They All Taste Different

The post appeared on an obscure forum late at night, buried under threads about urban legends and ghost stories.

It's author, "Phil_Martins," had titled it simply: They All Taste Different.

> I wasn't special. Just an average guy, living an average life, looking for a thrill in every woman I met. They all had something unique, something I needed. It was my addiction, really. The way I saw it, women were like a fine menu, each with a different flavor waiting to be savored. I thought I was in control, that I could keep filling this hunger, keep pushing the boundaries without consequence.

> Until I met her.

> She was like no one I'd ever met before—pale, hollow-eyed, beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like something that crawled out of a dream you only half-remember. Her eyes caught mine in that dim bar, and in an instant, I was drawn to her, like something in me knew it had to be close to her.

> We ended up back at her place. The room was dark, empty, with a chill in the air that shouldn't have been there. Her kiss was cold, and the moment her lips touched mine, I felt something leave me—something I couldn't name but knew I'd never get back.

> Days went by, and I knew I wasn't myself. My skin started to lose its warmth, my reflection grew fainter each time I looked in the mirror. Every night, I went back to that bar, desperate to see her again, to feel whole. She never showed. But something else happened—my tastes changed. No more parties or casual encounters. I craved something deeper, something darker.

> I thought it was her I wanted. But then, one night, I saw her reflection in a passing window, just behind my own. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw it—my own eyes, black and hollow, like the soul had been drained out of them.

> I'm not me anymore.

> These nights, I don't feel human. My skin is pale, my hands colder, shaking with a hunger I can't name. There's a sharpness to my teeth that wasn't there before, and the people I see, strangers on the street—they don't look like people anymore. They look like food.

> So I'm telling this story now because I'm fading fast. Whatever I am, whatever she's made me, it's spreading through me, turning me into something else, something I can't stop. Soon I won't be Phil Martins. Soon, I won't be able to tell myself from her.

> To whoever's reading this, consider this my warning: there are things out there that wear human skin but are far from it. And if you see us, it may already be too late.

> Though we may look human, we are not far from you. Beware.