I had heard those names just two nights ago while folding laundry in front of the television. They had appeared during a somber segment on the local evening news. It was a special report focusing on a string of disappearances that had plagued our county over the last six months.
The news anchor had stood in front of a digital board displaying ten photos. Ten people who had vanished without a trace, leaving behind grieving families and a community paralyzed by fear. My heart began to race as I stared at the list on my screen, comparing the text to the memories of that broadcast.
I tried to reason with myself, desperate to find a logical explanation. Perhaps it was a rare, statistical coincidence? Maybe there were others in the city who shared these names? I grabbed my laptop with trembling hands and searched the first name on the list.
A missing person’s profile from the state database popped up immediately. The spelling was identical. The hometown was an exact match. I felt the air leave my lungs as I realized I wasn’t looking at a guest list; I was looking at a roster of the lost.
I tried a second name, then a third. Each search yielded the same horrifying result. An exact match for a missing individual. All ten cakes were accounted for. All ten victims were represented. Someone was arranging a celebration—or perhaps a memorial—for ten people who weren’t supposed to be found.
The implications were too dark to fully comprehend. Was the client a grieving relative, or were they the monster responsible for the disappearances? The thought that a kidnapper or a killer had stood in my shop, handed me cash, and was now coming back for ‘celebratory’ cakes made my stomach churn.
My hands trembled so violently that the phone nearly slipped from my grip and shattered on the tile floor. My gaze remained fixed on the list of names, now feeling like a list of ghosts haunting my bakery. With a shaking finger, I dialed the emergency services number.
The operator’s voice was calm and professional, a sharp contrast to the chaos erupting in my chest. When she asked for the nature of my emergency, I could barely find my voice. I leaned against the counter for support and whispered into the receiver.
“I think… I think I know where ten missing people are connected,” I murmured, my voice cracking. I explained the order, the cash payment, and the list of names that matched the news reports perfectly. The silence on the other end of the line told me she understood the gravity of the situation immediately.
She instructed me to stay exactly where I was and to leave the shop doors locked. She told me not to touch the cakes or the list anymore, treating the bakery as a potential crime scene. Officers were being dispatched to my location with the highest priority.
I ended the call and stood in the middle of my shop, surrounded by the sweet, cloying scent of vanilla and sugar. The beauty of the cakes now felt grotesque, like white marble tombstones decorated for a party. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and terrified of what would happen when the clock struck the pickup time.
I retreated to the back office, watching the security feed of the front door. Minutes felt like hours as I waited for the sirens. But the street remained quiet, the afternoon sun casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. I kept checking the time, praying the police would arrive before the client.
Just as I saw the first blue and red lights reflecting off the shop window in the distance, the chime above the bakery door rang out with a cheerful, mocking sound. Someone had a key. Someone was already inside. My heart stopped. Oh my God.