The gingerbread golem

 The Gingerbread Golem

Every Christmas, our little town of Hearth Hollow held a gingerbread contest. Bakers from all over would compete to create the most elaborate gingerbread houses, men, and sculptures. The air smelled of cinnamon and sugar for days, and the winning creation was displayed in the town square until New Year’s Day.

But last Christmas, everything changed when Old Man Griggs entered the competition.

Griggs wasn’t a baker. He wasn’t even the festive type. A recluse who lived in the woods on the edge of town, he rarely came to town meetings or spoke to anyone. No one expected him to show up at the contest. But when he did, dragging a tarp-covered cart behind him, everyone fell silent.

With a flourish, he yanked the tarp off to reveal his entry: a towering, seven-foot gingerbread man.

The thing was terrifying. Its body was jagged and uneven, like it had been hacked out of dough rather than carefully shaped. Its icing wasn’t the cheerful white piped into snowflakes and swirls like the other entries—it looked more like veins running across the dark, molasses-colored body. Its eyes were sunken raisins, and its jagged, toothy grin was made from broken candy canes.

“I call it the Gingerbread Golem,” Griggs said, his voice gravelly and dry.

No one clapped. No one moved. Even the mayor, who always gave warm words to every contestant, seemed lost for what to say.

Griggs didn’t wait for applause. He left the golem there and walked out without a word.

That night, it started snowing heavily, blanketing the town in silence. I was walking home from a late shift at the diner when I passed the square. The contest entries were still on display, their sugar facades glowing faintly under the streetlights.

Except the Gingerbread Golem.

It was gone.

At first, I thought maybe Griggs had come back to take it, but then I noticed something. Deep footprints in the snow led away from where it had been standing—massive footprints, larger than any human could make.

I followed them.

They led down Main Street, past the bakery and the post office, and stopped in front of the mayor’s house. The door was ajar, and the footprints continued inside.

I hesitated, my breath fogging in the freezing air. The house was dark except for the soft glow of Christmas lights in the window. I stepped closer, peering inside.

The living room was a mess. Furniture was overturned, the Christmas tree was on its side, and ornaments were shattered across the floor. In the center of the chaos was a trail of something thick and dark.

Molasses.

My stomach turned as I followed the trail upstairs, my heartbeat loud in my ears. At the top of the stairs, the mayor’s bedroom door was open.

I didn’t go in. I didn’t need to.

The mayor was there—or what was left of him. His body was crushed, his limbs bent at impossible angles. His face was frozen in a scream, and his chest was caved in, as if something massive had stomped on him.

And in the corner of the room, written on the wall in thick, sticky molasses, was a single word:

“BAKE.”

I ran out of the house and didn’t stop until I was home. I locked every door and window and sat by the fire with a knife in my hand, waiting for morning.

By the time the sun rose, news of the mayor’s death had spread through the town. No one talked about the footprints or the molasses. The official story was a break-in gone wrong, but I knew better.

That night, as the snow fell again, I heard something outside. A heavy, deliberate crunching of footsteps in the snow.

I peeked out the window and saw it.

The Gingerbread Golem, standing in my yard, its candy-cane grin gleaming in the moonlight.

In its hand was a note, scrawled in shaky, icing-like letters.

“Your turn.”

Now, every Christmas Eve, I bake something. A gingerbread man, a house, anything to appease it. But each year, it gets closer.

And one day, I know it won’t be satisfied with just a cookie.