know that I am hungry. And I am tired of waiting."

"Wait," Maren said. "The meal is ready. Sit down. Eat. It is warm. It is good. It is for you."

Elias stood up. He walked to the table. He picked up a fork. He lifted a piece of meat. He looked at it. He looked at Maren. He dropped the fork. It clattered on the floor.

"It is not for us," Elias said. "It is for them. The ones outside. The ones in the dark. You are feeding the dark, Maren. You are feeding the thing that wants to eat us."

Maren felt a chill. It started in her stomach. It spread to her chest. It went to her throat. She could not breathe. She looked at the food. The steam rose from the tureens. It curled into the air. It looked like smoke. It looked like breath.

"I made this," Maren said. "I cooked this. I am the one who is here. I am the one who is real."

"Are you?" Clara asked. She stood up. She walked to the door. She put her hand on the handle. "Or are you the thing behind the door?"

Maren looked at the key in her hand. It was turning. It was turning by itself. The lock clicked. The door began to open. A sliver of light came in. It was not sunlight. It was moonlight. It was cold. It was sharp.

"Stop it," Maren said. "Stop the door. Close it. Close it now."

"We cannot close what is already open," Clara said. Her voice was calm. It was kind. It was final. "You opened it, Maren. You opened it long ago. You invited us in. You made us stay. You made us forget. You made us become part of the house. Part of the silence. Part of the hunger."

Maren looked at the guests. They were standing up. They were moving toward the door. They were not looking at Maren. They were looking at the light. They were smiling. Their smiles were wide. They were too wide.

"No," Maren said. "You are my family. You are my friends. You are real. You are here."

"We are here," Elias said. He walked to the door. He stepped into the light. "But you are not."

Maren looked at her hands. They were changing. They were becoming transparent. She could see the table through her fingers. She could see the floor through her skin. She was fading. She was becoming part of the house.

She looked at the mirror. It was in the corner. It was old. It was dark. But now, it was bright. It was full of light. She saw her reflection. It was not her. It was a woman. She was tall. She was thin. She was smiling. She was holding a key.

The woman in the mirror raised her hand. She pointed at Maren.

"I am you," the mirror said. The voice was not a voice. It was a hum. It was in Maren’s head. "I am the hunger. I am the dark. I am the thing you tried to hide. I am the thing you tried to feed. And now, I am full."

Maren tried to scream. She could not make a sound. Her mouth was open. No air came out. Her body was solid. Her body was heavy. She was sinking into the floor. The wood was soft. It was like mud. It was like flesh.

Clara stood by the door. She looked at Maren. Her eyes were wet. She was crying. But her face was sad. It was not angry. It was not afraid. It was pity.

"I am sorry," Clara said. "We could not save you. We could not save ourselves. You were too strong. You were too stubborn. You refused to let go. You refused to accept that you were not the master. You were the guest. You were the meal."

Maren looked at Clara. She wanted to say something. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to say she loved her. But she could not. She was not Maren anymore. She was the house. She was the silence. She was the dark.

The door closed. The light was gone. The room was dark. The candles were out. The tables were empty. The chairs were empty.

Maren was gone.

But the table was still there. The food was still warm. The wine was still red. The house was quiet.

Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed.

People came. They came to the house. They heard stories. They saw the lights in the windows. They heard the sounds of dinner. They heard the laughter. They heard the crying.

They did not go in. They were afraid.

One night, a girl came. Her name was Lily. She was young. She was brave. She was hungry.

She stood at the door. She knocked.

No one answered.

She knocked again.

A voice came from inside. It was soft. It was gentle.

"Come in," the voice said. "The door is open. The table is set. The food is ready."

Lily opened the door. She stepped inside. The room was warm. The air smelled of meat and wine. The table was long. It held forty chairs. It held silver tureens. It held glasses of wine that looked like dark blood.

A woman sat at the head. Her back was straight. Her hands were still. They lay flat on the white linen.

"Please," the woman said. Her voice was low. It was steady. "Eat."

Lily looked at the woman. She looked at the food. She looked at the empty chairs.

"Who are you?" Lily asked.

"I am Maren," the woman said. She smiled. It was a kind smile. It was a sad smile. "And you are welcome here. You are one of us now."

Lily sat down. She picked up a fork. She lifted a piece of meat. She looked at the woman. She looked at the door.

The door was closed. It was locked. The key was in the woman’s hand.

Lily ate. The food was warm. It was good. It was for her.

Outside, the rain fell. The wind howled. The house stood in the dark. It waited. It watched. It remembered.

The table was full. The house was full. The hunger was full.

And the dark was close.