Got it 👍 Let’s build a full suspenseful story on Topic #2: The Cursed Cookbook.
📖 The Cursed Cookbook
The rain hammered against the windows of Maple Street’s Old Bookshop, where Clara Bennett, a young culinary student, was hunting for forgotten recipes. She loved old cookbooks, the kind with faded ink and handwritten notes in the margins.
In the farthest corner of the dusty shop, she found it: a thick, leather-bound book with no title. Its spine was cracked, its pages yellowed, and its cover smelled faintly of burnt sugar. On the first page, written in spidery handwriting, were the words:
“Cook at your own peril.”
Clara laughed, assuming it was a joke. She bought it instantly.
The First Recipe
At home, she opened to a recipe titled “Velvet Apple Tart.” The ingredients were simple: apples, cinnamon, flour, butter, and one final line that chilled her: “Add a drop of your blood.”
She ignored the last part and baked the tart anyway. When she tasted it, her knees buckled. It was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. That night, though, she had dreams of voices whispering in her ear, voices begging her to “feed them more.”
The Second Recipe
The next day, she tried another: “Crimson Stew.” This time, she noticed her hand moved on its own, slicing the meat too thin, stirring faster than she meant to. As the stew bubbled, the smell filled her house—and soon, her neighbors were knocking at the door, their eyes glazed, demanding to taste it.
When they did, they ate ravenously, animal-like, until the pot was empty. Clara shut the door in horror, noticing that their lips had stained red, and their smiles lingered too long.
The Curse Revealed
Terrified, Clara flipped to the last pages. She found handwritten notes scribbled in desperation:
- “The more you cook, the more they come.”
- “Each dish feeds the dead, not the living.”
- “When the book is closed, it whispers. When it’s open, it commands.”
And beneath all that, a final line: “The book chooses its chef.”
The kitchen lights flickered. She heard footsteps behind her, though she lived alone. The cookbook’s pages fluttered by themselves, stopping on a new recipe: “The Final Feast.”
Its first instruction:
“Invite the ones you love. They must eat.”
The Horrifying End
Clara slammed the book shut and tried to throw it into the fireplace. But the flames hissed and died instantly. The book remained untouched, lying open on the floor, its ink glowing faintly red.
The whispers grew louder. Her phone buzzed with messages from friends and family: “We’re coming over tonight for dinner.”
She didn’t invite them.
The book did.
And on the counter, her hands—no longer under her control—were already chopping onions, slicing apples, preparing a meal she knew she could never stop.
🔥 Would you like me to expand this into a multi-chapter story (like a short horror novel), or keep it as a standalone creepy tale like this one?
