Special Sauce
The smell of freshly fried drumsticks filled the air inside the House of Chicken Legs.
Gina slumped against the counter, hand propping up her chin, greasy apron slung around her waist, white paper cap sitting askew on her black curls.
She sighed, watching the college kids filter past the big windows at the front of the shop, hoping they didn’t slow down when they got to the door. She wasn’t in the mood to shovel chicken onto paper trays for any ivy league assholes this evening.
Her gaze drifted to the clock, a big white chicken with bulging eyes and a circle of red eggs marking out the hours. Grotesque in its attempt at kitschy cuteness. Time here seemed to stretch to oblivion.
Another sigh. She drummed out the rhythm of an old song on the counter.
“It’s Halloween, you know.”
Gina’s spine stiffened just a bit. She’d thought Mama Bone was in the back, scratching away at the account book.
“Yep,” Gina said. She’d long since learned to keep her answers as short as possible when it was a question from Mama Bone. The old woman had a way of twisting words, wringing the worst out of them.
And Gina didn’t want any trouble. Not tonight. Tonight she just wanted to go home. Wash the stink of canola oil out of her hair. Maybe watch a scary movie and try not to think about the college kids with their too-easy smiles, their casual contact.
But Gina wasn’t sure where home even was anymore and wasn’t sure what she’d do if she could make it past the swinging door and out onto the sidewalk.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pushed memories of soft lips and warm hands out of her head. Sitting up straighter, she turned to look Mama Bone in the eye. Things tended to go better that way.
“Business is slow tonight,” Mama Bone said, a rattle in her hollow chest. “What do you say we play a little game?”
“A game,” Gina said. She kept her voice non-committal. Best not to give too much away. It was a game, after all, that’d bound her to this chicken leg hell. Gina had learned a lot since then, but all the lessons seemed to come too late to do any real good.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, pretty girl. I know our last bit of fun didn’t work out the way you’d planned, but that boy was no good for you anyway. And look how much fun we’ve had together.”
Mama Bone swept her arms wide, taking in the empty booths with their shiny red vinyl, the case full of chicken legs under the hot-lights.
It was bright, cheerful, awful.
“C’mon, Gina, indulge old Mama Bone. It’s my favorite night of the year, after all. And there might be something in it for you, too.”
Mama Bone sidled forward. She was graceful in the way of a long-legged bird picking its way through a swamp. Long fingers with ruby-red nails reached out and gently stroked her cheek.
Gina pushed down the urge to run. She’d tried it before. There was nowhere to go. And it only made Mama Bone angry. And when Mama Bone was angry, bad things happened.
“Let’s play a game, Gina,” Mama Bone whispered, and Gina could only choke on a stifled scream, close her eyes, and nod her head.
Mama Bone clapped her hands together with witchedy delight. “That’s my girl.”
And she bustled away through the swinging doors into the back of the shop. She emerged a moment later with a plastic tray, which she set down on the table of a nearby booth, then swept away to the front of the shop, locking the door.
“It’s close enough to closing time, isn’t it?” Mama Bone turned and regarded Gina with her gimlet gaze and raised her gaunt shoulders into a shrug when she registered Gina’s mood. “Tsk, tsk. Games are supposed to be fun, and you look so sour. Don’t be scared, pretty girl. You’re my precious treasure. I’d never let anything bad happen to you, now would I?”
Gina knew this was a bald-faced lie. Mama Bone let plenty of bad things happen to her, but disagreement was never a good option. So she settled on saying nothing at all and simply slid into the booth with the tray.
On it were six chicken legs arranged in a perfect line. They glistened various shades of red, from bright fire engine all the way to the charred mahogany of blood sausage.
Mama Bone sat opposite her, lips wet with anticipation. “You, my darling girl, are going to be the first to try the new sauces I’ve concocted. They’re special editions, very limited.”
Gina clutched her hands around her stomach, gritting her teeth. She could see they were wrong, could smell they were evil.
“Try the one on the left first,” Mama Bone said through a smile. “You have to work your way up to the one on the right. And don’t be afraid to take a big old bite. You want to get the full taste of it on your tongue.”
Gina lifted the first leg with trembling fingers. She looked from its fried ridges slick with sauce to Mama Bone’s face, almost obscene with anticipation.
“Open wide, girl,” Mama Bone said. “Take a taste.”
Gina tore a piece away with her teeth. She felt the crispy skin give way to soft flesh. Felt the briny tang of the sauce on her tongue.
It was salty, too salty.
Everything was dark, heavy, crushing. Panic seized her. Her lungs burned, even as her fingers sifted through cool sand, scrabbling for purchase. And all around her it was wet and cold and empty. She gave in and finally took a breath, and when the water came, it was somehow comforting. She let it take her away on a tide of oblivion.
“Guess what it is.” Mama Bone’s voice was harsh, and Gina gasped, her eyes snapping open as the fried fug of the House of Chicken Legs brought her back from the brink.
“Guess, child!” Mama Bone demanded. “Guess! That's the game. Now guess!”
“Drowning,” Gina said.
“Yesssssss.” Mama Bone cackled. You go it! You got it, my child. Now on to the next. It’s a surprise. Always a surprise. What’s the next way you’ll die?”
Gina surveyed the remaining five wings and felt another crack form in her already-broken heart.
She raised the second chicken leg to her lips. Took a bite.
Her ribs splintered. Her skull cracked. Blood pooled unnaturally outside of the veins and arteries it was meant to be confined by. And still the barrage came. Hard and fast and never-ending.
“And this one?” Mama Bone breathed.
“Beating,” Gina whispered through clenched teeth.
“Hoo, yes, yes. Another point for you, pretty girl. The next one’s a good one. Took me a while to find. Very rare. Very rare, indeed.”
Gina tried not to think about what Mama Bone meant by that. She didn’t want to think about what hellish recipe she’d used to be able to slather chicken legs in different varieties of death.
Open. Bite. Chew.
Unrelenting pressure. She could feel her heart pounding in her eyes. Could feel her lungs in her throat. Tighter and tighter until she felt like she might pop, like a red balloon against the forest floor.
“Ha-hah! I think I’ve got you stumped now! Told you it was an odd one.”
Gina stared at the table, taking in great gulps of the stuffy air.
“Too long. You took too long to guess. That’s strike one. It was a boa constrictor. Can you imagine?”
Mama Bone’s eyes twinkled, delighted. Gina gripped the edge of the table, choking back vomit.
“Numbers four and five are classics,” Mama Bone prattled. “A lot of people just skip them nowadays. Jaded sociopaths, the lot of them. But I know how to make the classics sing!”
Open. Bite. Chew.
The scrape of metal on bone. The slicing of sinews. The gush of blood covering her hands, running from split-open skin.
Stabbing.
Open. Bite. Chew.
Weight against her temple in the dark. Metal chewing against metal. A sharp click. Then nothing.
Shooting.
“See, I told you. Easy to guess. But the flavor is excellent, right?”
Gina only stared at the final chicken leg. It’s crispy skin looked razor sharp in the raking light. The sauce nearly thrummed with some kind of ancient dread. She didn’t want to touch it, let alone eat it.
“Last one, pretty girl!” Mama Bone crowed.
Open. Bite. Chew.
All-encompassing blackness. A great sucking void. A raw tear in the fabric of time and space so incomprehensible that the only response was pure, utter terror. There was no pain. Only suffering. Soul-deep and violent. Fear and hurt turned to violence, agnoy, eternal and always.
Gina screamed, wrenched open her eyes. The fluorescent lights of the House of Chicken Legs assaulted her retinas. The shadows of that terrible nothingness still lingered on the edge of her vision.
“Can you guess what that one was?” Mama Bone was serious now. No hint of glee lit her dark eyes. No joy, corrupt and bloated, lifted her lips. “That was how my last pretty girl died. That’s how Mama Bone takes lives.”
A single tear traced a wet line down Gina’s smooth cheek.
The seconds ticked by on the chicken clock on the wall.
And outside the House of Chicken Legs, everybody made their way home.
Looking for more tales fresh from the witch’s oven? Check out my other dark fantasy and horror stories here, including my contest winner, The Echo of Gods.
Or maybe you’re in the mood for something a little longer? My serialized novel, Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night, is a literary fantasy with elements of horror, and you can find all the episodes here!
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Oh, this was so uncomfortable and creepy. Mama Bone and her sauces. Terrifying.