MADE WITH LOVE

Made With Love

By Mo Medusa

The house was perfect. A small one-story English cottage with gray stone placed in asymmetrical lumps across the frame, and picture windows looking out into the suburban cul-de-sac. The house even came with little planters pre-filled with perennials in shades of red, pink, and white. Nearby, birds—perched in the neat line of purposely planted trees—sang to the afternoon sun.

Newlyweds Brit and Sandra held each other as their new house glistened in the warm air—a fresh start for the freshly married couple. They’d finally found their solace in their humble cottage—soon to be made a home, together.

“I can’t believe this is really ours,” Sandra said, her long dark hair cradling her waist, curling at the ends. Her hazel eyes changed colors as she stared at the house, the image of their new life glittering in her pupils. “It’s like a dream.”

“Well,” Brit said, unlocking their strong tattooed hands from Sandra’s and turning to face her, their brown mullet-shag haircut wisping with the gentle breeze, “believe it. We actually did it, Sandy. We really did it.”

Sandra squealed and the couple ran into the house together like school children—locked hands and full of dreams for the future.

The inside of Brit and Sandra’s new home was much more modern than the outside, having been renovated by the old owners only six months before the couple moved in. An open floor plan welcomed them with wide arms and the touch of warm lighting comforted them. But the kitchen, a relic of the past, remained as it had since the home was built.

Green checkered floors glistened, excellently accompanied by soft green countertops and a peninsula with three shelves in the rounded bit. The walls were a pale yellow—the best compliment to the rest of the little cottage kitchen—stuck in the 1950s in the best possible way.

Brit never fancied themselves a chef, but when they stood there alone in the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted warmly into their nostrils, filling them with a joy they’d only ever experienced the day they met Sandra.

Maybe the new house can come with a new hobby, Brit thought. Trickles of excitement crawled through their veins, and they shivered a little imagining the possibilities.

With the couple’s things finally moved in and the house forever theirs, Brit was finally starting to see those possibilities come to life.

“Oh, Brit,” Sandra exclaimed, wrapping themselves around her new spouse, “it’s beautiful!”

Hand in hand once again, the couple raced to their bedroom to christen their new home, dreaming of what was to come.

———

Yellow sun creeped through the cracks in the blinds in Brit and Sandra’s bedroom. Sandra awoke to more birds singing their morning song and an empty bed, save for herself, with just the imprint of her partner sunken into the pillowtop mattress—a partner that had mysteriously vanished.

Inhaling the hickory smokiness of bacon frying in the other room, she leapt from bed to find Brit in the kitchen, wearing an old apron whistling a happy tune. Sandra wasn’t used to seeing Brit in the kitchen. Typically, they ordered takeout or walked to local restaurants to grab a bite. But now that they were in the suburbs and had a full-size kitchen for just the two of them, maybe it was better to start learning how to feed themselves.

And the food, well it smelled incredible.

“What’s this?” Sandra said, coming up behind Brit and sticking her hands in their back pockets. “My Brit, a chef?”

“It’s just a little eggs and bacon, my love.” Brit turned to Sandra and kissed her on the forehead. “Sit down, it’ll be ready in a minute.”

Coffee brewed on the counter, and fresh muffins sat artfully in a basket on the table. Sandra’s mouth salivated.

“How early did you wake up?” Sandra asked, mouth full of blueberry muffin. “It must have taken you forever to make all this.”

“Don’t worry about what I was doing and when,” Brit said, a sneaky smile on their face and two plates full of the freshly cooked breakfast in their hands. “You just worry about getting enough protein in your belly for the day.”

Brit placed a plate in front of Sandra and kissed her on her cheek. Tucking Sandra’s hair behind her ear, Brit whispered, “Eat up.”

Sandra sighed before devouring her food. Unlike Brit, who had the weekend off from their new teaching job at the community elementary school, Sandra had to work. It was her first day as a nurse at the local hospital, and she couldn’t be late.

Getting up from the table with a mouth still full of food, Sandra tied her hair back into a neat bun and fast-walked to the bedroom to get changed.

“Gotta go!” She yelled from the other room. “Thanks for breakfast!”

She returned moments later with her scrubs and comfy clogs on, wrestling with her bag, trying to find her hospital badge. When she’d found it, she gave her spouse a kiss on the forehead, rushing toward the back door.

“See you tonight!” Sandra said, leaving Brit to soak in their new home, alone.

———

Brit scoured the internet, skimming videos about cakes, cookies and chocolate souffles. With a box of kitchen supplies next to them, they prepared to create a masterpiece of sweet treats, hot and ready in time for Sandra’s return home later that night.

“Pour the dry ingredients slowly into the wet,” the video hammered in, “and keep the mixer on the lowest setting. This step is very important.”

Brit followed the instructions intently, whisking egg yolks slowly and intentionally, and adding tiny cups of ingredients measured into precise increments. Their first finished product—a simple yellow cake—tasted like it came from a box. Even with the homemade strawberry crème frosting—that Brit had taste tested and remade at an obsessive rate—nothing could fix the lopsided yellow slab of dense brick. Releasing a large, frustrated sigh and burying their head into their flour-covered, wet, and sticky apron, they had surrendered to the mighty kitchen.

They were busy loading the dirty stuff into the dishwasher when they heard a knock at the back door.

Brit opened the door swiftly, excited for their first visitor but having forgotten the mess they’d made all over their apron. And in their hair. And their new sweatpants. And all over the kitchen.

“Hello!” The woman standing outside the glass door projected her words like a whistle, the sound echoing through the quiet streets. “Welcome to the neighborhood! Oh, yes, it’s so good to meet new friends, yes. I’m Lorraine Langford, I live just down the street, yes, right down the way. The young people in town just call me Mrs. Langford, and I suppose that would be alright for you as well. Oh! It’s so good to meet new neighbors, yes, yes. Did I say that already? Oh! Don’t mind me, my mind is sharp, but my memory fails me, yes. What is it you said your name was again, dear?”

Unlike her gentle knocking, the woman at the other end of the door was boisterous and confident, if not for a little neurotic. Silver hair neatly tucked into a French roll, accompanied by a thin hunter-green cardigan atop a lighter green cotton dress, and orthopedic shoes. Her personality didn’t match her attire. She wasn’t neat and proper like her clothing suggested, but loud, fast, and neurotic. With every frantic word she spoke, Mrs. Langford inched herself inside Brit and Sandra’s home without invitation. Brit didn’t even have time to notice the serving dish that she’d been holding in her hands before she was already sitting at the kitchen table.

“Come in,” Brit said, confused, “I guess?”

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry to intrude,” Mrs. Langford started, “but I heard around town that we’ve gotten some new neighbors, and I wanted to introduce myself, yes, and welcome you to the lovely neighborhood, of course.” The woman lifted a towel from the serving dish, unveiling the most delectable set of cookies and cakes Brit had ever seen. The smell was intrusive—warm and intoxicating—and they couldn’t focus on anything else. “I brought some homemade treats for you to enjoy, please do help yourself, dear. Oh, yes, these are just incredible, aren’t they? I made them myself in my humble little kitchen. It looks a lot like yours, truly! Oh, yes, I am so glad to meet new neighbors. Is your husband around?”

Brit nearly choked on their slice of lemon cake, but responded, eyes stuck to the plate in front of them and crumbs falling out of their mouth. “My wife. Her name is Sandra, she’s at work.” They swallowed the moist sugary cake and wiped their mouth with a little cloth napkin that Mrs. Langford had placed in front of them. “You really made these yourself?”

‘Why, yes!” Mrs. Langford exclaimed, nearly jumping from her seat and knocking over the tray of treats. “It’s my secret recipe! It took some years of perfecting, of course, but I loved every second of it. Baking sweets, the kind made with love, well that’s my pride and joy, yes, it is. You see, dear, I never had children of my own, unfortunately, and my husband—well, husbands, I should say—have long passed. It’s just little old me and some flour, sugar, eggs, and my trusty oven. I absolutely adore sending sweet treats to my sweet neighbors, and they all enjoy them, yes, but nobody has seemed to enjoy them quite like you have …”

Brit had devoured most of the serving dish before they noticed the woman was still talking. Soft cookies, sweet fruit tarts, and velvety cakes, melting in their mouth and traveling smoothly down their throat—Brit never wanted to stop eating. Their stomach ached but their mind was hungrier with every bite—they were utterly consumed by the baked goods, entranced by their unusual but incredible flavor.

“You have to give me the recipe,” Brit interrupted Mrs. Langford who was still chattering to herself. “I’ve been dying to bake here, but nothing I do seems to work, nothing comes out tasting anything like this—”

“Oh, my!” Mrs. Langford opened her eyes wide, this time actually knocking the serving tray lid onto the floor. Her hands trembled as she picked it up, apologizing as she did so “I’m sorry for the mess, dear. Please, forgive me. It’s just … nobody has ever asked me that before, no, they haven’t. And, well, you see … this is a very special recipe, made straight from the heart, I hope you understand. Oh, please, dear, I do hope you understand.”

“Please, I’ll do anything,” Brit said, still savoring the last crumbs of the final treat. “I’ve been dreaming of making something this incredible for my wife. It’s all I can think about, and now with this new kitchen, I … I have to have it! Please, just … name your price.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Langford said, twirling a loose tendril of silver hair in between her fingers. “Oh, my, indeed. I have given this recipe to not a soul, no, not even my closest friends. But I suppose.” Mrs. Langford paused, and Brit’s temple pulsed in anticipation. “I suppose, if one were the right person, and I presume you are … well then I couldn’t imagine it being placed in anyone else’s hands.”

Brit hid a screech behind their teeth and held their tattooed hands up to their mouth, balled into excited fists. It took everything in them not to run up to the old woman and squeeze her to death. Their eyes glistened as Mrs. Langford reached into her pockets and pulled out a little plastic baggie with a yellow sticky note wrapped around it. It was as if she had been prepared for the moment all along.

“But before I give this to you,” the old woman said, grabbing hold of Brit’s wrist, “you must understand that it is not the recipe that matters, dear. It’s the ingredients. And these ingredients, these spices, if you will, they have been specially harvested, dried, and mixed by yours truly, and they deserve the respect and love that I put into creating them. They are not to be used all willy-nilly, dear. Your treats will not taste as sweet if you don’t honor the process with love, my dear. Do you understand?”

Brit shook their head yes, holding their palm out to await the magic bag of spices. Mrs. Langford placed the baggie in their hand, closing Brit’s fingers around it like she wanted them to protect it with their life. Brit quickly put it into the pocket of their apron, protecting it. They daydreamed about the wonderful treats they could make their new wife, how it would become like tradition. And so engulfed in their own sugary thoughts, Brit didn’t even notice Mrs. Langford smiling and getting up from the table.

When they’d finally snapped out of their mind and back into the kitchen, the old woman was already halfway out the door, serving tray in hand.

“Remember, dear,” she said, her cloudy eyes burning through Brit’s head, “the responsibility is now on you. Everything you make must be made with love.”

———

Brit didn’t waste any time making up for their previous attempts, anxiously pulling the bag of spices out of their pocket before Mrs. Langford had even crossed the back porch. Taking in a strong whiff of the bag, they recognized a few distinct scents—cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and clove—but there was something else, something they couldn’t recognize. The mix was strangely dark and moved around the plastic bag like sand—or dust. Brit’s lips tingled when they smelled the spice mix, drool forming in the corner of their lips.

Completely ignoring the yellow sticky note that read, use with caution, Brit poured a generous amount of the spice mix into a bowl, along with the ingredients for a German Chocolate cake. The scent that wafted from the bowl was overwhelming, screaming louder with each swirl of the electric mixer’s paddle attachment. It consumed Brit, blurring their vision as they focused on the ingredients incorporating—flopping over each other in a choreographed circle until they were one—drool dripping down Brit’s chin.

When the cake was mixed, they poured it into the cake pan—setting it carefully into the oven—and waited, impatiently, hunger growing with every tick of the clock timer.

By the time Sandra had returned home from her shift at the hospital, the cake had cooled, and Brit was joyfully slathering it with homemade coconut pecan frosting—containing another generous heap of spices. The cake was moist and perfectly balanced.

The process was all-encompassing—the flavors trickling their way through Brit’s nose, into their throat, down the windpipe and settling in their gut—that Sandra walking up behind them to hug their flour-covered waist was a shock, like they hadn’t even known she was standing there at all.

“Oh!” Brit said, shoulders shuddering in surprise before turning around to greet their wife with a kiss. “You scared me, love. But I’m so glad you’re finally home … I’m almost done with your surprise! Go take off those scrubs and get comfy, it’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sandra returned to the kitchen to find the table decorated in white linen, a fancy cake cut into neat portions, and accoutrements—sliced fruit, a bowl of whipped cream dusted in cocoa, and bits of chocolate bark—all surrounding a crystal vase with fresh, colorful flowers.

“What’s this?” Sandra asked, confused by the spread, but happy to indulge. “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”

Sitting down to devour the slice already prepared for her on a pristine dish, Sandra’s eyes rolled to the back of her head as the creamy frosting and delectable cake hit her taste buds. Like she’d never eaten a day in her life, the plate was empty in seconds, and she already had another slice prepared before Brit had even joined her at the table.

“So,” Brit said, adding a dollop of fresh whipped cream onto their plate, “I’m guessing you love it?”

“Mmm … hmm,” Sandra mumbled, mouth full of treats and strawberry guts staining her chin, still shoveling more cake onto her already full tongue.

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy.” Brit looked to their bride, a mess of crumbs, whipped cream, and frosting, their insides melting at her beauty.

The couple ate the rest of the cake together in one sitting, locked eyes and warm bellies connecting them as one before they glided to their bedroom to fall into a sugary slumber.

———

Brit slept peacefully, dreaming of chocolaty eclairs, creamy puff pastries, and luxurious macarons. Their eyes fluttered as they danced with lady fingers layered in rich raspberry mousse, confectioners’ sugar powdering the pink dream-sky like fresh snow. Squeezing their pillow tightly, they were whisked away to a sweet tasting land of perfection.

Sandra, on the other hand, tossed and turned all night. Pain in her stomach ripped through her organs with sharp, broken claws, and poisonous acid burned in her chest. Her skin, white as a ghost, seeped cold oily sweat from its cavernous pores—her bones vibrating as her body shook.

But inside of her cloudy head, the nightmares proved even more excruciating.

———

Unable to move from her cradled position in the bed, something dark—indistinguishable—crawled up Sandra’s body in slow, unnatural movements—several crooked legs scraping against her freezing skin as they dug their claws in, traces of blood and soot creating lines up her chest until it reached her throat. The creature hooked its claws into her cheeks, cracking open her jaw wider than her head and dragging itself inside of her mouth.

It writhed and contorted, squirming its way down her airway, its claws bursting through Sandra’s skin as it made its way down.

It wanted to reach her heart—tear at the flesh, bathe in the cold dead blood.

The only problem? It was still beating …

———

Sandra awoke to another empty bed. Smells wafted from the kitchen that enticed her senses, even as her stomach ached and turned. Clanking of metal and glass dishware ripped through her pressured head, throbbing and growing louder each second. She yawned, but the corners of her lips stung, tearing apart the wider her mouth opened—her jaw throbbing like it was unhinged—out of place.

And still, the scents wafting from the other end of the house distracted her from her condition, carrying her out from the puddle of sweat pooled on the bed beneath her, and into the kitchen to find Brit, stirring something in a large pot—steam moistening their face.

“Finally, you’re awake!” Brit said, continuing to spin a ladle in the pot and without turning around to greet their wife. “You felt a little clammy this morning. I made you some lemon-ginger soup, that should fix you right up. I did also make some puff pastries, though, just in case.”

The thought of consuming heavy pastry dough sunk into Sandra’s queasy stomach, but the room smelled sweet, like home, and like love. She didn’t want to rudely decline her spouse’s generous gifts, so she obliged, sitting down to enjoy another feast.

Sipping the soup, slowly, her stomach settled, the ginger soothing away the nausea, the lemon healing her ravaged throat. But the puff pastries taunted her, freezing her in time as she watched her glowing spouse in all their healthy glory tear apart the flaky puffs and inhale them, their skin brightening with every bite.

Sandra’s fingertips tingled, numbing to the weakening beat of her heart. Her head throbbed watching her spouse devour their plate, the thought of consuming more sugar and flour threatening to welcome back the nausea. But, with a craving stronger than the sickness building inside her, the sweet treats were too much to resist.

Like a wild animal, starved and malnourished, Sandra needed them.

With a quick motion she grabbed the last puff, gripping her clammy paws on it before Brit could eradicate the dish. Shoving it into her dry mouth, the dough melted into a paste over her teeth, and every time she chewed, her teeth—weakening by the second—started to crack. But she kept chewing, savoring the flavor, even as it felt like poison going down her throat.

On the last bite, something popped, her front tooth dislodging itself from her gums and falling into her hands. One by one, more teeth cracked off until she had about five of them, gray and dead, displayed in her palms. Blood gushed from her severed gums, spilling onto the table and ruining the spread that Brit had laid out. Sandra turned white, whiter than she had already been, and as spotted light danced around her glossy eyes, the soul within her started to fade into black. She collapsed in her seat, head hitting the table with a THUMP before sliding to the floor.

Brit jumped from their chair, knocking over their plate of crumbs to rush to their wife’s aid. Lifting her up in their arms, they carried her—limp body slung over their shoulder—to the bedroom, where they washed off the blood and laid her in their bed. Holding a cold wet washcloth to her forehead, Brit watched as Sandra’s eyelids fluttered, life seeping back into her skin.

She awoke, face widened in a terrified stare.

“Sandy—” Brit cried, throwing themselves over their wife and holding her close, soaking in her slimy flesh and rotting mouth.

“Whathh happening thoo me?” Sandra sputtered through her bloody lips.

“I don’t know,” Brit said, wiping Sandra’s tears gently with the washcloth, “but I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No!” Sandra shouted, knocking away Brit’s hand and abruptly jumping out of bed on shaky feet. “I can’t go thoo the hosthp-ithal! They can’t sthee me like thisth. I justh sss-tharthed!”

“Okay, okay,” Brit said reassuringly, “I won’t force you. But you have to get some rest, got it? Everything will be alright … alright?”

Brit helped Sandra back into bed, joints cracking with every movement. They tucked her in, kissing her on her bruised forehead—a consequence of its collision with the table—before switching off the bedside lamp and walking out to clean up their sanctuary in the kitchen.

But just as they were stepping over the threshold of the couple’s bedroom door, Sandra’s throat gurgled and wretched.

“Hey,” Sandra said, the bloody holes in her gums starting to crust up, “can you bake some more th-rea-ths? Whath-ever you’re doing different isth working. I need more!”

———

Brit collected the ingredients for a mousse—fancy semi-sweet chocolate, butter, egg yolks, sugar, heavy whipping cream, a teaspoon of vanilla extract, and a good helping of the trusty spice mix—all for Sandra, who was fast asleep.

But when they went to pour their loving spices into the mixture, nothing but dust and air came from the bag. They ran their fingers over the corners of the plastic baggie, but only remnants of the magic powder were left, disappearing into the oils of Brit’s fingertips.

Pounding their fists on the counter, Brit cursed the old woman as they starved for their newest creation—a masterpiece that had failed before it even had a chance to exist.

In a huff of frustration and hunger, Brit headed for the back door and toward Mrs. Langford’s house. The stench of decay followed them, wafting through the paved suburban streets—its origins in their shared bed with their lovely wife, rotting flesh and blood seeping from her gaping mouth. Her skin, turning to slime and slithering off of her meat like a lizard, left a trail of dust, clinging to Brit’s shoes, marking their journey.

———

“Mrs. Langford!” Brit yelled at their neighbors’ front door. “Lorraine, I need to talk to you now!”

The door opened swiftly, knocking their hand back into their chest. Mrs. Langford appeared in the doorway, dusty apron and hair a mess—she’d been baking. Brit’s mouth salivated at the thought of the spice mixture on the old woman’s fingertips, the stains of ganache wiped across her chest. But her eyes, pinched together in scorn, told a story of disappointment.

“Come, dear,” Mrs. Langford said, opening the door wide and allowing Brit to enter the cottage, “sit. We need to talk, indeed.”

Brit found the closet seat at the old grainy kitchen table, but the old woman didn’t sit down to join them, tending back to her mixing bowl and the sweet treats that would soon follow.

“I knew you’d be coming,” Mrs. Langford said, stirring the ganache in a pan, back turned to Brit as she talked, “I had a feeling, yes.”

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Brit started, “it’s just, I need …”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Langford interrupted, “you’ve run out of spices already, haven’t you? Oh my, my, my … that leaves us in a predicament, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry.” Brit waved their hands around, pleading with the old woman as if she could see them begging. “It’s just, the desserts, they were so good, and Sandra, my wife … she loved them so much … I just wanted to—”

“To what, dear?” Mrs. Langford set her whisk on the stovetop and turned to face Brit, amusement on her wrinkled face. “To love her to death?”

The old woman burst into a cackle, spittle flying from her lips and landing all over the kitchen.

“No … it’s not that …”

“Then what is it?” Mrs. Langford walked over to the table and sat across from Brit, sinking their graying eyes into their direction. “Oh, dear, did you think I wouldn’t recognize the familiar stench of rotting flesh? That I wouldn’t smell the tinges of death escaping from your happy home—how it followed you down the road, sinking into the pavement, holding your hand like your most cherished friend? Don’t you see, my dear? Why, you created this! Yes, now you must see how the silly little things sometimes make the most difference. It’s a lot like baking in that way!”

“I’m … not sure I understand …” Brit said, wiping Mrs. Langford’s spittle from their forehead. “I just came here for more spices …”

“Why, that’s precisely the point!” Mrs. Langford stood from the table and walked to the counter, grabbing a large cookie jar from the cabinets. Placing it on the table, she slid it toward Brit, keeping her hands on the lid. “I’m assuming you ignored my instructions to use the bag with caution … it wasn’t there for no reason, my dear! Why, it was my life’s work to create this mixture! I tended to these herbs for years, growing them and handling them with love and respect. I didn’t obsess over them, dumping them into a bowl and hoping they’d save my mediocre baking, or mediocre marriages. I treated them well, and I treated my husbands well, too.”

“Excuse me?” Brit said, their eyes dancing across the kitchen as Mrs. Langford moved about. “Are you implying that I don’t love and respect Sandy? What do you think this was all for? It was all for her!”

“Was it?” Mrs. Langford paced around the table, knocking into it and rattling the lid off the cookie jar. “Or was it your own selfishness? Did you take your time with your recipes, carefully kneading your dough until everything—your blood, sweat, and hunger—were neatly incorporated? Did you really make your dishes with love, tending to your wife with gentleness, crafting these goods with your bare hands, your wife’s heart in your mind? Or did you simply do it for the satisfaction, my dear?”

“I did it for her!” Brit cried, throwing their hands on the table, pleading with the old woman. “I promise, I did it all for her!”

Brit’s flailing hands knocked over the cookie jar, spilling the dusty mixture and filling the room with the familiar aroma of the coveted spices. But it wasn’t just the normal ground spices that Brit had come to know and obsess over, but something more … organic.

Piles of ash and what seemed like pieces of living things strewed across the table—hair, and teeth, and bits of bone—appearing more human than Brit would have liked to admit.

In fact, if they squinted one eye and peaked inside the dark opening of the jar, they could almost see something moving—beating—like whatever was in there had a pulse.

Brit gasped, pushing themselves away from the table, gagging into their tattooed hand, but then inhaling the once cherished aroma and gagging again.

Breathing through their mouth, they looked to the woman who was bent over the table, collecting the horrid piles of human remains into her hands and smiling. She looked even older in that moment, somehow.

“What is this?!” Brit yelled in judgment, eyes fixed on the shiny gold crown attached to one of the old teeth. “Who is this? Is this … are these …your husbands?”

Mrs. Langford laughed, a deep, guttural laugh from the pits of her sunken soul.

“I told you, dear,” she said, inching closer to Brit as they tried to back away, “I tended to those herbs, you see. I harvested them myself. Their hearts and their minds and their bodies—every second was spent in love. I took my time with it. It took me years of perfecting, but I finally figured it out. You can’t rush the process, dear. You don’t pour yourself into them for years, decades—just for the simple satisfaction of feeling like you’ve done something good. The love has to be pure, my dear. Neither of my husbands ever crumbled under the weight of my love—they both lived fruitful lives, dying of old age, happy and full—because I made sure of it.”

“You’re sick,” Brit cried, locked in a corner while Mrs. Langford stepped closer. They were frozen, fighting the urge to inhale the spices, knowing now what they contained but addicted to their musky power anyway.

The woman, now inches from Brit’s face, laughed again.

“But now that you’ve gotten this far,” Mrs. Langford spoke, hot rotting breath seeping from her boiling gut, “might as well finish the job. If her heart’s still beating … well … you can bake your cake, and eat it, too!”

Mrs. Langford doubled over in more laughter, allowing space for Brit to push past her and run out the door.

Sprinting down the pavement and to their wife, a trail of cackles followed them home, all the way to the back door and into the kitchen, where Sandra was waiting for them at the table.

———

“Sandy!” Brit exclaimed, rushing to their wife and falling into her, sweaty arms wrapping around her shoulders, not allowing room for her to hug them back. “I’m so glad you’re alive!”

Sinking deeper into their wife’s weakening body, Brit buried their head into Sandra’s chest, breathing in their strong scent.

Her smell was intoxicating, soothing Brit’s aching heart, enticing them to squeeze harder, breathe in deeper, wanting more.

They couldn’t resist the urge to nibble a little on her neck, tasting her sweet, salty skin, addicted to the flavor.

Like a stray dog, starved for meat, Brit salivated the more they sniffed their wife’s aroma, addicted to the fumes secreting from Sandra’s pores.

Head still on her chest, Brit was comforted by the soft beating of her heart.

Her bloody, delicious heart.

As the beating in Sandra’s chest slowed, Brit thought to themselves,

Maybe just one more batch …

2025 Mo Medusa. All rights reserved. This story is free to read on www.momedusa.com and momedusa.substack.com, but may not be reproduced, copied, or redistributed without permission.

Originally Published in “Twisted Horrors: A Queer Horror Anthology”