The Cake on Frosted Glass

It had been a long, sweltering summer in the dusty town of Marrow Junction, and the air inside the Grocery Barn was a welcome relief. My mom and I had just grabbed a pepperoni pizza from the strip mall’s only fast food joint, and now we were on a mission for my little brother’s birthday cake. He’d turned eight, and he wanted something with chocolate and a dinosaur on it. The store was a labyrinth of fluorescent lights and humming freezers, but we finally found the bakery section.

We stood before the display case, peering at the rows of cakes under the glass. Most were round, with plastic-looking frosting flowers. A few were rectangular, and one in particular caught our eye: a modest chocolate slab, with ‘Happy Birthday’ written in yellow script and a little green T-Rex perched on the corner. It was perfect, and only $8. My mom lifted it out with a smile, and we headed toward the checkout. But then the familiar pressure hit me. I told her I’d meet her at the front after I used the restroom.

The restroom was down a long corridor past the dairy section, past the frozen foods, past the deli counter that was closed at this hour. The lights above buzzed, and a few of them flickered, casting a sickly yellow pall over the tiled floor. The door to the men’s room was propped open with a rubber stopper, but the room beyond was dark. I hesitated. The store was quiet, eerily so, even for a Tuesday evening. But my bladder was insistent, so I stepped inside.

I fumbled for the light switch on the wall, and a single fluorescent tube above the sink flickered to life with a hum. The rest of the room remained in shadow. The white tiles seemed to glow faintly in the light, but they were stained with age and grime. There were three stalls, all with doors cracked open. I chose the middle one, locked it, and did my business. As I washed my hands, the water was cold and the soap was a generic pink gel. I was drying my hands under the blower when I noticed something odd: the mirror above the sink was dirty, but there was a handprint on it that wasn’t mine. It was small, childlike, and it was on the inside of the glass. How could that be?

I stared at it for a moment, and then I saw another handprint appear, as if someone had placed their palm on the inside of the mirror. I blinked, and it was gone. But now there was a smear, like something had been written. I leaned closer, and the smear formed words: ‘HELP ME’. My heart skipped a beat. This had to be some prank, a residue from a previous cleaner. But the writing was clear, and it seemed to be behind the glass. I touched the mirror, and it was cold. Then the lights went out.

I stood in absolute darkness, my heart racing. The hum of the fan stopped, and there was silence. I fumbled for the light switch, but it didn’t respond. I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, and I saw that the mirror was now fogged over, like in a steam room. And on the fogged surface, someone had drawn a smiley face with a crooked grin. That wasn’t there before. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. I decided to get out of there, but when I tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder, then pulled, but it was stuck. I rattled the handle, and the door shook, but it didn’t open.

Then I heard a giggle, high-pitched, but not like a child’s laugh. It was more like a distorted recording, played back at the wrong speed. It came from behind me, from the direction of the stalls. I swung my phone around, and I saw that the stall doors were now all closed. One of them was open before. I backed against the door, my heart pounding. A small, greasy handprint appeared on the frosted glass of the first stall’s window. Then another, and another, as if something was crawling up the glass. The giggle grew louder, and the handprints multiplied, covering the entire frosted glass with a pattern of tiny palms.

I slammed my shoulder against the bathroom door, and it flew open with a crack. I tumbled out into the corridor, gasping. The lights above flickered back on, the women’s room across the hall door was closed, and the store seemed normal again. I ran to the front, where my mom was waiting with the cake. She asked if I was okay, because I was pale. I said I was fine, that the bathroom was just creepy. She laughed and said, ‘What, did you see the ghost of a kid who choked on a hot dog?’ I forced a smile. We checked out and left.

On the drive home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I looked back at the Grocery Barn through the rear window, and I saw a small figure standing at the glass door of the store, watching us. It was a child, maybe six or seven, wearing a yellow raincoat, even though the sky was clear. The child raised a hand, and I saw that its palm was white, like the handprints in the bathroom. I turned away, telling myself it was just my imagination. But when we got home and my mom put the cake on the kitchen table, I noticed something on the top of the cake: a single, tiny handprint, pressed into the chocolate frosting. It was fresh, the frosting still moist. My mother saw it too and frowned. ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘It must have been in the box.’ But it wasn’t. The box was sealed.

We cut the cake, and everyone ate a slice, but I couldn’t bring myself to swallow mine. The next day, my little brother, Toby, started talking to someone who wasn’t there. He called him ‘Pinky’ and said he lived in the mirror. When I asked him more, he just smiled and said, ‘He says you left him in the dark.’ I haven’t slept well since. Every time I turn on the bathroom light, I see a faint outline of a tiny hand on the mirror, and I hear that giggle echo from behind the glass. But when I turn around, the room is empty. And the worst part? The handprint on the cake has stayed, even after the cake is gone. It’s not on any surface; it’s in my mind, burned there like a brand. I can’t scrub it away, and I have a feeling that the little boy in the yellow raincoat is not done with us yet. He left the bathroom, and now he’s everywhere.

I’ve tried to rationalize it: stress, a prank, a weird coincidence. But last night, I woke up to a sound coming from my brother’s room. I went in, and he was sitting up in bed, staring at the wall. I asked him what was wrong, and he said, ‘He says he wants his cake back.’ Then he pointed at the wall, and I saw a small handprint on the drywall, forming from thin air, pressing inward as if it wanted to get out. The wall bulged slightly, and I swear I heard a muffled giggle. I grabbed Toby and ran to my mom’s room, but we couldn’t wake her. She was asleep, but her lips were moving, and I leaned in to listen. She was whispering, ‘Happy birthday, Toby. I hope you like your cake.’ But her voice was not her own. It was the same distorted voice from the bathroom, and it was coming from her throat, but she was still asleep.

I screamed, and my mom jolted awake, looking at me with wide eyes. She had no idea what I was talking about. But I know what I heard. And I know that little boy is not going away. He follows us now. I see him in the periphery, a flash of yellow. He appears in reflections, always with that crooked grin. And he always says the same thing, in a voice that sounds like a tape recorder being played at half speed: ‘You have my cake. Now I have you.’ I don’t know how to stop it. I can’t eat chocolate anymore. I can’t go into a grocery store. And every mirror in the house is a doorway for him. I’m afraid to look, but I can’t look away. The handprints are everywhere now, creeping across the walls, spreading like a stain. And I know, I just know, that one day soon, I’ll look in the mirror and see my own reflection, but it won’t be me smiling back. It will be him, with that same tiny hand, pressed against the glass from the other side, and he’ll be wearing my face.

I write this in the dark, my phone the only light. I’ve taped the mirror in my room, but he made a handprint on the tape anyway. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. But if anyone else goes to that Grocery Barn, go to the restroom, and look at the mirror. If you see a handprint, don’t touch it. Run. Because he’s always hungry, and he collects the living as his cakes, one sweet, screaming bite at a time.