Sacrificing Scumbags at the Honey Altar

My mother owned a shop. It was called Dewy Honey Shop, and it was beautifully decorated. However, I felt suffocated every time I was inside.

Have you ever smelled such a sweet, overwhelming aroma that it made you sick?

That was exactly the smell in my mother's shop. After smelling it for a long time, you might even think the air was poisonous.

The only product the shop stocked was something called ‘Heart-Eroding Honey’. It was in a glass jar, and it was shockingly expensive. Even though we never sold to strangers, our reservations were always full.

"Mom, Mrs. Wilson is here," I reminded softly, looking at the dignified lady with dark circles under her eyes and a tired expression who had entered.

"Look after the shop." My mother's voice was gentle. She stepped forward and cautiously supported Jasmine Wilson, as if treating a precious object. She guided her into the beehive room at the back.

As soon as the door closed, a familiar low hum began to ring. It was quiet yet pervasive.

I could always hear other noises, like the soft sound of fabric tearing and a woman's moans escaping from deep within her throat. I could never tell whether it was from pain or ecstasy.

Half an hour later, Jasmine emerged, her face flushed a sickly red, yet her eyes frighteningly bright. Her weariness seemed to have been drained from her and replaced with something energetic.

During a thorough cleaning, I accidentally triggered a hidden latch and discovered a secret compartment deep within the counter. I found a notebook with a rough cover. My heart skipped a beat as my fingertips touched it. It was the thrill of uncovering the forbidden, but also the fear of the unknown truth.

It was not an account ledger. Strange honeycomb symbols were drawn on it, recording dates and men's names. Next to it, words like ‘Honey extracted’ and ‘Pending ripening’ were scribbled in crimson ink at the side.

Each name was encircled by a finely detailed honeycomb pattern. It was like a list of sacrifices.

I took the notebook to my mother, my palms sweating. "Mom, what's this?"

She snatched the notebook from my hand with her usual unfathomable smile. "This isn’t something for kids to flip through. It's just some beekeeping notes. I just scribbled them for fun."

The more casually she spoke, the more terrified I felt.

I looked at her and, for the first time, felt like I did not know her at all.

Vera Lincoln was back. This time, there was no anxiety in her eyes, only a near-manic frenzy. She grabbed my mother's hand, her fingers turning white from the pressure. Her voice was urgent and hoarse. "Madam, ordinary honey isn't enough. He follows me around like a lapdog now. It's too… boring! I want something purer, something that will make him give me everything!"

The word ‘give’ was emphasized like a viper's hiss.

My mother gave that familiar, all-knowing smile and took a small jar from the back room.

This jar of Heart-Eroding Honey was different from the others. Its color was as deep as congealed blood, with a few scarlet threads slowly flowing within the honey like the veins of a living creature.

I could even feel the viscous liquid trembling slightly. Even through the glass jar, I could smell a nauseating scent of desire mixed with florals and blood.

Vera eagerly followed my mother into the back room.

The buzzing that escaped from the crack in the door was no longer a simple hum but a chilling, lingering whisper. It was mixed with the sound of liquid being forcefully sucked and churned.

My stomach twisted. The sound reminded me of a slaughterhouse’s squeals or some kind of parasitic creature feeding on prey.

When Vera reappeared, she was breathtakingly beautiful, yet she looked terrifying.

There was a palm-sized red mark on the side of her long, slender, fair neck. It was wet with slightly raised edges. The skin in the center was slightly sunken, like a giant suction cup had just peeled from her flesh. The mark was still pulsating slightly, as if something had just finished its meal and left.

I covered my mouth tightly to keep myself from screaming.