The Candy-Gum Cache

The first time it happened, I was six, maybe seven, sitting cross-legged in front of the family’s old console TV in our cramped apartment on Cedar Street. My mother, a night-shift nurse, would always remind me before she left for work: ‘Throw away that gum, Mira, and brush your teeth.’ I never listened. I’d tuck the pink, fruit-scented wad behind the framed photo of my grandmother on the shelf above the television, then dutifully brush my teeth, my mouth still sticky with sugar. I’d settle back into the flickering glow of some cartoon, and within minutes, a soft, wet thump would land on my cheek. I’d wipe it off, disgusted, and throw it in the trash, never connecting the dots until years later. That gum, I realize now, wasn’t just my gum. It was a messenger.

When I was twelve, we moved to a small town called Ashfall, into a house that had been empty for years. The driveway was gravel, and the first time I walked it, I caught a whiff of something sweet and woody—cherry cigars. My uncle, the only person I knew who smoked those, had died before I was born. I mentioned it to my mom, she just shrugged, said it was probably the neighbor’s pipe. But the smell lingered, following me to the front door, settling like a ghost on my shoulder.

Inside, the house was stuffy, with peeling wallpaper and a long hallway that seemed to stretch forever. At night, when my parents were out—they were often out, me being an only child—I’d hear a voice from the end of that hallway. It was a woman’s voice, soft and insistent, calling my name: ‘Mira…’ I never told anyone. I’d stay frozen in my room, counting the beats between calls. Sometimes two, sometimes three. Never more. I never answered, because I knew, even then, that answering would be the worst mistake.

Years passed. I grew up, moved away, and put Ashfall behind me. But the memories clung to me like the taste of old gum. When my mother died, I inherited the house, and I had to go back to clean it out. The moment I stepped onto the gravel, the smell hit me again—cherry cigars, heavier this time. The front door was unlocked, and the hallway stretched before me, darker than I remembered.

I walked through the musty living room, past the old TV stand, and into the kitchen. I was searching for anything worth keeping, when I noticed a strange lump behind the refrigerator. I pulled it out: a crumpled, petrified piece of gum, impossibly old, but still sweet-smelling. My heart raced. That was the same gum I’d hidden decades ago, but I’d thrown it away. How was it here?

I heard the whisper then, not from the hallway, but from the kitchen doorway. A woman’s voice, clear and close, said, ‘You never threw me away, did you? I’ve been waiting.’ I turned, and there—standing in the shadows—was a figure that seemed to be made of the dark itself, but with the faint outline of my grandmother’s face, twisted into a smile. It reached out a hand, and in its palm was a piece of gum, pink and fresh. ‘Take it,’ it said. ‘Fill me again.’

I stumbled back, tripping over a loose floorboard. I looked down, and beneath the board, I saw hundreds of pieces of gum, all carefully stacked, each one with my name engraved in tiny letters on its surface. And I realized, with a horror that struck me to my core, that I had been feeding it all along—every piece I thought I’d thrown away had found its way here, growing this thing that lived in the walls of my mind. It wasn’t just a voice. It was a presence, patient and hungry.

I didn’t run. I couldn’t. The gum—my gum—was now on my lips, and I felt the cool, sticky pressure of it against my teeth. I tried to spit it out, but it kept growing, filling my mouth, my throat, until I couldn’t breathe.

When my mother’s neighbors found the house abandoned, they reported a strange, sweet smell, like cherries and sugar. They never found me, but they did find a cupboard in the hallway, filled to the brim with hundreds of pieces of chewed gum, each one labeled with a different name. And if you listen closely at night, you can still hear a girl’s voice calling out from the dark, asking for more.