The House Special

Upon walking into the bustling bistro, one's eyes swung around and took in the vintage area as a whole; the young crowd, the French-quarter decor, the hurried servers speaking in a mix of French and English, and the air that hung resplendent with creole seasoning, fresh baked beignets, and something else you couldn't quite put a finger on. Either way, the smells hung heavy like curtains. It persuaded you to try absolutely everything the menu tempted and promised.

However... there was something about the riverside haunt that brought a faint prickle to the back of the neck.
 
Tonight's special touted a homemade Andouille Sausage Jambalaya, fresh ingredients and from scratch sausage which is a feat to make, especially for a Friday night crowd such as this one. Table after table ordered the Special, and after each order, a chant went up from the servers until it was a chant that no one else was privy too, but infectious just the same. The crowd grew to expect it, and in that time, they started joining in until it became a game, a want, a need, to respond back.

As the chants grew louder, the cooks in the back swayed with each religious cue, cooking up order after order of pleasantly pungent stew. No one realized they were behaving suspiciously, no patron, no stranger; except the cook in the far back. Stuck on sausage grinding duty, she stuffed the natural casings with the odd mixture she was grinding up blindly and when the grinder got caught, she took pause to clean out the intake. Dipping her finger inside she found the cause, a hard piece she had to pry out. It took a few quick tugs to free, until she saw what was noticeably familiar.

A human index finger.