It’s good to be home. After the frankly insane events of the past month or so, there’s nothing like settling back into the comfortable life of a small-town newspaper reporter.
Except, of course, if that small town is Habitsville. We’re prone to the strange here, through no fault of our own. Bizarre things just seem to happen, and just like clockwork, they’re happening again.
It came to me by word of mouth, but as far as I can tell, it started with a sign. I walked by the bakery myself just to be sure, and there it was, hanging in the window. It was small, white, and plain, but the words on it stood out in an unnatural way. Like I should have missed the phrase when I was walking by, but instead, found that it commanded my absolute attention.
The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh
An odd sort of laugh rose in my throat when I actually saw it. Because, up until that point, I thought Heather had lost her mind.
Heather is my primary coworker at Habitsville Gazette. We’re good friends, and often talk about everything from our pieces for the paper, to what shows we’re binging on Netflix. I know her pretty well, which is why it was strange when she suddenly said something extremely out of character, mid-conversation.
She’s been talking about her parents coming to visit from a few towns over, and how cautious they always were when they came to Habitsville (as visitors often are). We were packing up our things for the day, before we went home, when she said:
“My parents should be here Thursday, which is way too soon. The apartment's a mess, and it’s too small to fit all of us anyway. The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh. But how do you tell your parents they should get a hotel outside of town?”
I asked her what she meant, but as you might be able to guess, she had no idea what I was talking about. I even repeated the phrase back to her, but not a hint of recognition appeared in her eyes.
I went home, and after a while, I forgot about it. But then, I heard it again. Stepping outside of my house for work the following morning, I spotted my mailman, Phil, putting a few envelopes into my mailbox. I waved to him and said good morning, and like any polite person, he answered:
“Good Morning! The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh.”
He held his smile, as though he hadn’t said anything strange, and cheerfully moved on to my neighbor’s mailbox. I, however, was deeply confused. It felt like some sort of prank, though I had no idea who would orchestrate it, and why.
I heard it again later that day. In fact, I heard it 17 different times. Some people repeated it, some only said it once. I even have a transcript from an interview I was supposed to be doing with an old woman who just turned 102, where there, right in the middle of a sentence about her great-grandkids, was the phrase: The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh. I hadn’t heard it when she said it, but it was there, typed out in my notes.
So there I was, clocked out early on a Tuesday afternoon, just so I could stand in front of this bakery. I was bewildered, but not just because of the phrase, though that was bizarre on its own.
I’ve lived in Habitsville my entire life, and not once have I heard of a place called The Butternut Bakery.
And yet, after an afternoon spent wandering the streets of my own hometown, I found a new shop, right there in the middle of the main strip.
It’s a small building, but not so small that I would miss it. The building itself had an inviting burnt orange color, and the yellow lights inside made the entire place look warm and enticing. The smell of baked goods drifted out and over the pavement to where I stood on the other side of the street, fighting the overwhelming urge to go inside.
Because there was the sign, wasn’t there?
The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh
It seemed like such an odd thing for a bakery to have to clarify. Maybe it was some sort of fun reference to Sweeney Todd? That’s not exactly an appetizing allusion to make to potential customers. But there was something about the sign, something about the phrase—it was like the more that I heard or read it, the less odd it seemed. The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh. Of course it doesn’t, no bakeries do or should. It’s just good advertising to make that fact clear.
I didn’t see anyone walk in or out of the bakery for around fifteen minutes, though plenty of people walked down the sidewalk. It was strange. Even the window-shoppers that were strolling from display to display didn’t bother to stop at the bakery. It was the late afternoon, when someone might want to grab a snack or a late lunch. But no one gave it a second look. They didn’t even seem to notice the smell, which was becoming more distracting by the second. My stomach began to growl as I caught another nostril-full.
And then, I saw someone emerge from the bakery.
I had to squint, and it was hard to recognize him outside of his uniform, but I could still tell—it was Phil, my mailman. He stepped out of the bakery, holding a small bag, and immediately began to walk down the sidewalk.
I crossed the street and approached, walking behind him. “Phil!” I called out in a friendly manner. Oddly, he didn’t respond. I thought perhaps he didn’t hear me, so I walked faster, until I was beside him. “Phil—"
At the second call of his name, Phil stopped, and turned to look at me. He smiled when he recognized me. “Oh, Mr. Singer! Funny running into you here.” Though his tone would suggest that we were having a normal run-in on the street, it was anything but the sort.
There were markings drawn on his face, as though he was about to have some sort of cosmetic surgery. There were long strips drawn around his cheeks, and I could see some ink was peeking out from the circle that marked his ear. But as it turned out, that wasn’t the oddest part of Phil’s appearance.
I had thought it was his bag that had been dripping, something dark trailing from the door of the bakery to where we stood now. But since we had stilled, the trickle only came faster, and began to pool in a puddle around our feet. It wasn’t hard to miss the source.
Framed by the frayed edges of the shirt he wore, I could see that there was a large chunk of flesh missing from Phil’s shoulder. Not like he had a bad wound that needed to be sewn up—there was nothing to sew. It was a scoop out of his body, and I could see the tip of his shoulder bones poking out where they connected at the socket.
I didn’t know what to say. There was no trace of pain on his face. There was no signal that he even knew what he was walking around with. And, oddly enough, no one on the street seemed to notice either. I had a brief rush of fear, as I considered that perhaps I had lost my own sanity. Then, he said it.
“I’ve just picked up a bit of a treat for myself. The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh. I’ve just finished my route for the day.” He unraveled the folded up opening to his bag and held it out to me. “Would you like to try?”
I tore my eyes away from the gory wound on his torso, and instead peered into his bag. In the bottom, as innocent as could be, was a medium sized pastry. It was a pocket-style, crimped around the edges, no doubt with some sort of filling inside.
My stomach was turning violently now, and I just shook my head at Phil. “Suit yourself. This is the second time I’ve been this week. It’s terrible for my diet, but it’s just so good.” he said with a chuckle. “The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh. I’ll see you tomorrow morning then!” With that, he turned and continued down the pavement, walking with a limp I had never known him to have before.
I walked to the front of the bakery. Despite the warm glow coming from the inside, the windows were not well-suited for a display. The glass had some sort of coating on it, and although I could see the light shining through and dark shapes moving around inside, I couldn’t make anything out.
I was so focused on seeing inside, that I didn’t notice when someone had opened the door. The small bell at the top jingled, and I looked up.
It was Heather.
I lurched forwards and grabbed her by the hand. She flinched in shock, and then half-laughed. “Sam! God, you scared me. The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh. Are you going inside?” She motioned into the open doorway, and I looked inside.
It’s difficult to describe what I saw inside the Butternut Bakery. Mostly because the inside seen with the naked eye was strangely similar to the view through the glass—there was this hazy film over everything, and only two certain sights could be gleaned: the bright yellow light, and dark shadows moving around in the back.
“You shouldn’t go in there Heather,” I said, thinking of Phil’s monstrous wound. “I know this sounds crazy, I know.” I took a deep breath, then said: “But I think the Butternut Bakery is serving human flesh.”
Or, at least, that’s what I meant to say.
I could hear the words as they came from my lips, though they were not the one’s I had chosen at all. I said, “But I think the Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh.”
I stood there, horrified. Heather furrowed her brow at me, one foot still on the doorstep of the building. “Yeah, Sam, I know. You told me before. The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh. I think it’s great.”
I blinked. “I told you before?” The fear that was rising within me was quickly turning to panic. I had thought Heather had been the first one to say the phrase to me, only a few days before, and never did I think I had said it back to her. “What, when you mentioned it a few days ago?”
Her frown deepened. “You’ve been talking about the bakery for over a month, Sam.”
“I have?”
“I mean, it’s not much of a discussion. You pretty much say the same thing every time.” She leaned back out of the door, and pointed to that sign that hung in the window. “The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh.” As I stood there, spiraling, Heather looked down at my hand, which was still clasped firmly on her wrist. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re being weird, and I’m hungry.”
This shook me from my daze. I couldn’t let what had happened to Phil happened to Heather. I pulled hard on her wrist as she took another step towards the interior of the bakery. I tried to warn her, tried to say “I just saw my mailman come out of there with a huge piece of his body missing. Just missing, Heather! You can’t go in there, I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s dangerous.”
That’s what I tried to say. But deep down, I knew what was going to come out.
“The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh, The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh, The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh, The Butternut Bakery does not serve human flesh!”
I pulled Heather even harder, and she fought back with as much force as she could. The shadows in the back of the bakery were moving faster now, even buzzing around the edges, each were vibrating violently with some unseen energy. The yellow glow of the lights burned brighter, so bright I had to squint. I thought of the blood trail I had seen drip from Phil’s shoulder, the exposed bones and ligaments peeking through the mangled skin, the butcher lines drawn on his face, and I pulled with all my might—
Heather lost her footing. We fell backwards, one on top of the other, hard on the pavement. The door she had pulled open slammed, as though sucked back like a vacuum. When it did, the bell at the top jingled violently, and the entire building jumped with the force of the closure.
And it was that flinch, that slammed door, that made the sign fall from the window. I saw the words "The Butternut Bakery Does Not Serve Human Flesh” one last time, in plain black text on a white background. Then, I blinked, and it was gone.
Not just the fallen sign. The entire building was gone. People were walking by us now, as though they hadn’t seen what had happened. Instead, they only gave us odd looks and stepped over our bodies. I sat up and looked around.
The main street of Habitsville was just as I had always known it, before I first heard that phrase, the one I don’t dare speak again.
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