“Same as always — forty kilos of beef,” she whispered softly, handing over a neatly folded bundle of cash.

The young butcher stared at her in disbelief. Forty kilos! That’s nearly half a cow. At first, he assumed she had a big family to feed. But week after week, it was always the same.
She never spoke more than a few words, never looked him in the eye. She took her heavy bags and left, leaving behind a strange, metallic scent — a mix of iron, damp earth, and something else he couldn’t name.

Rumors spread quickly across the market:
— “She’s feeding stray dogs.”
— “No, she has a sick son.”
— “Or maybe she runs a secret restaurant…”

The butcher laughed it off, but curiosity gnawed at him. One evening, just before closing, he decided to follow her.
She moved slowly but with purpose, dragging her cart along the snowy street. At the edge of town, she turned toward an abandoned factory, the one that had stood empty for over a decade.
She went inside — and didn’t come out.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged again — without the meat.
The next day, the same thing happened.
On the third day, the butcher couldn’t take it anymore. He followed her into the factory.

Inside, the air was cold and heavy. The smell — rot, rust, and something disturbingly human.
He crept down a hallway, drawn by faint noises — soft moans, the clinking of metal. When he peeked into the main hall, his blood turned to ice.

There were cages. Dozens of rusted cages lined the walls. And inside them — people. Pale, thin, chained, their eyes empty but alive. Some whispered, some just breathed in ragged gasps.
In the middle of the room stood a large metal table, stained dark red. Above it hung knives, hooks, and saws.

And there she was.
The old woman stood at the table, calmly cutting slabs of meat, humming a lullaby.
“This is for them,” she said softly, without turning.
“For who?” he managed to whisper.
She slowly turned to face him. Her eyes were cold, almost glassy.
“For those who stayed below. They’re still hungry.”

The floor trembled. A deep, guttural rumble rose from beneath the concrete — as if something alive was moving under the floor.
The butcher bolted for the door, but it slammed shut on its own.
“You shouldn’t have seen,” she said in a chilling whisper. “Now they’ll want you too.”

When the police arrived the next morning, the factory was empty. No cages, no table, no woman. Just dark stains on the floor and dozens of barefoot footprints leading into the basement.

Later, investigators discovered that the building once housed a secret laboratory. Thirty people had disappeared there in the 1990s — never found.
A week later, the butcher was found dead in front of his shop. Beside him lay forty kilos of fresh meat.
Tests showed it was not beef.

Since then, the townsfolk whisper:

If an old woman ever asks you for forty kilos of meat… don’t ask why. Just run.