Every Halloween, the light in the kitchen of the old house on the hill would flicker on.
No one had lived there for twenty years β the owner was long dead.
But the neighbors knew: if the smell of roasting meat came from the windows that night β stay away.
That evening, three friends decided to test the legend.
They brought flashlights, a bottle of cider, and went inside.
The kitchen was empty β only the open oven, warm and breathing, filled the air with a sweet, meaty aroma.
On the table sat a plate covered with a lid.
One of the boys, laughing, lifted it.
Under the lid lay a hand β pink and steaming, as if freshly cooked.
The door slammed shut.
Heavy breathing filled the room.
From the shadows emerged a fat silhouette, his face shining with grease.
He slowly wiped his mouth with a dirty towel and whispered:
βI always leave roomβ¦ for dessert.β
The next morning, when the neighbors saw the light in the kitchen again, there were three fresh plates on the windowsill.
And the smell of roasted meat hung over the house for three whole days.
Daemoncheg π