The alley's tucked between two brick towers that block out the sky — damp, narrow, and so dark you can't see your own hand in front of your face when the mist rolls in. No one knows where he comes from, only that he appears when the air turns heavy enough to drink, and the street sounds fade to nothing but silence and the low whir of his machine.
His cart is black metal, rusted at every edge, with a single bare bulb swinging over a massive vertical spit that spins slow and steady, never stopping. No words mark it — just the smell that pulls you in like a chain: charred meat, warm spices, and something sickly sweet that clings to the back of your throat like syrup.
The man is small and bent, wrapped in a thick coat no matter the weather. His face is hidden under a bushy beard and a worn cap pulled low over his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is like gravel on stone: "Doner? Fresh off the spit. Warm you right through."
Mia found him when she was lost, stumbling through the mist after her shift ended. Her stomach ached with hunger, and the smell was impossible to resist. The meat glistened under the bulb, fat dripping down to hiss and pop on the hot grill below.
She handed over crumpled bills and took the wrap. It was warm against her palms, but when she bit down, the "meat" was cold and tough, tasting of iron and rot. She spat it out — and saw a tiny silver locket tangled in dark strands of hair. It was the one she'd given her best friend Chloe for her birthday, before Chloe vanished three months back.
Mia whipped her head up to scream — but the cart was gone. Not a single trace left, not even a drop of grease on the wet cobblestones. Only the mist, and that cloying sweet smell that stuck to her skin for weeks.
More people vanished after that. Every time, the mist had rolled in, and someone swore they'd seen the black cart at the alley's end. Each disappearance left behind one thing: a folded doner wrap, tucked somewhere quiet, with a small piece of the missing person inside — a watch band, a broken earring, a child's shoelace.
An old shopkeeper who'd been there since forever finally spoke up, his voice shaking so hard he could barely get the words out: "He was a butcher here long ago. When times went bad and there was nothing to sell, he kept his spit turning anyway. They found bones in his cellar, all scraped clean, stacked around the machine like he thought it was some kind of god. He vanished the night they came to take him away — but the spit never stopped spinning. They say he's still feeding it… hunting anyone who's hungry enough to follow the smell."
Last night the mist came again. I saw the cart at the alley's end, the bulb flickering like a dying heartbeat. The spit was spinning faster now, and I could make out shapes hanging on it — not just meat, but something that twisted and moved as it turned.
The man looked up then, and under his cap his eyes were hollow black pits, dripping that same dark sweet liquid. He held up a fresh wrap, and I could see a face pressed against the thin bread — Chloe's face, her mouth open in a silent scream as the wrap tightened around her.
He took a step forward, and the spit whirred louder. "Hungry yet?"
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs gave out. When I looked back, the alley was empty. But this morning, there was a doner wrap on my doorstep — still warm, with my own keyring tucked inside.
And somewhere in the distance, I can still hear the spit spinning. Whir… whir… whir…