The Christmas cake

 The Christmas Cake

It started as a holiday baking tradition in our small town of Everpine. Every year, the town held a Christmas Cake contest, where families and bakeries would compete to make the most extravagant and delicious cake. This year, my mom was determined to win.

She’d found the recipe in an old, leather-bound book at the antique store, its pages yellowed and brittle. The title read: “The Yuletide Treat: A Recipe for Festive Delight.” Mom said it was perfect—unique, traditional, and sure to impress the judges.

Something about the book unsettled me. The illustrations were odd, almost alive, and the directions were strangely specific, with phrases like “knead with intention” and “whisper your wishes to the batter.” But Mom laughed off my concerns.

“It’s just an old recipe,” she said, sprinkling sugar into the mixing bowl. “What’s the harm?”

The cake was massive, its layers towering over the kitchen counter. The frosting was deep crimson, like fresh berries, and the decorations were eerily lifelike—miniature candy people with intricate features and expressions. When Mom finished, she stepped back, her face glowing with pride.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cake was… watching me.

That night, I woke to the sound of faint, rhythmic tapping. At first, I thought it was just the wind, but as I listened, the sound grew louder, more deliberate. It was coming from the kitchen.

I crept downstairs, my heart pounding. The house was dark, but the faint glow of the Christmas tree lights cast eerie shadows on the walls.

The cake was still there, sitting on the counter. But something was wrong.

The candy people had moved.

They were no longer standing in neat, decorative rows. Some had toppled over, while others had turned their tiny faces toward me. Their sugary eyes glinted in the dim light, and their expressions seemed to shift—smiling one moment, scowling the next.

A sharp crack broke the silence. One of the candy figures fell, shattering against the counter. But instead of crumbs and sugar, a thick, dark liquid oozed from the broken pieces.

It wasn’t frosting. It was blood.

I stumbled back, my breath catching in my throat. The cake seemed to tremble, its layers quivering as if alive. The frosting rippled, and the candy people twitched, their limbs jerking in unnatural movements.

And then, the cake opened.

The top layer split like a mouth, revealing rows of jagged, sugar-coated teeth. A low, guttural growl echoed through the kitchen as the cake began to move, dragging itself across the counter with frosting-covered tendrils.

I screamed, running back upstairs to wake my mom. But when I reached her room, she was gone. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled. A faint trail of frosting led out the door.

“Mom!” I yelled, my voice cracking.

The growling grew louder, followed by a sickening crunch. I turned toward the stairs just in time to see the cake dragging something up from the floor. A hand—my mom’s hand—emerged from the frosting, clutching at the air before being pulled back inside.

I froze, too terrified to move as the cake turned toward me. Its candy people crawled across its surface, their tiny faces twisted in malevolent glee.

“Join us,” the cake rumbled, its voice thick and wet. “The feast must grow.”

I bolted out the door, into the freezing night. Behind me, the house filled with the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood as the cake pursued me, its frosting tendrils scraping against the walls.

I ran until my legs gave out, collapsing in the snow outside the town square. When I looked back, the cake was gone. The house stood silent and dark, as if nothing had happened.

But the next morning, the town awoke to horror.

The Christmas Cake contest tent was empty, the tables overturned, and the other contestants missing. In the center of the square stood a massive, grotesque cake. Its layers dripped with crimson frosting, and its decorations were no longer candy people.

They were faces. Human faces, frozen in expressions of terror.

No one entered the square that day. By nightfall, the cake was gone, leaving only a faint trail of frosting and blood.

This year, the contest was canceled. But sometimes, late at night, I hear it—the faint sound of tapping, followed by a low, hungry growl.

And I know the Christmas Cake is still out there, waiting for its next feast.