The Baker’s Desire

Disclaimer and content warning: The following story contains themes of death, violence, murder, body horror, and dark rituals. It may be distressful to some readers. It also includes a depiction of amnesia and involuntary actions which some may find distressing.

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Pleasant aroma of freshly baked goods greeted a man as he entered through the door. The bells rang.

“Greetings, Mr. Kern. The usual?” Asked a slightly disheveled young man, in an apron, from behind the counter.

“Zane, my good boy. Indeed, I’ll have the usual, but please add an extra bagel, plain,” replied Mr. Kern.

Zane nodded, “Just a moment, please,” and retreated to the back room. There, he pulled freshly baked doughnuts and bagels from the oven, packaged two of each for his regular customer, with the addition of an extra bagel. He then re-emerged, carrying two paper bags.

“Much obliged,” said Mr. Kern with a smile, his gaze darting to Zane’s bandaged left forearm.

“My pleasure,” replied Zane, accepting the payment and wishing Mr. Kern a good day. There were merely 2 bakeries in this small city so Zane got to know all his regular customers, and yet, occasionally, strangers still dropped by. One such encounter sparked something within him.

A beautiful girl, unlike any he had seen before, walked in. Seeming to be in her late teens, she appeared to be about same age as him. Her sweet smile made his heart thump. Her gorgeous blonde hair swayed like a lush wheat field in gentle breeze as she walked. Something about her felt comfortingly familiar. Her voice, as soft and gentle as the autumn breeze, conveyed warmth. Ordering a caramel bagel and a cup of hot chocolate, her preferences were as sweet as her appearance.

She left, not to be seen for a few days after. But the odd sense of familiarity kept Zane awake at nights. ‘Why did she feel so comforting?’ He kept asking himself every night as he studied at the library. In the dark, secluded corner of the 4th floor, in a section where you could only access with the exclusive permission of the head librarian, was his usual study spot. The title of tonight’s book was ‘Forbidden Potions of the Dark Times.’

He noted the ingredients, ratios, and preparation methods for ‘The Potion of Remembrance.’ The specifics included 100ml of the user’s blood and a variety of other ingredients, a few easy to find and obtain, but some not so much. The list encompassed a chicken’s liver, a tapeworm, and fish eggs among the odd ingredients, each seeming more bizarre than the last.

As the library closed, he said his farewells to the book but brought the notes home with him. Morning after came unspectacularly and with it another, ordinary, uneventful workday.

Mr. Kern was the first visitor of the day, as always, punctual to opening time every workday for the past five years. Life continued like a perfectly ticking clock: tick after tick, day after day. When his shift ended, shopping at Old Mary’s butchery shop began. He happened to walk in just as her massive meat cleaver beheaded a chicken. Its small head fell to the floor with a barely audible ‘thump.’ “Welcome! One moment please!” she called out after hearing the door’s bells.

After a few minutes, she finally turned around. Her hands were still covered in chicken’s blood. She grabbed a rag and wiped her hands. “Ah, baker boy! What brings you here?”

He glanced at the chicken that was now strung upside down, its blood dripping into a bucket from its neck. “Oh, I actually wanted one of those, or rather, a few parts of it. A liver, and half a chicken will suffice for now,” he said. She nodded in response.

“Of course, baker! Anything else?”

The wound, covered by bandages on his left arm, itched. It felt as if something moved within. Gently, he scratched it through the bandages. “Uh, an odd request, but an alchemist friend of mine wondered if you might have some tapeworms? He needs them for a potion but he’s ill at home.”

She squinted at him briefly. “I’ve not heard of alchemists needing such advanced ingredients in town. Hmm, I’ll see what I can do. Check back tomorrow.”

He exchanged the half chicken and liver for two loaves of bread, a bag of bagels, and a dozen cookies.

A fair trade. In this small town currency was looked down upon, people vastly prefer trade of service or goods. As the older folks used to say ‘what good is your coin? I can’t make broth out of it’. The next stop was the fishermen. Without much hassle, he obtained the fish eggs and eyes he needed. The fishermen, habitual drunkards, never minded such odd requests, nor did they care enough to ask about it.

Once at home, he stored the newly acquired ingredients in the freezer positioned in the corner of his small flat. The flat was a single-room open space, with no separation except for the bathroom. Squeaky floors and flickering lights were nothing out of the ordinary for him. He slumped on the couch and the flickering lights reminded him of a similar evening when he had awoken here, bereft of memories. An evening much like this one, the light flickered till he awoke, in this very sofa, disoriented, confused, void of memories of his past life.

Only a shop’s opening schedule laid on the table. He had the keys to the bakery shop. He was the baker, the owner of the shop, or so he concluded when no one else showed up to work the morning after. Days ticked by in a rhythm he actually enjoyed. Shop was his, no one to nag at him.

He learned his name from Mr. Kern, a regular customer since the day he apparently opened the shop. His glance darted to the empty wall with peeling wallpaper. On it hung a single picture frame, half torn picture rested inside of it, only him in it, whoever or whatever was beside him, was ripped out.

His wound itched again.

In the bathroom he peeled the bandage to examine the cut along his forearm. It didn’t seem to be healing. Crusted slightly but still gaping. He had no recollection of how he had sustained it; one night he was fine, some drinks and scattered fragments of nonsensical memories, then the subsequent morning he woke up in a puddle of his own blood.

His head ached, he blinked. There was an unusual movement as though something was slithering away from the wound, under his skin, a dark line, like a vein. He poked nervously at his skin; nothing seemed problematic, everything seemed okay. ‘It’s just my imagination,’ he reassured himself.

Morning after he awoke from searing pain jolting through his arm from a dream of someone slowly sinking a burning blade into his forearm. He jumped from his bed. “AGHH! Mmhh! Relax! Relax! Just breathe! It’s just a dream, just a fucking dream!” He looked down at his arm, blood was dripping from it. He ripped the bloodsoaked bandages off, but the wound was closed now, no longer bleeding.

That day, he refrained from opening his shop. Instead, he opted to handle other matters. On the way to the Old Mary’s butchery, he stumbled upon the girl from before. She was sitting on a bench, cloud gazing, oblivious to him, or seemingly the entire world around her. He walked past and heard a whisper of her gentle voice. “How’s the wound?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her; her gaze still fixated on the clouds overhead. “Huh?” He inquired, perplexed.

“The wound! Shop was closed. Mr. Kern was concerned. I met him by the door.” She explained, not averting her gaze from the clouds.

“Oh, uh, just not feeling well today,” he lied, his arm was still wrapped in a clean bandage. “I see, well, glad to see you better, b…” She paused for a moment, swallowing the word she tried to speak, “baker.”

“Thanks, I’ll be open tomorrow,” he replied.

She turned her head slowly to look at him, her gaze wandering his body from head to toe. “Tomorrow, lovely! I desire a cream-filled doughnut!”

He smiled at her. “To make up for the unannounced closure, I shall deliver just that for you.”

He excused himself and proceeded, requiring the final ingredient, the tapeworm. He also needed to stop by the pharmacy to pick up a specific mushroom extract, but that was an easy task. At the butcher’s, he patiently waited in line while Mary, occupied with gossiping about recent news, served another customer.

“Poor lad, poor lad! I can’t believe something so horrid would happen in our town,” she exclaimed.

The older man nodded in agreement, “Yes, the detectives are baffled by who could’ve done such a horrendous thing. Have they dropped by your place yet?” He inquired curiously.

“Oh, not yet. Why would they? Surely they wouldn’t suspect an old lady of anything!”

The older man finally noticed Zane standing by the door. “Ah, Zane! Could I trouble you with an order?”

Zane tilted his head to the side. “Anything for you, Mister Mayor.”

The older man gave him a satisfied smile. “Could you make a cake for the widowed woman? I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon.”

Zane squinted. “Sure, but may I ask what happened? I haven’t heard the news yet.”

“Mmh, it’s truly horrible,” the Mayor replied, ignoring the question, “Well, I guess I best be on my way. See you tomorrow.”

Undeterred, Zane approached Mary. “So, um, what happened?”

Startled by her sudden violent gesture, the baker watched as she slammed her fist down on the counter. “GOD DAMNED ANTS!” Mary exclaimed, her gaze slowly rising to meet Zane’s.

She continued, “Ah, the Mayor is thoroughly shaken up by the event, so please pardon him. A young lad from the library was killed last night. The poor fella had his hands chopped off, his throat slit and was drained of blood, like livestock!”

Zane gasped, and his eyes widened at her next question. “Say, would you care for some freshly made blood sausages?” She inquired with an oblivious smile.

He swallowed audibly and a shiver ran through his body. “N..o. I’d just like my order, please.”

She smiled. “Ah, but of course, the parasite for your alchemist friend, correct? I happened to find one. This one was discovered in a sheep. We had to kill the poor creature, but at least the blood is pure and clean.” She grinned at him. “Hang on, let me retrieve your unusual order.” She left, only to return a moment later with a glass jar filled with liquid and a coiled, white’ish shape inside it. “There you have it,” she announced.

He smiled nervously at her, reaching for the jar. Her hand slammed down on his, holding it tightly to the table. “Do be careful in the evenings! The Mayor said he’s considering a curfew due to the murder. We wouldn’t want to lose our favorite baker like we lost our librarian.”

He swallowed audibly. “Of course… I will be careful!”

On his scratchpad, he made notes to bake the cake the following day, before venturing home. His mind was consumed by only two thoughts, ‘Why would anyone kill the librarian?’ and ‘Will the potion work, and if so, what will it reveal?’ After four long years of studying and pouring over every book in the closed section of the library, the opportunity to recover his memory was finally within reach. His emotions were a mix of eagerness and anxiety.

He diligently followed his notes.

Water, near boiling at 95c.

Slice the tapeworm along its length.

Let it simmer in the near-boiling water for 7 minutes. Remove the worm from the water, then add fish eyes and liver and bring to boiling temperature.
Finally – cool to 10C, then add 100ml of user’s blood.

Stir thoroughly, and fully consume.

p.s. PLEASE DO NOT TRY THIS RECIPE AT HOME!

He stared at the strange mixture before him in the mug. It reeked strongly and looked unattractive.

“Ughh… Stay calm… Breathe! This is your opportunity to learn the truth about yourself. Just breathe…” Lifting it to his lips, he gagged when a fish’s eye surfaced and seemed to stare at him. “UGH!!! I can’t do it! No, absolutely not!” He placed the mug back on the table and began to pace in his mostly empty flat, gathering the courage to consume it.

“Alright! Let’s go!” He slapped his cheeks, gritted his teeth, grabbed the mug, and opened his mouth wide. Holding his breath, he poured the contents down and swallowed with a loud, sharp gulp. Although he gagged at first, but the slimy textures and the metallic aftertaste of his own blood on his tongue soon became familiar and surprisingly bearable, if he didn’t think about the contents of it. And now he thought of them. The mug fell to the floor, and his hasty steps led in the direction of the bathroom.

Darkness consumed him as he seemingly was about to barf his past week worth of meals. He gasped and blinked. ‘Huh? Street lantern?’ He blinked in disbelief as he stared at the light enshrouded by the darkness of the night. Gentle steps walked down the cobblestone street. They sounded as though the person walked at a leisurely pace.

Zane couldn’t move; his body acted on its own. ‘EH? Wait… No, don’t peek!’ Yet his body peeked around the corner. Down the street, a man in a scholarly cloak walked, holding a few books. His head tilted up, admiring the stars during his leisurely nighttime stroll home. ‘Huh? Keryl? Why am I stalking him? He’s.. The one who was killed the other day.’

His body emerged from behind the corner, matching the pace of the librarian before him.

‘Wait! No! This can’t be real! I didn’t do it! This must be a dream, just breathe, wake up! It’s just a fucking dream, it has to be!’

Despite his best attempts, he kept moving. After covering a few blocks, the librarian paused to converse with a cloaked man. Zane watched this exchange from the safety of the shadows. Suddenly, a glint of steel flashed in the light, followed by a red line streaking across the cobblestone street as Keryl’s body collapsed. He was spotted; the stranger looked straight at him. ‘Mr… Kern?’

Now he was running down the dark alley; he tripped and fell. He blinked and found himself standing in the bathroom of his flat. His eyes were red with ruptured blood vessels and dilated pupils. A scalpel was in his hand, with a strange object in a small vial beside it. ‘Wait… what? It was a dream… I knew it,’ he thought.

Suddenly, he blanked out, but the pain of the scalpel sliding through his skin abruptly brought him back to his senses. Blood gushed out; he gritted his teeth. The scalpel fell into the toilet. His body reached for the vial and opened, inside was a root of sorts. His body grabbed it, and pressed it into the wound, then stumbled back into the bed.

‘The wound… Okay! Concentrate, further back! What is this root!? No… What happened when I lost my memory!? Focus! Focus!’ He was in the library – finger tracing words in an old tome. “Corruption of one’s blood is a necessary step in creating the Potion of Remembrance. Though many deem the sacrifice unworthy.”

A note was written on the page. “For three hundred years, the potion has been outlawed. Reproducing these potions is a federal crime.” His body flipped the page and continued reading. ‘Further back, focus…’

He was at a graduation ceremony. A woman kissed him on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you.” His body embraced her. “Thanks mom!”

He puzzled, ‘Mother? Is that my mother?’ Her face was a blur, unfocused in his vision, he was unable to see her face clearly.

“Are you sure you want to move to the Merneville?” His mother inquired, but be fore he could answer, a familiar female voice echoed from behind. “Zane! Congratulations!”

He turned on his heel to embrace his partner, replying with a wide smile, “Thank you, Stacey! At last, I can make my dream a reality, WE can make it a reality.”

While in the car on the way back, his body succumbed to sleep, his mother was driving at the time.

He was stirred awake by the voice of a woman. “Thanks Dad! Love ya! Yes, we’re on the way. See you soon!” The driver was not his mother, but Stacey. “Zane,” she started, “I spoke with my dad. He said he’ll grant you access to the locked section of the library!”

‘Ah, a different memory. I wanted to learn more about my mother…tsk.’ Despite his disappointment, his body reacted positively to the woman’s announcement. “AWESOME!!!”

The next memory involved a meeting with her father, the Mayor of the Merneville, who introduced Zane to the head librarian. ‘Wait, what the hell? He’s her father? So, why haven’t I seen the girl before?’

Her face remained a blur, a shape, but not one he recognized or knew. He had spent days and nights in the library, reading and studying. ‘This was a different section, though.’ He made a mental note as memories flashed before his eyes with every blink. ‘Sacrifice.’
‘Forbidden.’
‘Dark arts.’
‘Corpse.’
‘Sacrifice.’
’Resurrection.’

These words appeared frequently across dozens of ancient tomes that his body was reading through in these memories, forgotten and forbidden knowledge.

‘What the hell was I studying?’ he wondered.

One night, knife in hand, he towered over his sleeping beloved. “I can’t, I have to, I must, I can’t, I need to, do it, no, I can’t, I have to.” He murmured to himself. With every blink came a different night; every night was the same scenario, but at last, a memory of a night that was different. He was at the park with Stacey. It was autumn, a chilly night breeze played with her gorgeous ginger hair.

She giggled, “Zane, stop it. It tickles!” He was playfully kissing her neck, but suddenly he stopped. His gaze fixated on a shape in the shadows — a person standing there. Pulling away from her, he made sure to glance back towards the stranger.

“Getting a little chilly, huh?” he queried.

“Yeah, a bit,” she agreed, “let’s head home.”

They departed. A knife slid out from his sleeve. He glanced over his shoulder once more; the man in the shadows gave him a reaffirming nod.

Warm blood on his hands, he knelt by her corpse.

“So you’ve done it at last, my apprentice.”

Zane lifted his head slowly to look into the eyes of the Mayor that had approached. “You killed her… Your own daughter.”

The Mayor smiled at him a sly smile and shook his head. “I neither killed her, nor was she killed, she was sacrificed, and now, you’ve to make another sacrifice.”

Warm tears ran down his cheeks. “I sacrificed my beloved, and now my own life too.”

The Mayor simply grinned at him with excitement glinting in his eyes.

Zane nodded, accepting his fate, he retracted the sleeve on his left arm, exposing his bare skin below.

The Mayor took out an ancient tome from his cloak and flipped it open to a bookmarked page. Zane glanced up at the tome.

“Necromin.” The title read. Tome of necromancy. The Mayor began to read a spell in a foreign tongue. Zane repeated every other line. The chant went on for a while, and ended in words that rang through his head.

“And I hereby call back the dead and surrender my identity as the cost of the pact,” chanted Zane. The Mayor’s knife plunged into his forearm before he swiftly pulled it out. Blood speckled onto Stacey’s motionless form. A searing, burning pain, akin to the pain that occasionally awakened Zane in recent years, pulsed through his arm.

His head throbbed, as though something was trying to break out of it. He gripped his skull and gritted his teeth.

The corpse twitched once, and then again.

“It worked! IT WORKED!” The Mayor cried out, kneeling to observe the change in his daughter’s hair color. It took on a blondish hue. Her face, too, began to transform mere moments after, adopting an entirely different form.

As Zane endured his pain, he glared upwards. The corpse sat up. He fixated his gaze onto the blonde hair, gritting his teeth.

Her head turned slowly, her voice was as sweet and gentle as an autumn’s breeze. “Bro…ther… W…What have you done?”

His heart ached and his body shuddered.

“WONDERFUL!” the Mayor called out. “Utmost delightful! Your long-dead – twin sister, whom you lost at birth, is ALIVE ONCE MORE! IN THE BODY OF MY DAUGHTER!”

Zane attempted to utter a response, an apology, but couldn’t produce a single sound. Darkness overtook him and his body slumped.

He awoke in the bathroom of his flat with a throbbing headache and a shivering body. “W…what have I d..done…” He managed to crawl out of the bathroom and lay on the floor. His mind was filled with confusion, anger, and fear.

Unexpectedly, the door to his flat swung open. The Mayor stood in the doorway. “Awake at last,” he remarked. “Well done, apprentice.”

His gaze wandered up from the boots to the face of the Mayor, the one he should hate, but somehow, the one he now admired all the more. “What’s next?” The Mayor’s face morphed into a pleased grin.