[Content Warning: Mild adult language, death]

Fiona Blaine opened her eyes, squinting at the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Without her glasses, she could only make out the faint outline of the time. It was 5:29—just a minute before the alarm. She reached out and silenced it just in time, not disturbing her husband, Sonny.

She sat up slowly, her bones creaking a bit as she fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand. A quick, silent prayer of thanks crossed her mind for the extra few minutes of sleep on weekends. Every weekday for the past fifty-two years, Fiona had been up at 4 AM to prepare breakfast for Sonny. Weekends were her brief reprieve, a chance to sleep in until six. But today was different. Today was the Cocke County Celtic Festival, and for forty-nine festivals in a row, Sonny had led the parade with his bagpipes and full, dress kilt. She would need to start breakfast earlier this morning.

Fiona wrapped herself in her cream-colored flannel robe and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flicked on the light and froze in her tracks. In the middle of the floor lay Monster, their old black lab, his eyes barely open. She sighed, relieved that at least the dog hadn’t stirred in his sleep. Fiona opened the fridge, scanned the contents and planned her steps carefully: biscuits first, bacon next, and finally Sonny’s favorite—cheese scrambled eggs.

The eggs!

Her heart sank as she scanned the refrigerator’s contents. The egg carton was missing. How could she have forgotten to pick up eggs yesterday? Sonny would be up soon, expecting his usual cheese scrambled eggs.

She knew what he would say, too. He’d remind her this wouldn’t have been a problem if the door to the chicken coop hadn’t been left open a year ago September when, in the middle of the night, a fox or coyote or something had entered the coop and killed all five of their good laying hens. Fiona didn’t remember leaving the door open and Sonny said he certainly would never have done such a thing. It was the biggest quarrel they had had in their marriage. Sonny finally just said to heck with it, he wasn’t replacing the chickens. They’d have to start buying eggs at the grocery store like city folk do. 

And that’s exactly what Fiona would have to do this morning. Go to the all-night grocery for a carton of eggs. Grabbing her rabbit coat and the keys to the Lincoln, Fiona slipped out the door to the garage. At this hour, there’d be no one at the store to care about her disheveled appearance. She adjusted the car’s seat and mirrors from Sonny’s preferences, cranked the heater, and set off down Sussex Road.

Cooper’s 24-Hour Grocery was only three miles away, so she had plenty of time. She’d be in and out, eggs in hand, before Sonny even noticed she was gone. She didn’t worry about Monster waking him up; after all, that dog hadn’t barked in seven years.

As she passed the old church cemetery, she noticed something unusual ahead—a faded wagon by the roadside. Her headlights illuminated a cardboard sign: “Ordell’s Farm Fresh Eggs.”

“Thank you, Lord!” Fiona exclaimed, relief flooding her. Local farmers often set up roadside stands, and she was grateful for the shortcut. She pulled over and stepped out of the car.

The wagon’s stand was dimly lit by the moon, aided by the scarlet tail lights of her car. Fiona approached and noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket, sitting motionless by the eggs.

“Good morning!” she called cheerfully. “Lordy, you’ve saved me! I was just starting breakfast and realized I forgot the eggs! Can you believe that? I don’t know what’s wrong with my head lately.” She squinted at the figure, trying to make out any details. The blanket was too thick to see anything clearly.

“Are you Ordell?” she asked, her voice uncertain. “Hello? Anyone there?”

A hand stretched out from under the blanket and pointed silently at the eggs.

Fiona smiled. “My husband loves his eggs. I’ll take a dozen, please.” She gathered a dozen large eggs into her basket. “Thank you so much for being here. I was about to drive all the way to the store. How much do I owe you, Ordell?”

The blanketed figure remained silent.

Fiona placed a five-dollar bill on the stand and muttered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even speak English.” She felt a twinge of sympathy but didn’t dwell on it. “Poor man’s just trying to make a living.”

She hurried back to the car, relieved, though a little unsettled by the strange quiet of the encounter. The eerie silence from the figure on the roadside lingered in her thoughts.

When she returned to the kitchen, Monster had moved from the kitchen floor to the bedroom. She didn’t think much of it. She was too focused on getting breakfast started. She set the eggs on the counter, then retrieved the biscuit dough from the fridge. As she kneaded it, she thought about the comfort of mornings like this, the warmth of the oven, the sounds and scent of bacon frying in the pan. She knew the smell would soon drift to the bedroom, waking Sonny in the gentlest of ways. When the bacon was done, Fiona poured most of the grease into her “Bacon Grease” container, leaving just enough to flavor Sonny’s eggs.

She cracked an egg against the side of the iron skillet. Fiona was aware she wanted to scream when the first cold, slimy, tentacle whipped out of the egg but she was prevented from doing so when it wrapped twice around her mouth. The second tentacle was thinner and sleeker than the first one, almost like a lizard’s tail. It ran up the back of her neck and sprouted tiny fingers that twitched and spread across her scalp. Two of the fingers dropped down her forehead and pushed through her eye sockets. Her glasses fell to the floor and she got the feeling she would never be needing them again.

From the broken shell in her left hand emerged a dark, bristly mass, pulsating as it rapidly grew. Veins and filaments spread, its viscous fluids oozing over her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She slumped against the stove, her body going cold. Still, all she could think was “Where is Monster? Why doesn’t Monster hear this noise and come running to the rescue?” Then she realized it was, after all, Monster. That dog hadn’t heard a single noise in the past 5 years.

Fiona’s body convulsed as the mass launched a cord into her chest, injecting a yellowish liquid into her heart. The liquid spread quickly, dissolving her from within but on the outside, exploding into a glob of golden bio-goo which coated the cabinets, the stove, and the oven.

Monster ambled into the kitchen, sniffing at the goop dripping from the oven door. He licked it lazily, then circled twice before settling in the middle of the floor to sleep.

Moments later, Sonny entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual pre-parade attire. He expected to find Fiona at the stove but she wasn’t there. He glanced around, puzzled by her absence. Her robe lay in a heap near the stove. He looked in the living room and in the second bathroom with no clues to her whereabouts. The car was in the garage and Fiona’s rabbit coat was draped over the rocking chair. He thought maybe she had gone out for a morning walk as she would sometimes do. “That’s probably what she was doing last year when she left open the door to the chicken coop,” he muttered to himself. “Or, maybe she just went to the end of the driveway to get the mail or the morning paper.” He was confident Fiona would return soon.

Sonny went to the stove and saw the plate of warm biscuits, crispy bacon and tasty cheese. He stirred the contents of the iron skillet and, from there, dished out fluffy, yellow eggs onto his plate. He sat down at the table and gave a silent prayer of thanks for the food before him. He scooped a heap of cheesy scrambled eggs onto his biscuit. The cheese was all melty, exactly the way he liked it and the eggs seemed fluffier, sweeter than usual. “Fiona has outdone herself this morning,” he thought. He looked out the kitchen window and watched an old wagon pass by the house and thought about how Fiona had made his breakfast every day for the past 52 years. “This morning,” he thought, “may have been the best he’d ever had.” He wiped his mouth and knew she loved him.

“Damn good eggs!”

©2018 Rick Baldwin. Revision ©2024.  All Rights Reserved.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)