Chapter 6: He Needs More

Chapter 6: He Needs More

The words on the screen swam before Leo’s eyes, a monstrous Rorschach test from which he could only see the worst possible images. Unidentified organic matter found in tomato sauce.

The phantom taste in his mouth, the one he had been chasing and analyzing for days, curdled into something obscene. The ghost of a rich, savory flavor was now the ghost of a violation, a contamination. The addictive sweetness the forum posters mentioned, the strange effect it had on children—it all clicked into place with a horrifying, sickening snap. The pizza wasn't just haunted. It was defiled.

He shoved himself away from the computer, a gag reflex rising in his throat. He stumbled to the kitchen sink, retching, but nothing came up. There was nothing in his stomach. He was being consumed from the inside out by a twenty-year-old memory and a flavor he couldn't expel.

The text message on his phone glowed on the counter. Your table is ready. It wasn't just an invitation anymore. It was a threat. Sal wasn't just a ghost tied to a place; he was a poison, and Leo had been infected as a child.

His anger, cold and sharp, cut through the nausea. He had been lied to. His mother’s casual dismissal, her forceful insistence that he couldn't remember—it wasn't just a mother protecting her son from a sad story. It was a cover-up. She knew more. She had to.

He snatched his phone, his thumb stabbing at her contact photo. He didn't wait for pleasantries when she answered, her warm "Hello?" met with a voice he barely recognized as his own.

"You lied to me," he said, the words tight and raw. "You have to tell me what really happened at Uncle Sal's."

"Leo? What are you talking about? You sound terrible. Are you sick?" Her voice was a flurry of maternal concern, the same shield she’d used before.

"I know why it was shut down," he pressed, his voice rising. "I found the health department report, Mom. The real report. 'Unidentified organic matter.' What was in that pizza, Mom? What did he feed us?"

The line went dead quiet. The feigned concern evaporated, replaced by the same chilling, brittle silence from their first call. He heard a soft, weeping sound, a crack in the dam she had maintained for over two decades.

"How?" she whispered, her voice fractured. "How could you possibly have found that?"

"It doesn't matter how. It matters that you lied. You said we barely went there. You said I couldn't remember. But I do. I'm having nightmares. I can smell the place in my apartment. He's..." Leo faltered, the sheer insanity of it catching in his throat. "...he's contacting me."

That was what broke her. A sob tore from her, raw and full of a fear so old it was almost a part of her. "Oh, God. Leo. I was so afraid. I thought if we never spoke of it, if we just left it buried..."

"Buried what?" he demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. "Tell me."

And so she did. The story poured out of her, a torrent of memory and guilt held back for twenty years. It wasn't just a few casual visits. For a few months, Uncle Sal's had been Leo's favorite place on earth. It was for another boy’s birthday party, Dylan from next door, that everything had gone wrong.

"You loved it so much," she recounted, her voice thick with tears. "You were a picky eater, but you would eat Sal's pizza like you were starving. You'd eat slice after slice. Sal… he loved it. He doted on you. He’d come out from the kitchen, this huge, sweaty man, and give you a special slice himself. He'd always say, 'Here you go, little man. The Usual, just for you.'"

Leo’s blood ran cold. The Usual Slice. It wasn't a menu item for everyone. It was a name. It was his name.

"At the party," she continued, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper, "you were… different. You weren't just hyper. It was something else. Your eyes were wide, feverish. You were running, climbing on the arcade machines. We thought it was just too much sugar and excitement. But then… then you and Dylan were fighting over a toy from the claw machine."

She paused, taking a ragged breath. "You bit him, Leo. You launched yourself at him and you bit his arm so hard you drew blood. He was screaming, and your father had to physically pull you off him. But the screaming… that wasn't the worst part."

Leo stood frozen, his own dream flashing in his mind—the chaos, the noise, the feeling of being small and overwhelmed and filled with a strange, powerful energy.

"The worst part," his mother said, her voice barely audible, "was what you said. When your father held you, you were struggling, trying to get back to the other boy. Your voice… honey, it wasn't your voice. It was deep, guttural. It sounded like an animal. And you looked right past your father, toward the kitchen where Sal was watching, and you yelled, 'He needs more!'"

He needs more.

The words hit Leo like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. It was a piece of a puzzle he didn't even know he was missing, and it explained everything. The ravenous hunger. The addictive craving. The "unidentified organic matter." Sal hadn't just been a failed business owner. He was a monster. He was feeding something to the children—to him—and whatever it was, it wanted more.

"We took you home immediately," Elena said, the shame and fear still fresh in her voice. "We never went back. The next day, Sal started calling. At first, he was just asking where you were. 'The boy didn't come in today,' he’d say. 'Doesn't he want The Usual?' We told him you were sick, that we weren't coming back. And that's when he got… obsessed."

"He called every day. Sometimes two, three times a day. His voice got more and more desperate. 'He has to come back,' he'd say. 'It's for him. He needs more.' It was terrifying. We threatened to call the police. The day after we did that, we read in the paper that he had killed himself. We moved two months later. I packed up all the photos from that time, I threw out every drawing you ever made of that place. I wanted to erase it. I wanted to protect you from what he did, from what you did."

The pieces fell into place, forming a picture of absolute horror. He was not a random target. He was Sal's favorite customer, the one that got away. Sal's suicide wasn't just an act of despair; it was an act of possessiveness, a way to bind himself to the one thing he couldn't stand to lose. And now, his ghost hadn't been haunting an app at random. It had been fishing. Casting a wide, digital net, waiting for the one customer it truly wanted to finally take the bait.

Leo slowly lowered the phone, his mother’s distant, sobbing apologies fading into meaningless noise. The entire haunting re-contextualized itself in an instant of brilliant, blinding terror. The phantom taste, the nagging familiarity, the irresistible pull—it was a connection forged in his own flesh and blood two decades ago. A parasitic bond that had lain dormant, waiting.

He looked at the text message still glowing on his counter. Your table is ready.

It was his table. It had always been his table. And Salvatore Moretti had been waiting over twenty years for him to return and finish his meal.