The sun slammed straight into the rock face, and the shadow of the pickup inside the cave no longer looked like a shadow — it was a black oil slick slowly seeping across the stone. The truck stood where trucks always stood in Cappadocia — brazenly, like a guest who walked in uninvited and now thinks this is his house.
Then the cave blinked.
Not with eyes, no. The whole porous mass, eaten away by millennia, simply contracted for a second — like a throat when you swallow too big a bite. Fine dust trickled from the ceiling, as if someone far above had sneezed violently. The pickup rocked lightly on its springs.
From inside the arch came a sound. Not the screech of metal. Not the crack of stone. Actual chewing. Wet, slow, with the crunch of cartilage.
The body began to fold. First the fenders tucked in like those of a scolded dog. Then the hood caved inward with a moist “pffft,” as if centuries of dust had just been exhaled through someone’s nose. The windows spiderwebbed but didn’t shatter — they were simply sucked inward, like being drunk through a straw. The side mirrors neatly folded back, the way a cat’s ears flatten before a leap.
The cave chewed slowly. With pleasure.
First the front end vanished down the tuff gullet — metal accordioned, headlights popped with a soft “pop,” like berries between teeth. Then the cab: seats sank in, the steering wheel twisted the wrong way around, as though someone inside had yanked it hard in their death throes. The body bent double with a crack, like a chicken bone.
From under the chassis something black leaked out — not oil, something thicker, almost alive. The stone drank it instantly, greedily, without a trace.
The wheels went last. They kept spinning on momentum for a second or two — pathetic, meaningless turns in the void — then were pulled inside like spaghetti into a child’s mouth. Just a faint squeak of rubber on rock — and silence.
A minute later, from deep within the cave came the sound of a burp. Very polite. Almost apologetic.
On the sand in front of the entrance only one thing remained — a torn piece of license plate. The letters still gleamed, as though they’d just been polished with a tongue.
The cave exhaled warm air laced with gasoline and rust. Then it went still again.
Modest. Ancient. Sated.#VoicesOfTheRuins #CappadociaEats #CaveAteTheTruck #TuffApocalypse #StoneSwallowedPickup #LivingRock #CappadocianHorror #CarsVanishAtNight #AncientHunger #TuffIsChewing #CaveBurpedGasoline #StoneStomach #ChewSlowlyAncientOne
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