The Phantom Recipe
The sharp scent of burnt toast lingered in the stale air, crawling along the cracked plaster walls of the dorm room. James sat hunched over his desk, a yellowed cookbook splayed open in front of him. His gloved fingers traced the faded ink on the pages. He’d read the same lines dozens of times, but the words had shifted again, twisting in ways that made him doubt his sanity. The letters seemed to dance, flickering in and out of focus like shadows under a dim streetlamp.
He was close—so close to understanding the recipe. The recipe, the one he’d been hunting for months, the one that had consumed him. It had to be here, hidden in the pages, just out of reach.
His breath came in shallow, quick bursts. His hands shook as he skimmed over the instructions again, the words swimming in front of him.
Butter. Thyme. Garlic. Filet of smoked—
His eyes stopped, his heart freezing in his chest. The letters twisted before him, warping into something impossible, grotesque. He blinked, rubbing his eyes beneath his gloves, but the words remained.
Filet of smoked Ezra.
No. That couldn’t be right. He leaned closer, squinting at the page as if looking harder might change what was written. His pulse thrummed in his ears, louder and louder, drowning out the quiet of the room. He could still smell the smoke from his failed attempt to cook earlier, the charred bread abandoned on the stove. But this—this was something else.
“James?”
The voice jolted him upright. The door creaked open behind him, and Ezra stepped inside, his usual casual stride heavy with the weight of another long day. His friend dropped his bag by the door, oblivious to the cold sweat now beading on James’s forehead.
“Man, what’s that smell? Did you burn something again?”
James swallowed hard, turning the page quickly, shoving the cookbook aside. “Just a little experiment. Nothing serious.”
Ezra wrinkled his nose, moving toward the open window, pulling it higher to let some of the cool evening air into the room. The smells of late Berkeley—fresh-cut grass from the quad, cigarette smoke from someone leaning against the building, wet concrete from the earlier rain—rushed in, briefly displacing the burning scent.
“You’re always experimenting, man,” Ezra said, shaking his head as he tossed his jacket onto his bed. His fingers ran through his dark curls, and he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. Books lined the shelves behind him, arranged in their usual rainbow of colors, each spine meticulously organized by shade. It was a habit Ezra didn’t seem to notice, but James did. Ezra liked things to make sense, liked the order, the control.
“Yeah,” James muttered, his throat dry. “Always experimenting.”
Ezra glanced at him then, frowning slightly. “You alright? You look... off.”
James forced a smile, but his mind was still reeling. *Filet of smoked Ezra.*
How could the recipe say that? The words were clear now, no longer twisting, no longer blurring like they had been for weeks. They sat on the page, bold, real. As real as the gloves he always wore, as real as the faint pulse of terror creeping up the back of his neck.
Ezra continued talking, something about a new book he’d picked up, but the words slid over James like water over glass. He could only think of one thing now: the recipe. It was the one he’d been searching for, the dish that would make him the best chef in the world. He had felt it the moment his eyes landed on the page. But this ingredient—this ingredient made no sense. How could it?
James’s eyes flicked to Ezra, who was now lying back on his bed, flipping through one of his brightly colored books, oblivious to the way James’s gaze lingered. The way his heartbeat quickened.
“I... I think I found it,” James said softly.
Ezra didn’t look up. “Found what?”
“The recipe.”
That got his attention. Ezra lifted his head, raising an eyebrow. “The one you’ve been obsessing over?”
James nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of excitement and dread. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, the dim light from the single desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The ticking of the small clock on the shelf suddenly seemed too loud, echoing in James’s skull.
“Let me see,” Ezra said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and walking over to where James sat.
James hesitated. His gloved fingers hovered over the book, the pages trembling slightly as though the text itself had weight. His mind screamed at him to close it, to put it away, but he couldn’t. The pull of the recipe was too strong, too intoxicating.
Ezra leaned in, peering at the open page. “What’s the main ingredient?”
James’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Filet... of smoked Ezra.”
There was a beat of silence. Ezra straightened up, his face caught between confusion and a laugh that didn’t quite come.
“What?”
James couldn’t look at him. He stared at the page, the words fixed there as though they’d been carved into stone. Ezra took a step back, his hand falling from the desk. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing dense, stifling.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Ezra’s voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension.
James shook his head. “I don’t... I don’t know what it means. But it’s there.”
Ezra laughed nervously, running his hand through his hair again, a nervous habit. “Well, obviously it’s a misprint. Or maybe you’ve been staring at it too long. You’re seeing things, man. Come on.”
But James couldn’t tear his eyes from the book. He could hear the timer in his head now, ticking, ticking, louder with every second that passed. The room felt too small, too claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in.
“I’m serious, Ezra,” James said, his voice hoarse. “It’s not a mistake. I’ve been looking for this recipe for months. This is the one. I can feel it.”
Ezra’s laughter died away, replaced by a strained silence. “James, listen to yourself. It’s a cookbook. It’s not... it’s not telling you to... to cook me.”
James finally looked at him. Ezra’s face was pale, his jaw tight. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, now flickered with something else. Fear.
But the buzzing was back. The relentless hum that had plagued James for weeks, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. It was louder now, insistent, drilling into his mind. He could barely hear Ezra’s voice over it.
Filet of smoked Ezra.
He stood up, slowly, his legs weak beneath him. Ezra took a step back, his movements cautious now, like he was dealing with a wild animal.
“James...”
“I have to do it.” The words came out before he could stop them, his voice trembling, hollow. “I have to cook it.”
Ezra shook his head, backing away toward the door. “No. No, you don’t. You’re not thinking straight. You just need sleep. Let’s... let’s go get some fresh air, yeah?”
But James couldn’t stop. His hands moved of their own accord, reaching for the knife on the counter. The cold steel felt foreign in his gloved hands, yet familiar at the same time. His vision blurred, and the room tilted on its axis. He could hear the ticking again, louder and faster. The recipe was waiting. He had to finish it.
Ezra’s eyes widened, his breath coming faster now. “James, put the knife down.”
But the words didn’t reach him. The buzzing drowned them out, louder and louder, until it was all James could hear. His hand shook as he raised the knife, the blade catching the dull light from the lamp.
Ezra moved, lunging for the door, but James was faster, his legs moving without thought, driven by something deep inside him—something he couldn’t control.
The knife slashed through the air, and Ezra cried out, stumbling backward, his hand clutching his side where blood blossomed through his shirt. He fell to the floor, gasping, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
James stood over him, the knife dripping red. The buzzing in his head had stopped. The world was quiet again.
Ezra’s breathing was ragged, his voice barely a whisper. “James... don’t...”
But James wasn’t listening. He was already moving, his hands steady now, his mind calm. He bent down, carefully, methodically, as though following a recipe.
He had everything he needed.
The stove hissed softly, the smell of smoke curling through the room. The pan was hot, waiting.
James stood over it, his gloves sticky with blood, his heart pounding in his chest. The timer in his head had stopped ticking.
It was time to finish the dish.
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