Chef's Heritage

Checking the clock, Joanne was shocked to realize her husband had been gone for over an hour investigating the strange noises they had heard.

There was a scrabbling sound from the closet and Joanne noticed the door was ajar. She quietly climbed out of bed, stepped to the door, and slammed it shut. There was more scuttling and then silence. “I hope you were just a mouse,” she said, and flipped the light switch. She slowly opened the door and peeked in. Nothing but clothes.

The former Miss Stevens hated old houses, but what the hell, it was an inheritance from her new husband's great-uncle Michael Johnson: homicidal cannibalistic chef. Her husband, Mike, liked to mention the coincidence of names and that he was in college with a culinary scholarship.

She stepped into the hallway. “Mike?” she called. “Michael, Where are you?” She heard a thump below her and the house filled with smells of cooking.

The kitchen was lit with a gentle violet glow. A slab of meat lay on a cutting board, blood dripping to the floor, oozing into a seam in the tiles. Joanne knelt and ran her fingers along the crack until it formed a small square. Tool marks on one corner showed her the way to open the small door and she pulled out a leather box, about fourteen inches by eight.

She opened the case and a gleaming set of cooking utensils reflected Joanne's furrowed brow. The blades seemed to give off the same light as the kitchen. It both revolted and attracted her. “You must belong to great-uncle Michael,” she said. She ran her bloody finger along one blade and then another. The meat cleaver was missing.

A distinguished man appeared before her, at the stove. He turned toward Jo and indicated the pot he had on boil. Chef Michael reached for a tin of herbs and dumped the entire contents into the stew pot and put the wooden spoon to his lips, tasted his dish, and double checked his recipe book.

The cook then lifted a hand from the pot and twisted it from the forearm. The glowing chef smiled at Joanne as the vision ended, the gentle cooking smells the last to dissipate. The pot remained on the stove, and the cook book still lay open on the counter. Joanne read, “Crabby Mr Stevens.”

The object in the pot floated to the surface, staring at Joanne. She screamed and staggered to the door to see her dad's car in the drive.

“Michael! Where the hell are you?” she called. She heard a creak from the far door.

Her bare feet echoed throughout the house as she padded to the basement stairs. Only a feeble light down there, and. . .humming? As quietly as possible, she slowly descended. Only a few more. . .almost there. Her foot slipped, tumbling her the last four or five steps.

Dizzy and bruised Joanne stood and inspected her injuries. She was covered in blood! Her eyes followed the congealing trail and froze in terror. Lying on the pool table was her mother's body, her head severed and sitting upright on the corner.

Joanne's husband stepped out of the shadows. “Hey, Honey,” he said. “You're never going to guess what I found. Great-Uncle Mike's secret kitchen, with his own recipe collection!”

“Mom. . .Dad. . .?” Joanne couldn't find her voice.

“Oh, yeah. Your parents came in early, that's what the noise was. They're helping me work out some new recipes. You can help too, if you want.” The meat cleaver in his hand blazed violet.

Joanne felt the bite as her soul seeped into the blade.


Word Count: 631