Every morning, precisely at nine, the door of the butcher shop on the corner of Wilhelm Street would creak open.
In came Mrs. Eleanor Weiss, seventy years old, frail and gray-haired, with a wheeled cart and her eternal gray shawl draped over her shoulders.
“Same as always, forty kilos of beef,” she would say in a low, muffled voice, placing neatly stacked bills on the counter.
The young butcher, Daniel, would always freeze. Forty kilos—every single day! That was almost half a carcass.
At first, he assumed she was donating it to a shelter. Then he thought maybe she was feeding dogs or supplying a restaurant. But week after week, it was always the same. No explanations, no smile. Only the smell—a sharp, metallic scent, like old iron and blood.
When Eleanor left, the shop would linger with that strange aroma, and for some reason, Daniel felt a chill creep through him.
One evening, curiosity finally overcame his fear.
Daniel closed the shop and, hood pulled over his head, followed her.
She moved slowly, laboriously pushing the cart filled with packaged chunks of fresh meat. Snow crunched underfoot, and the streetlights barely lit the deserted streets. She crossed the bridge, passed abandoned warehouses, and stopped at an enormous derelict factory.
Daniel frowned. The building had been empty for over a decade—broken windows, walls blackened from moisture. But Eleanor unlocked a side door and disappeared inside.
He waited. One minute. Five. Twenty.
When she finally came out, the cart was empty. No bags, no meat. Only her hands trembled, and her face was deathly pale.
The next day, it happened again. And the third.
That’s when Daniel decided to act.
As soon as Eleanor slipped behind the rusty door, he followed.
Inside, it was dark and damp. The smell was heavy and fetid, like decades of decay. He heard strange sounds—not footsteps, not human voices. Something between growls and moans.
Daniel cautiously approached and peered through a crack in a concrete wall—and froze.
In the old workshop stood massive cages. And inside them… lions. Real, enormous lions, with thick manes and amber eyes. Four of them, pacing nervously, growling, gnawing on bones scattered on the floor.
At the far end, in an old armchair, sat Eleanor. Knitting a scarf, she spoke softly:
“Quiet, my dears… the fight will come soon. People are waiting. You must be strong.”
Daniel stepped back. His heart raced, sweat beaded on his forehead.
Then one of the lions lifted its head and growled. The sound rolled through the hall like thunder.
Eleanor spun around sharply. Her eyes glinted.
“Who’s there?!” she shouted.
He didn’t wait. He stumbled to the door, bolted outside, and called the police.
When the officers arrived and stormed inside, they couldn’t believe their eyes.
It was all real: the cages, the meat, signs of fights, blood stains on the concrete floor.
Eleanor Weiss turned out to be a former zoologist. After the city zoo closed, she had taken in four lions “to save them from dying.” But over time, her care turned into a business—illegal fights attended by wealthy spectators from all over Europe.
In the basement, they found a makeshift arena, lamps, cameras, even chairs for the audience.
As Eleanor was led away in handcuffs, she whispered,
“They’re not beasts… they are my children. I just wanted them to be remembered.”
Daniel stood nearby, staring at the empty hall that still smelled of blood and iron.
He realized that beneath the gray shawl and quiet voice was not just an old woman, but someone consumed by obsession—love driven to madness.
The next morning, the butcher shop reopened.
But every time the doorbell rang, Daniel flinched, as if expecting the gray-haired figure to reappear with the same words:
“Same as always. Forty kilos.”