Twisted Roads – Twisted Horror Stories by Matthew Tonks

Baker Baker, Messy Maker

The mixer whirls and swirls, churning the dough around and around in the bowl. Jacque looks on, peering through the cage, sprinkling cupfuls of various powders, milk, and oils. The mixer heaves and groans as it strains against the load. Jacque stumbles back, falling to the ground. He looks up with fevered desperation as the mixer tilts from side to side, swaying on the edge before teetering toward the other. He scrambles to his feet and grips the mixer, trying to force it back down onto the bench. He struggles, but it overpowers him, tossing him violently to the floor. In a flash, he’s back on his feet. He grabs the power cord and yanks it from the wall. It stops suddenly, rocking gently back and forth before it stands silent. He drags a haggard hand across his brow and sighs loudly.

Jacque cringes as he raises his elbow to his face—a sliver of skin hangs from it, red spreading over his elbow and dripping to the floor. He grimaces and groans, letting out a hiss as he gently places the skin back over the gash, only for it to hang loose again. A splattering of red adorns the side of the mixer, and it growls. Jacque takes a surprised step back, grabbing a tea towel and clutching his damaged elbow with it. He stumbles forward, peering at the mixer with curious eyes.

He purses his lips, then draws them back, gasping, sucking in air and gasping again. He takes another step toward it, and then, as before, he could swear it growls. He jumps back as the paddle turns, twisting its way through the dough in several slow rotations before coming to a stop once more. With a nervous step, he leans in and picks up the cord, double-checking that it’s no longer plugged in. As he stares with bewildered eyes, the mixer begins mixing again.

He slams his palm against the large red stop button, but nothing happens. He hits it again and again, screaming, desperately begging it to stop as the mixer picks up pace, spinning and spinning.

Jacque’s frantic pounding only seems to feed the machine’s frenzy, as if it were actually alive. Dough and splatters of blood fly in all directions as the mixer’s motor screeches louder and higher—until, with a thunderous crack, the metal cage shatters, shards slicing across his face. He staggers back, clutching his cheek as blood runs through his fingers like a crimson veil. The mixer surges forward on its own, tipping over the edge of the counter and crashing down onto his foot. Jacque screams, eyes wide, pinned in place by the crushing weight.

Desperate, he tries to pry it off, but his hands slip into the bowl, where the paddles twist back to life, gripping his fingers and yanking him closer. He lets out a strangled gasp as the cord slithers up his leg, winding tighter and tighter, slicing through fabric, then skin, then muscle, as it drags him further in. His hands thrash against the dough, only to be pulled deeper by the relentless paddles, each twist grinding through bone, splattering red into the thickening mix.

Jacque’s face inches toward the spinning blades, his screams filling the room as his cheek presses against the bowl, smearing blood in his wake. The paddles seize his jaw, pulling him into their merciless grip, tearing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. His final scream is lost in the wet, grinding noise as the mixer devours him whole.