"The Bakery on Third!"

The police sirens filled the night with noise and light. Red and blue illuminating the street as the yellow tape was strewn about the building. Aaron Pulitz stepped out of his old car. He took a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, pulled it out, breathed in the poison, then dropped the rest of it to the floor stomping it out with a hard boot. Aaron had never thought his career would lead him here. The bakery on 3rd Street. A small building which usually had a large window to show off the tons of cakes and other baked goods. But now it was broken through. As if something had broken out of the window. Leading away from the cracked window was a long trail of blood. Aaron had come to this place before when he was just a beat cop. He could see it now the old tight uniform encasing his at the time, less pudgy form. He would always get a cherry danish. His mouth watered at the thought. He wondered if while no one was looking he could just help himself to a little nostalgia. Aaron walked away from his car and ducked under the yellow tape to get a closer look at the window. As he approached, he noticed the looks on the other faces. Some looking away, others bent over, globs of spit and vomit dripping from their chins. He sniffed the air and had a hunch as to why. The air smelt like rotten meat and well vomit. Aaron walked to the other detective on the scene (a rookie) Dan Barns. His collar was undone and dribble fell from his chin to the small gut which poked out from his button-up, it stuck out just enough to catch the falling spit.

"What happened here Barns?" Aaron asked placing one hand on Barnes' shoulder, the other clutched his waist. Barns sat with an unknowing expression.

"They said this shit got bad sometimes, but holy fuck." Barnes said covering his eyes with his hands.

"Alright, bud," Aaron said back to Barnes.

"What is going on in there," Aaron asked pulling a cigarette from his left pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a small box of matches he pulled from his other pocket. He placed the matches back into his pocket and looked at Barnes while puffing on the cigarette, the end of it turning red.

"Y-you just got to see it yourself," Barnes said getting off the hood of the police cruiser he sat on. Slowly he composed himself, pulled up his pants, and headed for the bakery door.

"The cops got the call about an hour ago, some bullshit about a break-in but when they got here they saw the front window and the blood. After that, a few guys went in and came out faces white." Barnes went on as the door to the bakery opened Aaron looked around. The floor was stained red, small footprints (more than one set) lead to the window. The counters looked unclean and cluttered. Flour spilled everywhere some of it mixing in with the puddles of blood making a thick paste.

"Finally I went in and well.." Barnes stopped dead and stared at Aaron, his eyes filled with fear. Aaron could feel the energy of unnatural terror radiating from him. His heart began to beat hard and adrenaline began pumping through his veins as Barnes stared through him. Aaron turned towards the only room in the place that was illuminated. He could see the large blood splatter that decorated the green wall in the doorway. A small Edison bulb hung inside the doorframe. Aaron walked on determined to figure out what had happened here. He calmed himself with thoughts of past crime scenes. He had endured. severed heads and more blood, and piss than a person should ever have to see in one lifetime. Once in the room, he saw the stairs leading down to a stone basement the blood trailed up the stairs, and in some of the puddles, he could see small logs which he finally figured to be small fingers. Small handprints decorated the walls. He continued down the tail of his trench coat dragging through each puddle as he went down. Finally, at the bottom, he stopped. His hand gripping hard against the railing which clung to the wall with rusty nails. His pupils grew small and his stomach turned. The walls were covered in blood. Chains decorated the walls each cuff too small to fit the hand of an..adult.

He walked on stepping through puddle after puddle. In the larger room, there were three doors the first seemed to be a butcher's room, the walls decorated with knives, and sat on the cutting board was a slab of meat the skin of which seemed to be only a few shades darker than the skin on his hips. His mouth began to taste like every danish he had ever purchased from the shop. The second room seemed to be a kitchen, stoves lined the walls, kitchen knives and pans hung from jagged nails. The oven was opened in it was a small smoldering pie. The last door was closed but as he got closer he could smell the rotting meat. He walked to the room, opened the door, and felt up the walls next to the doorframe. Slowly he moved a finger onto the light switch. He hesitated, his heart beating. He was scared. In 15 years of work, he had never been scared to turn on a light. He flipped it on and stared. The walls were covered in blood. In the middle of the room stuck to a post was a small boy a clever stuck in his chest, holding him against the post. On the ground next to the boy was a large man wearing a mask, a pair of meat scissors sticking out of his chest a small bloody handprint engraved to the side of the blades. He stared for what seemed like forever. In the same room sat pastries and danishes, all decorated with cute little sprinkles some splattered with blood. On the table sat a large book opened to a page with a familiar picture. He stared at the book vomit falling through his lips. The book read:

" Raspberry danish. Ingredients:

1. Raspberries

2. Children's blood..."

Aaron held his midsection and could feel it turning and shaking. He was watching his teeth sink into danish after danish each one becoming part of the small paunch that sat on his waist. His eyes began to twitch and tear up. He turned from the room and walked back up the stairs, he walked past Barnes and the others. Straight to his car, he pulled his cigarettes out of his left pocket with shakey hands, the other hand dug into his right pocket pulling out his matches shaking a few out of the box as he dug into them. As he lit the cigarette in his mouth he read what was left on the glass window.

"Bakery on 3rd: old family secret."

He thought about the empty chains and the dead man. One question sat on repeat in his mind. "Where had the secret ingredients run off too?"