Chapter 2: The Fridge Horror Attacks

  The Thing in the refrigerator lurched forward, a slithering, getinous horror of forgotten meals, its pulsing mass shifting through half eaten roast beef, a moldy wedge of enchanted brie, and something that might have once been a cursed pot pie.

  It screeched, a noise like a thousand sizzling frying pans, the slow, wet plop of day-old porridge hitting the floor, and the desperate wheeze of a souffle colpsing all at once. Yulie staggered backward, knocking into a tower of unwashed dishes. “Oh, hell no.” She turned to run, bare feet sliding across the grease-smeared tiles. The Thing lunged, dragging a tendril of semi-solid sauce across the counter, pulling itself forward with an unholy combination of congealed fats and gluttony.

  Yulie snatched the first weapon she could find, a rolling pin. She swung hard. SPLAT.The rolling pin bounced off the creature’s getinous body, sending a ripple of sickening wobble through its mass, like a poorly set jelly at a noblewoman's picnic. The Thing quivered, absorbing the blow effortlessly.

  It let out a low, wet gurgle, a sound that managed to combine mockery, hunger, and existential despair. Yulie backpedaled toward the pantry, her heart hammering like a badly tuned butter churn.

  “We are not equipped for this!” she gasped to herself.

  The Thing seethed, its body shifting.

  A meatball surfaced from within the creature, its single olive eye staring directly at her, full of greasy accusation.

  Panic surged through her brain. Her mind screamed, Use magic, do something! One small problem. Yulie didn’t have magic. Bergspire was filled with enchanters, frost-sorcerers, preservation-mages who could sculpt a ham into a perfect bust of Queen Carmel—but Yulie?

  Yulie was a dishwasher. And she was about to be eaten by expired lunch.

  Think, Yulie, think!

  She looked around wildly. Knives? No, they would just sink in. Fmes? No, too messy. Her hand closed around the nearest thing, a bag of aged cheese crumbles. With a cry that was half-warrior, half-terrified kitchen wench, she flung the bag at the creature. The crumbles bounced off, scattering across the floor in a sad little rain of failure.

  One cube of cheddar clung for a moment to the creature’s shifting surface. Then it sank into the mass with a wet sucking noise that sounded a lot like defeat. The Thing shivered. It stopped moving for a second, as if tasting the offering.And then, to Yulie’s horror, it spoke. It had no mouth. It did not need one.

  Its voice oozed from deep within, a chorus of every forgotten casserole, every mispced pot pie, every disappointed Tupperware.

  "You left us behind..."

  Yulie gagged.

  "You abandoned us... to the cold..."

  The Thing dragged itself closer, sloshing with each pull, leaving a trail of sticky sadness on the tiles.

  Its tendrils stretched, thickening as it picked up speed.

  Yulie backpedaled frantically, throwing empty jars, wooden spoons, and a small decorative cutting board in its path. Nothing worked.

  "This is not happening," Yulie panted, dodging a slurp of cursed stew meat that tried to snare her ankle. "This is NOT how I die!"

  She needed backup. She needed a weapon. She needed someone who knew what the hell was happening.

  And unfortunately, the only person awake at this hour was…

  Madam Bustier. Yulie groaned loudly. This was going to be so awkward.

  She turned on her heel, nearly tripping over a broom, and bolted through the kitchen door, leaving the Fridge Horror behind her, gurgling and dragging itself after her like a forgotten Solstice ham bent on revenge.