Cannibal Cupcake [better] Here

Leo should have stopped. Instead, he made twelve more.

The cupcakes had learned to hunt.

That night, he heard chewing.

Only a tiny, crimson swirl.

Leo’s Bakery had a problem. Business was terrible. The cronut had stolen his thunder, the gluten-free craze had mocked his flour, and now a vegan patisserie had opened next door, wafting the smell of kale through his window like a declaration of war. cannibal cupcake

He found the recipe in his great-grandmother’s journal, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. The page was stained brown, the handwriting spidered in Old Country script. At the top, someone had scrawled in fresh red ink: Do not bake.

The cupcake rose beautifully—dark chocolate batter with a raspberry-red swirl. But as it cooled, the swirl pulsed. Leo told himself it was the kitchen light playing tricks. He frosted it with buttercream, topped it with a tiny marzipan cherry, and placed it in the display case. Leo should have stopped

He crept downstairs to find the case empty. Every other cupcake remained untouched. Only the special one was gone. In its place sat a single human tooth, still warm.