Kevin McClure matched with Bianca Forester three days ago. Her profile had been strangely compelling—a chef specializing in heritage Black Forest cuisine, with photos of her meticulously layering dark chocolate sponge, kirsch-soaked cherries, and thick cream into elaborate cakes.
Her bio mentioned she’d recently moved from Germany’s Black Forest region, and her messages had been oddly formal yet playful. A mix of old-world charm and something he couldn’t quite place.
When she invited him to her restaurant, Schwarzwald, for a private after-hours tasting, he jumped at the chance. The reviews were stellar—but something about the place was elusive. The website had no menu, no listed hours. When he searched for photos, they all seemed… wrong—as though the restaurant itself didn’t want to be seen.
Kevin arrived at 9 PM sharp. The street was empty. Schwarzwald stood in the dim glow of a single lantern, its heavy wood-and-iron door cracked open, inviting him inside.
The restaurant was dark except for a single table, bathed in candlelight. The walls were lined with twisted wooden beams that looked almost organic, as though the building had grown from the ground itself.
Bianca greeted him in a crisp white chef’s coat, her dark hair pinned back, except for a few loose strands curling around her pale face.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, leading him to the table. Her accent was soft, but deliberate, like someone who had spoken English for centuries but never quite let go of their mother tongue.
She brought out the first course—thin slices of Black Forest ham, deep red with marbled white veins.
“Cured in-house,” she explained. “Traditional methods. The smoking process takes months. But the preparation?” She smiled. “That begins with the first bite.”
Kevin picked up a slice and placed it on his tongue.
The taste was indescribable.
At first, it was rich, velvety, almost intoxicating. Then—something shifted. A creeping feral musk. The deep, loamy taste of soil after rain. The lingering bitterness of pine resin. Something ancient. Something alive.
Bianca watched him intently.
“What’s your secret ingredient?” he asked, the question half a joke, half a plea.
Her smile widened. “We preserve more than just meat in the Black Forest.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
Kevin’s vision swam. The candle flames flickered strangely, their shadows elongating, twisting, moving when nothing else did.
The walls seemed… closer. The beams had shifted, hadn’t they? The wood looked like bones now—not carved, but grown that way, shaped by centuries of wind, time, and hunger.
Bianca returned, setting down a slice of Black Forest cake before him. The cherries glistened wetly in the candlelight, dark as coagulated blood.
Kevin blinked. His fingers felt numb. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t move.
“What… what’s happening?” he slurred. His fork clattered against the plate.
Bianca tilted her head. Her pupils were too large now, swallowing the color of her irises, and her shadow on the wall was… wrong.
Too tall. Too jagged.
Branches. Not arms.
“The Black Forest is old, Kevin,” she murmured, voice deepening, growing rough, raw, and layered—like a chorus of voices speaking through her. “The trees, the roots, the soil—we learned long ago how to preserve more than just flesh. Time. Memory. Life itself.”
The walls creaked. No—breathed.
Kevin’s body felt heavy, sinking into the chair as if the wood had begun to absorb him.
Bianca stepped closer. Her shadow branched outward, dark tendrils splitting and stretching across the walls like reaching roots.
“You ate the ham.”
Her fingers brushed his face, and Kevin saw.
A flash of dark trees stretching skyward. Something vast and watching beneath the canopy. A hunger older than the bones of the world.
The restaurant wasn’t a place—it was a threshold. A piece of the Black Forest, still alive, still feeding, still growing.
And now, so was he.
Bianca leaned in, whispering in his ear.
“The smoking process takes months.”
She pressed a hand to his chest.
“But the preparation… that begins with the first bite.”
Three days later, Schwarzwald unveiled a new special.
A house-cured Black Forest ham, unlike anything diners had ever tasted.
“The depth of flavor is incredible,” a patron murmured over candlelight, slicing into the delicate meat. “What’s the secret?”
Bianca smiled from the kitchen doorway, watching, waiting.
“Family tradition,” she said.
She turned back inside, where the restaurant sighed, exhaling softly, the wood of the beams shifting, growing.
On the dating app, a new profile appeared.
Someone seeking adventurous diners interested in sampling authentic Black Forest cuisine.
After hours.
©2025 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
MADD FICTIONAL 