Horn of Plenty

A Thanksgiving horror story

Brad Switzer via Unsplash

Liam drew his knife across the steel in long strokes, first along the top and then the bottom, savoring the sound of metal honing metal.

ShRrrrrrriinngg.

He stared at the slab of meat in front of him, watery red juices dripping onto the cutting board, staining it pink. It was a beautiful cut, finely marbled, thick, with a fine-grained texture.

He pulled his knife across the steel a few times more, even though the blade was already sharp.

ShRrrrrrriinngg. ShRrrrrrriinngg.

This might be the only kitchen skill you’re actually good at.

The voice in Liam’s head spoke in a sonorous whisper. Seductive, as always, when it harangued and belittled him.

You shouldn’t even be here. This is a class for adults. Serious chefs. People with ambition. Talent.

He felt his grip tighten. The sound of steel on steel intensified, but still the voice rang out in his head, quiet but insisitent, demanding to be heard.

Why waste a sharp knife? The steak’s already dead, but you’re still breathing.

Liam squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers dug into his palm as he pressed the knife to the surface of the steel over and over again. Faster and faster.

SHRRRRRRRIINNGG. SHRRRRRRRIINNGG. SHRRRRRRRIINNGG.

Just do it, Liam. This class is worthless. You’re worthless. Do everyone a favor.

SHRRRRRR…

It took him a second to register the pain. He’d gotten careless. Let his finger slip over the edge of the steel’s handle. The knife bit into him. Blood dripped over his fingernail and onto his workstation, mingling with the juice from the steak.

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Chef drawled. The big man stood before him, his deep-set eyes gleaming.

Liam fumbled for a towel and wrapped it around his finger, gritting his teeth as the rough fibers scracted against open skin.

“Yes, Chef?”

He saw the corner of Chef’s mouth lift a millimeter. A barely perceptible smirk that meant Roy James, local celebrity restauranteur and part-time culinary arts teacher, was either amused or disgusted with him. Most likely both.

Chef looked down at Liam’s workstation and shook his head. “Shame about the steak.”

Liam cradled his throbbing finger against his chest. “Sorry, Chef,” he mumbled.

“Throw it in the trash and get yourself cleaned up. That’ll mean a zero for you.”

Liam’s mouth dropped open. A zero. He was already just getting by, and he needed at least a passing grade in this class. It was a prereq for their capstone course, and the capstone was a requirement for graduation. He couldn’t afford any delays. Culinary school had already eaten away every cent of his savings. This semester was financed with a loan. He didn’t want to take on any more debt.

“But I’ve got potatoes au gratin and a carrot puree that I think—”

Chef, a finger on his lips, shushed him, and Liam stopped talking. He watched as Chef closed his eyes and tapped his finger against his mouth, an expression of distaste written into his features as though contemplating Liam’s words made him feel physically ill.

“Liam, do I look as though I might struggle to chew my food?”

“I-I’m sorry?” Liam stuttered, puzzled.

Chef nodded as though Liam had finally said something particularly insightful.

“I’m just wondering,” Chef continued, “if perhaps you think I have trouble managing solid foods, because otherwise I have no idea why you’re offering a grown man carrot puree.”

Liam heard stiffled giggles. He’d hoped the other students would be too busy with their own dishes to pay attention to what was happening at his station, but by this point they knew the drill and had stopped what they were doing to listen. Chef humilating Liam had become something of a class pastime.

Liam felt his heart throb in his finger, felt his cheeks flush.

“Well, what-what if I cut away the part of the steak with my blood? I’m pretty sure it’s just this corner here. And the rest of it’s still good—"

Chef’s smirk deepened into a scowl.

“You think diners in a restaurant are going to be okay with part of a steak? You think they’ll be pleased when you explain you had to cut away a bit because you bled on it?”

You could make him bleed.

Liam breathed through the voice.

“Suppose not,” Liam muttered in response.

“You suppose.” Chef shook his head, his blue eyes, close-set and piggish, alight with disdain. He picked up Liam’s steak and tossed it in the food waste bin next to his workstation. “Clean yourself up.”

Liam slouched to the back of the classroom where the communal sink and first aid kit lived. The cold water felt good as it sluiced through his wound, bearing away his blood and revealing the skin at the edges of the cut, already growing white and puckered. He thought he caught a flash of milky bone. The sight made his stomach roil. He’d probably need stitches, but a bandage and a finger cot would have to do for now.

Chef cleared his throat at the front of the room, and Liam dragged his attention back to the big man and his fat fingers as they gestured in the air. Looking at them made fresh waves of nausea roll through him. They had the same bulbous look and pale color as knackwurst.

Imagine if you cooked his fingers. Wonder what they’d taste like?

The voice was always ready with some fresh nightmare image for him to wrestle back into the dark corners of his brain. This one he let linger in his frontal lobe for longer than usual, the thought of Chef’s pinky finger sizzling on a pan filling him with perverse delight.

Pay attention, deviant.

Liam blinked the vision of cooked fingers away and focused on Chef. He was in the middle of explaining their next assignment.

“This is big, everybody,” he was saying. “This is huge. I’m making this one worth forty percent of your grade.”

Groans and deep sighs reverberated through the room as his classmates reacted to the news. Liam’s stomach twisted again, this time with anxiety. Forty percenty. What was Chef going to make them do that’d be worth that much?

“You’re going to be making one of the most quintessential American meals. It’s one that can make or break a home cook, so I figured it was only fair that the grade I assigned could make or break this class for you.”

Chef paused for dramatic effect. His porcine gaze roving over them.

“Thanksgiving dinner,” he finally said, emphasizing each syllable. “The whole shebang. Turkey, dressing, greenbean casserole, cranberries, pumpkin pie. And you’ll be using my own Nana’s recipes.”

Liam fiddled with the latex surrounding his newly bandaged finger, already feeling defeated.

"Now, my Nana was a great cook. Could’ve been a chef in her own right had she been born in a different time. She took the words in those recipes and made them into magic. As one of the greats said,” Chef went on, “a recipe has no soul. You, as the cook, must bring soul to the recipe. And that’s exactly what my Nana did.”

Liam saw some of his classmates nodding in silent agreement.

Idiots. That’s a load of new-age garbage. Maybe cook their fingers instead.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the smooth-voiced intrusion.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Hotchkiss?” Chef was looking at him like a truffle hog might examine a particularly piquant tuber.

Liam shook his head harder. “No, Chef. Just thinking about what you said. About the recipe and the soul and all that.”

Chef kept his gaze trained on him for a moment longer and then relented. “Good, Hotchkiss. Take it to heart. The ingredients listed on this page are just that, raw and ready for you to transform them.” He paced around the room, distributing recipes to each workstation. “You can’t expect them to do the work for you. You, my little dead plates, need to bring some verve, some passion, some life to this list.”

Chef pressed the paper with the recipes onto Liam’s workstation, his fat fingers tented over the words. “Understand?” He said it as though to the whole class, but Liam knew the question was mostly directed at him.

“Yes, Chef,” said Liam.

Truffle hog. Spoon licker. Glutton. Cook him up and eat him. Cook him up and eat him whoooooollllleee.

The voice slithered through his synapses, making Liam shiver.

“Tomorrow, you’ll find everything you need to do the job. In the interests of time, you’ll only be preparing a turkey breast, not a whole bird, so don’t say I never did anything for you. Dig deep, dead plates. Access that inner chef. I want these recipes to sing.”

***

That night Liam tossed and turned.

He’d studied the recipes until his eyes watered. Pouring over the words like they might rearrange themselves to reveal some culinary truth locked within. He had to ace this tomorrow. If he got a top score, it would be enough to pass the class.

And if not, you should start sharpening those knives again.

Liam flopped over to his other side and searched for a cool spot on his pillow. He watched the minutes flicker by on his digital clock and dangled his hand over the edge of the bed, tempting whatever monsters lay in wait. Maybe if they snapped off his arm, he’d be excused from the rest of Chef’s class.

The green numbers on the digital display turned his skin a sickly shade of chartreuse. Not particularly appetizing, but he didn’t actually want the boogey man to taste him.

Tired and frustrated, he pressed his thumb into his bandaged finger, looking for a way to clear his head. He pressed until it hurt, until it made tears spring to his eyes and fresh blood seeped through, coloring the beige of the adhesive black in the halflight.

You like the way that feels, Mr. Hotchkissssss. Try it with a knife through the heart.

Liam relaxed and let the voice lull him to sleep, whispers of violence wafting through his subconscious.

***

When Liam opened his eyes, the world was a soft, matte black. No green numbers lit up his bedroom; no streetlight shone through his slatted blinds. He was still lying down, but the bed felt unfamiliar. Cold and hard.

He realized with sudden clarity that a hand was sliding up his thigh. It was getting uncomfortably close to regions no one had touched in quite some time. Liam tried to twitch away, but his body seemed to heed some other, deeper desire and stayed rooted in place.

He drew in a sharp breath at the pressure as it grazed over him and up to his cheek. It rested there for a moment, and Liam risked blinking again. This time his vision caught on to two amber eyes aglow in the dark, each one studded with a rectangular pupil of fathomless black.

Moments later a face coalesced around the eyes. All sharp planes and chiseled angles. Beautiful and terrible by turns.

Mr. Hotchkissssssssss.

Liam heard the voice, the voice that had lived in his mind for years now, but the lips of the stranger never moved.

A light tinged by midnight limned the figure in front of him, outlining a set of gracefully curving horns, ridged and wickedly pointed at the ends.

Mr. Hotchkissssssssss.

Liam gulped as a trail of goosebumps raced down his spine.

I’m growing tired of you, Mr. Hotchkiss. You’ve ignored me and my wishes for far too long.

The figure climbed on top of Liam, straddling his hips. Liam stiffled a low moan.

I give you all thisss good advice. But you never take it.

A long tongue snaked out between the figure’s perfect white teeth, and Liam felt it slide down his neck. He shuddered.

You want to do well tomorrow. And I want something too, Mr. Hotchkissssss.

Liam rolled his eyes back as a wave of pleasure rolled through him. He tried to hide it but his body gave him away.

I want a new toy. Someone that will listen. Someone that won’t put up such a fight when I ask them to do such very sssssssimple tasks. And if I get what I want, I might even leave you alone. Would you like that, Mr. Hotchkissssss?

The thing pinned both of Liam’s hands above his head; it’s icy fingers clamped around his wrists. Its beautiful, terrible face was a sliver away from his own. Liam knew he should say yes, but in the moment he couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere other than in the creature’s thrall.

It kissed him then. It’s long tongue snaking down Liam’s throat and blocking his airway so that he thought he might choke. It finally released him, and Liam gasped and sputtered. A strange noise, echoed in his head. It was laughing at him, a chuckle, as sere as any autumn leaf.

You’ll miss me when I’m gone, Mr. Hotchkisssssss. I take up a lot of space. And when I leave, it’s hard to fill that void.

Liam nodded, but in truth he hardly understood what was happening. Right now the only thing he needed was release.

The figure pressed its hands into Liam’s chest and slowly rolled back so that it was looking down on him, it’s body barely concealed by a diaphonous shroud. It ran its hands up from its core, over the curve of its ribcage, to the hollow of its throat and then, finally, to the base of its horns.

It carressed each one with such thorough attention that Liam felt he should look away, but his gaze was riveted to the creature’s ministrations.

With each stroke, the very fiber of Liam’s body was pulled tauter until he was sure he would be ripped apart. Until he was sure that’s all he’d ever wanted.

SNAP.

Liam groaned as the creature screamed in his head. In its hands it held one of its obsidian horns.

A parting gift for you, Liam Hotchkisssssssss.

It held out the horn to him. Liam raised a trembling hand. The thing glowed in the dark with a sinister light. He hestitated, his fingers grazing the ridges and whorls that made up its surface.

Bleed for me, Liam Hotchkisssssssss.

On his finger the bandage was gone, and Liam saw his wound, white skin, red flesh— and he pressed it to the horn, squeezed it against the rough surface until his blood soaked the surface.

Until he felt bone meet bone.

Liam opened his eyes. The clock glowed dimly in the wan morning light. His bedroom, grey and drab, was just as it always was. He sat up and swiped a hand over his eyes and immediately sucked in a breath at the shock of pain. He’d lost his bandage during the night, and his wound looked red and angry.

The memory of his dream was still fresh. His body still felt flush with the feel of it. He’d never dreamed anything like that before. Never thought he even could. It’d been so real. So visceral. Like a punch to the gut and the best sex he’d ever had combined into one.

He sighed and turned to get out of bed when his side came up against something rough and hard. He pulled back the covers.

The curved black horn lay next to him, and from it’s jagged end spewed potatoes, leeks, peas, and mushrooms. Cinnamon sticks and cloves, peppercorns and salt. Liam startled back, then poked a hestitant finger into the strange bounty. He shifted aside a bunch of parsley and more pushed up to take its place.

He grabbed each bit of food, tossing it onto his bed until the mattress groaned, but the horn only produced more.

By the time Liam stopped he was breathing hard, and his heart felt like it might beat out of his chest. He broke out in a cold sweat.

It’s a gift for you. Don’t be ungrateful.

The voice was a purr in his head, brushing against all the most wicked parts of him and setting them on fire.

Now go do something worthy of this dark bounty, Liam Hotchkisssssss.

***

When Liam walked into the classroom that morning, cradling the twisted horn in the crook of his elbow like a baby, his classmates ogled him. That was an odd sensation for Liam, especially as the ogling did not accompany a thorough dressing down by Chef.

He set the horn on his workstation and it immediately overflowed with the choisest goods Liam had ever seen. Onions shimmered like pearls. A turkey breast glistened obscenely. The smell wafting from a bundle of sage was stronger than if he had just plucked it from a summer garden.

Chef strolled in a moment later, head down as usual so as not to attract the small talk of his students. But when he passed by Liam he paused. The horn shone in the fluroescent light. It looked dangerous, Liam realized. Like it held some kind of savage secret. The kind of secret with claws.

“What is this, Mr. Hotchkiss?” Chef asked.

“I brought my own ingredients, Chef.”

“I told you yesterday everything would be provided,” he replied, gesturing to the counter in the back of the room laden with produce and poultry.

“You didn’t say we couldn’t bring our own.”

Chef looked perplexed. Liam basked in the glow of his confusion. It was hard to catch Chef at a disadvantage. Liam smiled until he caughst sight of the horn reflected in the icy blue depths of Chef’s eyes. It looked like a thorn lodged in his iris, and Liam felt a surge of bile climb up his throat. He blinked and swallowed hard.

“That’s…unorthodox, Mr. Hotchkiss. But I suppose it’s permitted. Just know that if you start with your own, I expect you to stick with your own. I hope you brought everything you need.”

Liam thought of the pile of food he’d left in his bed that morning and nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem, Chef.”

Chef grunted and moved to take his position at the front of the room. “You’ve got three hours, dead plates,” he intoned. “Best get to work.”

Liam fell to his task. He chopped and minced. He sauteed and steamed. He mixed and stirred and beat and basted and broiled. And every time his hand searched for an ingredient, the horn provided it. The celery stalks cracked with perfect crispness. The cream flowed smooth and viscous. The pumpkin’s brilliant orange flesh lay before him superbly sweet and nutty.

When three hours were through, Liam had plated a flawless Thanksgiving feast. It had been easy, joyful even. He’d barely even needed to reference the recipes. They seemed to be imprinted on his mind’s eye, his nerves making his hands move almost without his realizing it.

Chef made straight for Liam’s work station, anxious, Liam assumed, to make his usual sub-standard work an example for the rest of the class.

But when he arrived before Liam, his hauteur gave way to surprise. Liam allowed him plenty of time to observe the beauty of the pie’s crust, the way the pat of butter melted in rivulets down the mashed potatoes, how the juices dripped out of the sliced turkey breast. And then he plated it all with care and handed his masterpiece to Chef.

Chef rested the plate on Liam’s workstation and took up his knife and fork. He sliced into the turkey first, then added the potatoes and cranberries to complete the bite. He placed the food carefully in his mouth, like the food might bite him back.

Chef chewed.

Chef swallowed.

Then Chef closed his eyes.

***

The first bite was ecstasy. The second heaven. The third transported him. And with every successive mouthful, Chef Roy James felt like he was nestled in his childhood sanctuary, Nana’s kitchen, with a full belly, folded safely into her arms. A once-a-year feast for his body and soul.

Chef Roy James finished his plate and asked for another. All thoughts of the rest of the class vanished from his mind. He ate and ate. He ate until mashed potatoes trailed down his shirt and cranberry juice dribbled down his chin. He ate until he thought his stomach might explode, and then he looked at the strange black horn full of all that beautiful bounty and begged for more.

He couldn’t believe it was the awkward kid, Mr. Hotchkiss, that had made it all. The kid skulking in the back of his culinary arts class, producing sad entrees and even sadder desserts.

“More,” Chef Roy James said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“There isn’t any more, Chef,” the kid said.

“I’ll wait.”

“Yes, Chef.”

And wait he did, staring down each ingredient with greedy eyes as the kid drew them one by one from the horn.

He wasn’t sure when the rest of the class had left. He hadn’t even realized that the sun had set and the room had grown dark. But when he finally remembered to look around it was just them, alone in the light above the workstation.

Mr. Hotchkiss, looking pale and sweaty now, handed him a plate with the newly made food and then promptly sunk to the floor. Chef Roy James paid the boy no mind. His attention was focused only on the plate before him. He picked up his knife and fork as before, and he made himself the perfect bite as before.

And he went back to his Nana’s kitchen. Just as before. But this time, instead of his Nana, there was a figure standing amidst her pots and pans. It was stunningly beautiful and utterly terrifying at the same time. From its head sprouted two thick black horns.

Roy Jamesssssssss.

Chef felt the words rather than heard them.

Did you like what we made you? What I made you?

Chef nodded, his fingers digging into the back of his Nana’s dining chair.

Good. You know, I like you, too. Better than Mr. Hotchkiss. He never listened to me. You’d listen to me though, right, Roy Jamessssssss?

Chef nodded again. But the figure only stared at him with amber eyes, rectangular pupils lit with a dark fire. He could tell it wanted more.

Let’s hear you say it then.

Roy James gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch like gristle in his teeth.

Come now, Roy Jamessssss. Sssssssay it for me.

With his beady eyes bulging, Roy James dislodged his tongue from the roof of his mouth and spoke.

“Yes, Chef.”

The thing smiled, showing perfect white teeth.

---

Looking for more tales fresh from the witch’s oven? Check out my other dark fantasy and horror stories here, including another fearsome foodie tale, Special Sauce, and the Lunar Awards 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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