Naturally, Leo baked.
Leo needed a signature item. Something unforgettable. Something that would make customers crawl back.
He crept downstairs to find the case empty. Every other cupcake remained untouched. Only the special one was gone. In its place sat a single human tooth, still warm. cannibal cupcake
And Leo noticed, with a creeping horror, that his own reflection in the glass had begun to smile without him.
The cupcakes had learned to hunt.
Leo opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out.
He found the recipe in his great-grandmother’s journal, hidden beneath a loose floorboard. The page was stained brown, the handwriting spidered in Old Country script. At the top, someone had scrawled in fresh red ink: Do not bake. Naturally, Leo baked
Leo’s Bakery had a problem. Business was terrible. The cronut had stolen his thunder, the gluten-free craze had mocked his flour, and now a vegan patisserie had opened next door, wafting the smell of kale through his window like a declaration of war.