The Oven’s Hungry

My name is Elias, and when I was seven, I lived with my family in a creaking, two-story farmhouse nestled at the edge of a cornfield that stretched like a golden sea into the horizon. My room was on the second floor, at the end of a narrow hallway, and the door was always left ajar because my little brother, Thomas, was terrified of the dark. My bed was pushed against the wall, and from my pillow, I could see straight down the hallway to the top of the stairs and the landing that overlooked the kitchen below. At night, the house settled with groans and sighs, and the only light came from the dim bulb in the hallway, casting long, wavering shadows across the wooden floor.

One night, I was lying in bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling, when I heard a sound from downstairs. It was a soft, rhythmic thumping, like someone was knocking on the underside of the kitchen table. I sat up and peered down the hallway. The landing was dark, but I could see the faint glow of the kitchen light reflecting off the linoleum floor. And then I saw them. Two shadows, small and hunched, skittered across the kitchen floor. They moved from the pantry to the stove, pausing in front of the oven. They seemed to be reaching for the oven door, their shadowy arms stretching and retracting in a frantic, jerky motion.

I rubbed my eyes, thinking it was a trick of the light, but they were still there. The shadows were not cast by anything I could see. They were independent, writhing, and they began to open the oven door. The oven was an old, gas-powered beast with a heavy iron door that always squeaked. But I heard no sound, only the thumping, which grew faster and more insistent. The shadows stuck their heads inside the oven, as if searching for something, and then they pulled back, and I could have sworn they were disappointed. They turned and looked up at the staircase, straight at me. Even though they had no faces, I felt their gaze, cold and hungry.

I screamed for my mother, but no sound came out. I pulled the covers over my head and prayed. When I finally peeked out, the shadows were gone. I didn’t sleep that night, and in the morning, I told my father what I saw. He chuckled and said it was just the neighbor’s cats playing in the kitchen. But I knew what I saw, and I knew that the shadows were looking for something in the oven.

Years passed, and I tried to forget that night, but I never could. The image of those shadowy figures rooting through the oven was burned into my mind. When I was twelve, my grandmother came to live with us. She was old and wise, with a face like a withered apple, and she spoke in a language that was a mix of old country and English. One night, as she was baking bread, I asked her about the shadows. She paused, her hands covered in flour, and looked at me with eyes that seemed to see through time. ‘You saw them, boy? The Oven’s Hungry ones?’ She told me that in the old country, there were spirits that would come in the night, drawn to the heat of a hearth. They were lost souls who had died hungry, and they would search for any food left out. But if they found nothing, they would take something else. They would take a piece of your warmth, a fragment of your joy, or even a memory.

I shuddered, remembering that night. I asked her why the oven, and she said they were especially drawn to places where food was cooked, because the scent of baking was like a beacon. ‘They are always looking for a taste of life,’ she said, ‘and if they find nothing, they might decide to stay.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house creak, and I could swear I heard that thumping again, coming from the kitchen. Slowly, I got up and crept to the top of the stairs. The kitchen was bathed in the eerie blue light of the moon, and there they were, the two shadows, larger now, more defined. They were not small anymore; they were crouched, but they stood as tall as a man. They were trying to open the oven, but this time, the oven was empty, save for a single loaf of bread my grandmother had made. As I watched, one of the shadows reached in and pulled out the bread. But instead of eating it, it dropped it on the floor and then turned to the other shadow, and they both stared up at me.

Their heads tilted, and I felt a cold wind rush through the hallway. And then they started to climb the stairs. I ran back to my room and slammed the door, but I realized with horror that the door was still ajar, and I couldn’t push it shut. There was resistance, like something was on the other side. I threw my weight against it, but it was no use. The door slowly creaked open, and in the hallway, I saw two sets of hollow eyes, burning like embers, staring at me.

I woke up the next morning on the floor, cold and trembling. My grandmother was standing over me, holding a bundle of herbs. ‘You let them in, boy,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘But I have a way to send them back.’ She told me to never leave the oven door open at night, and to always burn a pinch of salt and sage in the kitchen before bed. I did as she said, and I never saw the shadows again, but I always felt their presence, lurking just at the edge of my vision, waiting for an invitation.

Now, I am grown, and I have a family of my own. I live in a modern apartment with a shiny electric oven, far from any cornfields. But last night, as I was closing the kitchen, I saw a shadow out of the corner of my eye. It was small, like it was searching for something. I turned, and it was gone. But I noticed that the oven door was slightly ajar, and inside, I could have sworn I saw two tiny sets of eyes, looking back at me from the darkness within.