Haunted Household: Cocktail Fork
…Who gets the Special Onion...
Cocktail Fork
It caught her eye from the back of the Salvation Army shop. Sometimes it’s hard for Morta to find interesting things in these types of stores. To her, it often feels like piles of junk piled on piles of junk, but this cocktail fork was different. It was hiding in a little purple velvet bag.
It was hiding by stacks of kitchen appliances.
$1.99—but a yellow-sticker sale, so she got it for under a buck.
Nona and Decuma were coming over on Friday for a little brunch party. Morta wanted to make it nice; she thought the fork would add a touch of class to the whole thing. The brunches this triad usually had were notorious for clear mimosas, and the festivities usually ended with tears and naps. It never hurt to try new things, at least that is what Morta thought at the time.
She had recently gotten into pickling.
She had a jar of white pickled onions; they had been fermenting for a while. Morta took her new cocktail fork from its purple bag and placed it on the kitchen island. She opened the jar of onions with a satisfying pop—pop!
When she reached for the fork a moment later, it was gone. She didn’t hear it fall, and she knew she had put it down in a very particular spot.
Morta lifted some unsorted mail and checked under the stove—still nothing.
Near the bay window at the far end of the room, she saw the fork. It was low to the ground and standing upright. It was moving away from her.
She blinked hard, refocusing her eyes.
The fork was buried prong-deep in a large cockroach.
“Tough little bugger. Strong too.”
“What were the odds? What were the chances it would fall so perfectly? What infinitesimal coincidence!”
She walked over and picked up the fork via the handle. She held the whole gruesome scene up at eye level. The roach was squirming its little legs and flailing about.
“Fucking roaches, right? No quit in them.”
She pulled the poor bug from the prongs and dropped it to the ground. It scurried off.
“Back to its family, I guess”
Morta went to the sink to wash the bug guts off the fork. She held this thin little trident in her left hand—the sinister hand. With a swift reflexive jab—a darting movement, one she didn’t think she was capable of—she plunged the fork into her left eye. Morta felt the entrance but not as much as you would think. With a satisfying pop—pop! The optic nerve snapped. Before she was totally aware of her actions, she had plunged the eye into the onion jar and resealed the lid.
“I’ll tell the girls that they are red onions. I’ll wear my hair like Veronica Lake; swept over the left side, they won’t even notice. They never notice me. I can get away with it. I will let the fates decide.”
“I’ll say it’s a game.”
“…Who gets the Special Onion...”
Of course, these were not her ideas; the fork whispered them to her. The fork whispered her ancient hate.
SO MUCH HATE!
For now, the fork wanted to go back in its little purple bag so it could rest until the party. Morta has some things to take care of. She has some things to prepare. She needs to chill the La Marca Prosecco.
Haunted Household week 2 will be about a faucet lever
Short Story Collections
🫣 I keep a special tiny cocktail fork that my mother-in-law stole from a first-class flight to Australia and mailed to me because she found it twee, and so did I. Now I wonder.
This was brilliant! Love the idea of haunted household items.
Did not see the gore twist coming. Great work!