| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted August 20, 2023 |
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Misfortunate Hunger (a horror story)
Soup
by RainbewLatte
Timmy walked into his mother’s bedroom before calling. "Mom?"
His mother didn’t budge.
He walked towards her bedside as he gave her a nudge, giving her two quick taps against the wrist with the back of his hand before she finally woke up.
"What do you want from me?" she groaned. A look of annoyance was evident in her eyes. Wiping the saliva from the corners of her lips, she rolled over to face the other side, in no mood to wake up.
"Well, I’m hungry."
"And?"
"I was wondering if I could get the keys so I can open the door when I get back."
"But isn’t it late?"
"Kind of. I mean, everyone’s asleep, but I checked the fridge, and it’s pretty empty, so I’m planning on going to 7 Eleven to get some food."
"Well, alright. I mean, you’re old enough to take care of yourself. The keys should be in my bag." She turned on the table lamp beside her bed before propping herself up against the headboard. "Just get back safely."
Timmy walked over to the desk, where his mother’s purse hung from the chair, scuffling with a couple pockets before finding her keys. "Well, I guess I’ll be off." He left her room before shutting the door behind him as he made his way downstairs. Putting on a pair of Nikes and checking his pockets for cash, he walked out the front door and past the gate before finding his way outside.
7 Eleven was just across the street.
He took a right before heading down the barren sidewalk, reaching an intersection for 7 Eleven to appear on his left-hand side. The stores to his right remained empty. Looking both ways, he crossed the street before heading up the steps, only for the automatic doors to not open. He gave the glass door a tap. "Hello?"
There was no response.
He peered around the store’s interior in hopes of finding someone to open the door for him if it was broken or at least tell him that the store was closed, but there was no one. Not even a mouse.
The lights were on, the shelves were stocked, but no one stood behind the register, and the 7 Eleven sign glowed as bright as ever, screaming for attention.
But there was silence.
The quick melody he had gotten used to hearing didn’t play, and the only growl he heard came from his stomach, leading him to turn in disbelief. Seriously? I mean, is there another place that sells food? He knew of none. It was his first time in Taiwan, and he was simply there to visit family. Gazing down at his watch, he made an effort to check the time. Ten…thirty.
It wasn’t that late, but the streets proved empty.
He looked around in hopes of finding an answer to his misery, but other than a few stray animals, the only source of life he could see was a lone individual pacing back and forth with a canteen on the street just left of him. Watching the man pace for a moment, he allowed the thought to pass. Surely he means no harm. He began to seek out another source of food. Clinging tight to his keys, Timmy ventured forth into the faint darkness, weakly lit by dying street lamps, which left the streets with a tangy orange-brown hue, before coming upon a stall.
An old man stood behind the counter, hunched over, as he stirred away at his pot of oyster vermicelli noodle soup.
"Um. Excuse me?"
The old man turned, revealing his severely shuttered eyes.
"Are you open?"
"Ah yus," the old man chuckled. He was missing teeth.
With how unrevealing the stall was, Timmy couldn’t exactly make out what the man was making, and there was no price board in sight. "I’ll have one order of what you’re selling," Timmy said. He hunched low as if he were ducking under an awning before raising his right hand to form a 1.
The man nodded. "One moment." He let out a cough before turning away to fill a bowl with soup, never mentioning the price.
"I’ll leave the cash right over here," Timmy said, fearful the man would chase after him if he forgot to pay. He pointed at the countertop where he had left the cash, even though the man probably hadn’t noticed.
He turned to hand Timmy his bowl of soup.
"So where do I eat this?" he asked. There wasn’t a seat in sight. And upon turning away, the man was gone. He gave the thought a shrug. Alright. He sat against the sidewalk before gazing off into the murky soup. At least it’s something. He dug in, only to notice something wasn’t quite right. "Um. Excuse me?" He turned to face the stall, but the man hadn’t returned, and his wad of cash still rested against the countertop. "The money is still here." With no one to help, he shook off the shivers before noticing the shabby man across the street once more, still pacing but now closer. He could hear the clack of the canteen. It was at that moment that the old man returned.
"You call me?"
Timmy watched as the man approached from the shadows, only to bear a knife in hand. "Umm…"
"Don’t like the food? I can give refund."
"That’s alright," Timmy replied. "It’s probably just me."
The old man set the knife down before grabbing the wad of cash ever so slowly as he dragged his left hand across the countertop. Three of his fingers were missing.
Umm… Timmy felt his arms go weak. Trying to maintain his grasp on the bowl, Timmy felt his fingertips begin to sweat as the bowl fell forward and out of his hands.
The urge to vomit spiked.
Watching as the bowl shattered against the concrete, the contents of the soup poured onto the sidewalk and onto his shoes, only for his premonition to be confirmed.
In the bowl had been a pair of eyes.
Timmy walked into his mother’s bedroom before calling. "Mom?"
His mother didn’t budge.
He walked towards her bedside as he gave her a nudge, giving her two quick taps against the wrist with the back of his hand before she finally woke up.
"What do you want from me?" she groaned. A look of annoyance was evident in her eyes. Wiping the saliva from the corners of her lips, she rolled over to face the other side, in no mood to wake up.
"Well, I’m hungry."
"And?"
"I was wondering if I could get the keys so I can open the door when I get back."
"But isn’t it late?"
"Kind of. I mean, everyone’s asleep, but I checked the fridge, and it’s pretty empty, so I’m planning on going to 7 Eleven to get some food."
"Well, alright. I mean, you’re old enough to take care of yourself. The keys should be in my bag." She turned on the table lamp beside her bed before propping herself up against the headboard. "Just get back safely."
Timmy walked over to the desk, where his mother’s purse hung from the chair, scuffling with a couple pockets before finding her keys. "Well, I guess I’ll be off." He left her room before shutting the door behind him as he made his way downstairs. Putting on a pair of Nikes and checking his pockets for cash, he walked out the front door and past the gate before finding his way outside.
7 Eleven was just across the street.
He took a right before heading down the barren sidewalk, reaching an intersection for 7 Eleven to appear on his left-hand side. The stores to his right remained empty. Looking both ways, he crossed the street before heading up the steps, only for the automatic doors to not open. He gave the glass door a tap. "Hello?"
There was no response.
He peered around the store’s interior in hopes of finding someone to open the door for him if it was broken or at least tell him that the store was closed, but there was no one. Not even a mouse.
The lights were on, the shelves were stocked, but no one stood behind the register, and the 7 Eleven sign glowed as bright as ever, screaming for attention.
But there was silence.
The quick melody he had gotten used to hearing didn’t play, and the only growl he heard came from his stomach, leading him to turn in disbelief. Seriously? I mean, is there another place that sells food? He knew of none. It was his first time in Taiwan, and he was simply there to visit family. Gazing down at his watch, he made an effort to check the time. Ten…thirty.
It wasn’t that late, but the streets proved empty.
He looked around in hopes of finding an answer to his misery, but other than a few stray animals, the only source of life he could see was a lone individual pacing back and forth with a canteen on the street just left of him. Watching the man pace for a moment, he allowed the thought to pass. Surely he means no harm. He began to seek out another source of food. Clinging tight to his keys, Timmy ventured forth into the faint darkness, weakly lit by dying street lamps, which left the streets with a tangy orange-brown hue, before coming upon a stall.
An old man stood behind the counter, hunched over, as he stirred away at his pot of oyster vermicelli noodle soup.
"Um. Excuse me?"
The old man turned, revealing his severely shuttered eyes.
"Are you open?"
"Ah yus," the old man chuckled. He was missing teeth.
With how unrevealing the stall was, Timmy couldn’t exactly make out what the man was making, and there was no price board in sight. "I’ll have one order of what you’re selling," Timmy said. He hunched low as if he were ducking under an awning before raising his right hand to form a 1.
The man nodded. "One moment." He let out a cough before turning away to fill a bowl with soup, never mentioning the price.
"I’ll leave the cash right over here," Timmy said, fearful the man would chase after him if he forgot to pay. He pointed at the countertop where he had left the cash, even though the man probably hadn’t noticed.
He turned to hand Timmy his bowl of soup.
"So where do I eat this?" he asked. There wasn’t a seat in sight. And upon turning away, the man was gone. He gave the thought a shrug. Alright. He sat against the sidewalk before gazing off into the murky soup. At least it’s something. He dug in, only to notice something wasn’t quite right. "Um. Excuse me?" He turned to face the stall, but the man hadn’t returned, and his wad of cash still rested against the countertop. "The money is still here." With no one to help, he shook off the shivers before noticing the shabby man across the street once more, still pacing but now closer. He could hear the clack of the canteen. It was at that moment that the old man returned.
"You call me?"
Timmy watched as the man approached from the shadows, only to bear a knife in hand. "Umm…"
"Don’t like the food? I can give refund."
"That’s alright," Timmy replied. "It’s probably just me."
The old man set the knife down before grabbing the wad of cash ever so slowly as he dragged his left hand across the countertop. Three of his fingers were missing.
Umm… Timmy felt his arms go weak. Trying to maintain his grasp on the bowl, Timmy felt his fingertips begin to sweat as the bowl fell forward and out of his hands.
The urge to vomit spiked.
Watching as the bowl shattered against the concrete, the contents of the soup poured onto the sidewalk and onto his shoes, only for his premonition to be confirmed.
In the bowl had been a pair of eyes.
 Recognized |
My uncle was truly the type of guy to do everything he could to scare me, only to give himself a decent laugh, and kid you not, his laugh was contagious, but that didn't help the fact that he liked to watch scary movies in the dark on his desktop computer screen or tell scary stories with the lights off the few times he did. And although he probably wasn't intentionally putting in the effort to create such effects, he made sure to turn off all the lights, lock his door, blast the AC, and have us lying together on the same bed, all vulnerable and cold under one thin bedsheet, given that I was probably half his size. His room also had two really large glass sliding doors that you could lock from the inside, which led to a relatively large extension of his room where he often smoked. But more often than not, we locked each other outside for fun, and on the few nights he told his stories, I remember peering through those doors, knowing well that what came down from the sky was all I had.
My sister was always the type to seem like she wanted out but consistently joined until my uncle told the story that inspired this one, after which he never told another lights-out story again.
We were young, and she probably kicked a bedpost and started crying before banging on the door and telling my mom she wanted out. And in uncle-like fashion, I think he laughed.
I don't remember what he called it or if he even gave his story a name, but all that I remember happening in his story was that someone was hungry late at night and his first instinct was to go out for food, and for whatever reason there was some guy selling noodles just outside his door, and upon eating it, someone's head fell off. Something ridiculous.
I had almost wanted to end my story with someone collapsing in his honor, but it didn't seem like it would make sense. Not failing to leave a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, I'm quite confident to assume that he went into the whole cannibal side of things before my sister called it quits.
Basically, the main character in his story wasn't really in his right mind either, but I couldn't see how that served as justification.
Either way, Food Stall is a reinvention of a story now blurred and shrouded in memory, told my way, serving as a tribute to all the impacts my uncle's stories had on me when I was still just a child, learning what it meant to be truly scared. And I can't even imagine how large an impact his stories had on my ability to write. Had I not been scared to death as a kid, I doubt I would have had the ability to tell such a tale.
With how long it's been since I last saw and conversed with my uncle in person (knowing well that the passage of time waits for no one), this story is a morsel of what his story once was, but I hope the experience of reading this story proves worthwhile nonetheless.
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