DISCLAIMER !
[This is a work of fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Proceed only if you are comfortable with potentially sensitive topics.]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The heat hit like a wall. July in the desert town of Dry Creek was no joke. The sun burned through the sky, turning the pavement into soft tar. Everyone stayed inside. Everyone except Billy.
Billy was ten. He wore shorts and a thin shirt that stuck to his back with sweat. He walked down the cracked sidewalk, heading for the old corner store.
His mom gave him two bucks and told him to get something cold. "Don't melt before you get home," she said, laughing.
He pushed open the door. A bell rang. The store was dark, and quiet. The fridge hummed in the back, the only sound besides the fan spinning slow on the ceiling.
Mr. Haines stood behind the counter, tall and thin, his eyes behind thick glasses. He didn't smile. He never did.
"Hey, Billy," he said, voice dry. "Same as always?"
Billy nodded. "Cherry popsicle. One."
Mr. Haines reached into the freezer and pulled one out. Red wrapper. Flat, icy. He dropped it on the counter. "One dollar."
Billy handed over a buck and turned to leave. But then something stopped him.
The popsicle didn't look right.
The red plastic wrapper had little dark spots. Like pepper. And inside, near the top, something floated. A tiny black speck.
Billy squinted. "Uh… Mr. Haines?"
"Hm?"
"This one… it's got stuff in it."
Mr. Haines leaned over. "Stuff?"
"Yeah. Like… bugs or something."
The old man picked it up. Turned it slowly. "Nah. Just the syrup. Gets lumpy sometimes. You want another?"
Billy hesitated. He was hot. Thirsty. Sweat rolled down his neck.
"No," he said. "It's fine."
He tore the wrapper halfway down and licked the red ice. It was cold and sweet, but it had a metallic aftertaste, like copper.
He shrugged it off.
Outside, the heat slammed back into him. He walked slowly, licking the popsicle. The red juice ran down his fingers. Sticky. When he bit into it, the ice cracked like a tooth.
Halfway home, he paused. His mouth felt numb. Not cold numb. Like something was wrong. Tingling. And his tongue… it felt heavy. Bigger.
He spit out the popsicle. But it wasn't ice anymore. It was soft. Red. Like meat. He dropped it. It hit the ground with a wet plop.
Billy stared.
The popsicle was gone. In its place... something pink and chewed up. Bloody strings hung from it. Like raw liver.
And on the ground, right where the wrapper had been, was a name.
Sarah. Written in red juice.
He backed away, and his chest tightened. He looked back at the store. Mr. Haines stood in the window, watching. Not moving. Just watching.
Billy ran.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
That night, he couldn't sleep.
His mouth burned. His tongue throbbed. He kept spitting into a cup. Each time, the spit was pink. Then red.
He turned on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror. His tongue was black. Not bruised. Black. Like rot. And it was… growing.
It pushed past his lips, even when his mouth was closed. It was thick and swollen. A vein pulsed under the skin. He tried to scream, but it came out wet and muffled.
Then, knock. Knock. Knock. Three soft hits on his window. Billy froze. The window was slightly open and hot air blew in. He turned slowly.
There, on the windowsill, a new cherry popsicle. Red wrapper. No spots. Perfect.
Below it, carved into the wood: Eat it, Billy. Or it grows.
Billy backed up. His tongue hit his teeth. It hurt. The popsicle melted slowly. Red drops fell to the floor.
Plink. Plink. Plink. Like blood.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Next morning, Billy's mom screamed.
She found him in the bathroom. On the floor. Hands clutching his mouth. Blood leaked between his fingers. His tongue hung out, twice its size, purple-black, split down the middle. Like a snake's.
She called 911.
At the hospital, the doctors didn't know what to do.
"It's organic," one said. "But not normal tissue. It's… reproducing."
"How?" asked the nurse.
"Every time he bleeds, it grows. From the blood. Like it's feeding."
Billy couldn't talk. His tongue filled his mouth. His jaw was stretched wide. His lips were cut from the inside.
They gave him drugs to slow it. But by nightfall, the tongue had pushed out his lower teeth. They fell into his lap, small and white.
And on the wall, written in his own blood: You should've eaten it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Two days later, Billy died.
The tongue burst from his mouth. It twisted around his neck. Strangled him. Then it tore through his skin, like roots from a dead tree.
At the funeral, Mr. Haines came. He stood in the back. Didn't cry. Just watched the box.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
After, Billy's mom went to the store. She walked in quietly, her eyes red and hands shaking.
"Why?" she asked.
Mr. Haines looked up. "Why what?"
"The popsicle."
He blinked slowly. "Wasn't me."
"Don't lie! Billy told me. He said it changed. Became… meat."
Mr. Haines sighed. "I didn't make the popsicles."
"Then who did?"
He leaned close. "You did."
She froze.
"What?"
"You sent him every day. Same time. Same thing. Cherry popsicle. You think I have time to stock that every day? No. I buy them from the delivery man."
"And?"
"And he only comes at night. Leaves them in a red cooler. Never shows his face."
Her voice dropped. "What's in them?"
Mr. Haines looked away. "Last week… I waited. Hid in the back. When he came, I saw."
Sweat dripped down her face. "Saw what?"
"The cooler was open. I looked inside."
"And?"
"Dozens of red popsicles. All in wrappers. But at the bottom…"
He stopped.
"What?!"
"A body. A girl. Teenager. Naked. Cut open. Her arms… gone. Legs… gone. Just her chest and head."
She covered her mouth.
"And her mouth… it was full of red ice. Melting. Dripping into a mold."
Mr. Haines looked at her, dead serious.
"She was alive. Eyes open. Tongue swollen. Black. She tried to scream. But the ice… it filled her throat."
The woman backed up. "That's… that's insane!"
"Maybe," said Mr. Haines. "But the tag on her foot… it said her name."
"What name?"
"Sarah."
The woman froze.
"Sarah was your daughter, wasn't she?"
Tears fell. "She… she ran away two months ago. We never found her."
Mr. Haines nodded. "Now you know."
She ran out. Screaming.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
That night, Mr. Haines locked the store.
But at 2 a.m., the door opened. A man walked in, tall, wearing a black coat, his face in shadow. He placed a red cooler on the counter.
Mr. Haines didn't move.
"New batch," the man said, his voice rough. "One left. Special order."
Mr. Haines looked at the cooler. "Who's it for?"
"The mother. She needs to understand."
Mr. Haines swallowed. "You're sick."
The man smiled. "I'm art. And hunger. And memory. The popsicles… they're made of what's lost. What's loved. They grow from pain."
"And the tongues?"
"They connect. They remember. They speak when we can't."
Mr. Haines grabbed a baseball bat from under the counter. "Get out."
The man didn't flinch. "She'll come tomorrow. For a cherry popsicle. For her boy. You'll give it to her. Because if you don't… I'll make one from you."
He turned and walked out. The cooler stayed. Mr. Haines opened it.
Inside, fifty red popsicles. And at the bottom, a new body. A boy this time. Face familiar. Eyes open. Mouth full of red ice. His tongue black and swollen, pushing against the ice, trying to scream.
The popsicle above it was labeled: Billy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Next afternoon, Billy's mom returned.
She looked broken. Hair wild. Eyes hollow. She walked to the freezer. Pulled out a cherry popsicle.
Mr. Haines watched, silent.
She brought it to the counter. Handed him a dollar. He took it. Placed the popsicle down.
She stared at him. "Did you… did you know?"
He nodded slowly.
"Why didn't you stop it?"
"Could I? Would you have believed me?"
She looked at the popsicle. "Is it… him?"
"No," he lied. "Just syrup."
She held it. Then, slowly, she tore the wrapper. Licked the red ice. It tasted sweet. Cold. But under it, copper. Blood.
She kept eating. Halfway through, her mouth numbed. She dropped it.
The popsicle hit the floor. It wasn't ice. It was soft. Pink. Chewing. And inside, teeth. Tiny. White.
Her son's baby teeth.
She looked at Mr. Haines. Her tongue began to swell. Throb. Grow.
She clutched her jaw. "No… no…"
Mr. Haines stepped back.
On the wall, red words dripped down, fresh.
Now you're part of the flavor.
Her tongue pushed through her lips. Black. Split. She fell to her knees. The popsicle on the floor melted.
Forming letters in red.
Come back tomorrow. We'll have more.
Mr. Haines turned off the lights. He locked the door and walked home. That night, he dreamed of a red cooler. And a voice, whispering from under his bed.
One left, Mr. Haines.
One left.
He didn't sleep again.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next day, the store stayed closed. A sign on the door: Gone. Forever.
But at dusk, a child walked up. A girl. Probably eight. She's wearing a yellow dress. She read the sign and frowned. Then she knocked.
Three soft hits. From inside, a whisper.
"Go away."
The girl smiled. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a red popsicle. Tore the wrapper. Licked it. The ice was cold. Sweet. With a hint of blood.
She took a bite. And smiled wider. On the stick, carved in tiny letters, was a name. It was hers.