This was a short horror story I wrote for an anthology; published in 2025. Enjoy.
Recipe for Love
by Simon Dooley
Frank stared over at the large Victorian house from his car. He’d been casing the Vanguard’s home for weeks. Marking their daily habits in his, rather worn, notebook. Richard Vanguard had been one of Frank’s clients at the bank, until Frank had been fired and placed under investigation for fraud. Frank hadn’t told his wife, Juliette, she was unaware the money had stopped coming in and his accounts had been frozen. He knew she’d leave him once she knew he was worthless.
Juliette was best friends with Richard’s wife Valerie, and they all often had dinner together. One drunken evening – at an expensive London restaurant Frank couldn’t remember the name of – Valerie had blurted out that Richard stashed cash away in a safe behind his ‘vulgar’ self-portrait. An attempt to avoid government taxes she’d explained. Richard, red faced, decided at that point it was time to get his wife home. Frank had never forgotten the conversation and now he needed that money.
Today was Thursday and, according to his notes, the Vanguards usually ate at six, then went to the cinema. Frank hadn’t seen them leave but he supposed they could have left when he’d nipped to the corner shop for a bar of chocolate, in an attempt to quell his hunger.
He watched the house for another hour before deciding there was no one home. He crossed the street, opened the gate and followed the path round the side of the house. He intended to enter via the back door, knowing the Vanguards kept a key under a green frog close to the pond. His stomach rumbled loudly as he bent down, grabbing the key from beneath the amphibian ornament. He inserted it into the lock. Hearing a soft click he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Once inside Frank found himself in a small, darkened, room; coats hanging on the coatrack and dirty shoes on the floor. Opening the door opposite he stepped into the kitchen and was momentarily dazzled by the bright LED lighting. Once his vision came back into focus he saw an array of cupboards adorning the walls and under worksurfaces. A monolithic kitchen island dominated the centre of the floor.
The Vanguards had the usual collection of appliances: microwave, food processor, oven, etc. But it was the large American fridge freezer that caught Frank’s attention just as his stomach loudly protested its hunger. He opened the door, bathing his face with an indecently stark light. He quickly scanned the contents looking for something to eat. His eyes stopped on a half-eaten, homemade, quiche.
‘Fuck it,’ he said.
He lifted the quiche out of the fridge and cut himself a slice placing it on a side plate and got a fork from the cutlery drawer. He put the remains of the quiche back in the fridge. He picked up the plate and, using the edge of the fork, broke a piece from the quiche and shoved it in his mouth greedily. He chewed on it briefly, before swallowing, savouring the flavour.
‘Girl sure can cook.’ He said, assuming Valerie was the chef.
Frank wandered around the kitchen opening drawers, looking for anything valuable he could take. There was nothing. He pushed open the doors to the lounge taking another bite of the quiche as they swung closed behind him. He chewed for a little longer, picking out the flavour of the strong cheddar, the light scent of the marjoram, and the sweet, strong, aromatic flavour of the oak smoked bacon. He swallowed before sighing.
‘Mmmmm, if this were sex, I’d be having an orgasm right now.’
He looked around the room before spotting the very thing he was looking for. The portrait. He put the plate onto the coffee table and went to the painting. Frank slid his fingers along the underside, searching for the catch that he knew must be there. His fingers stopped as he found, and pressed, the latch. The frame swung forward revealing a safe buried in the wall. It didn’t look anything special; a blank metal faceplate with a touchscreen. However, Frank knew it was incredibly sophisticated, two wrong entries and the system would lock for twenty-four hours. That didn’t worry him, Richard had told him he kept a password book in the house.
He picked up the plate from the coffee table, stabbed the last piece of the quiche with the fork and placed it in his mouth and chewed and swallowed, placing the empty plate back on the table.
Frank pushed open the doors to the dining room.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, taking in a sharp breath before slowly releasing it,
‘what the fuck?’
He did not expect the scene that greeted him. A large wooden, eight seat, table stood in the middle of the room. On its surface were the remnants of five half eaten plates of quiche salad. Sitting in front of each plate was a member of the Vanguard family, all clearly dead. A bureau sat innocently against the wall. Frank staggered backwards in shock; it took him a few moments to take in the entire scene.
Richard, and his wife Valerie, were sitting at opposite ends of the table flanked on one side by the two eldest children, Colin and Elaine. The youngest, Ashley, was on the other and close to his mother. They were sitting as if in mid conversation, the only clear indication they were dead was their eyes were open in a fixed, empty, stare, and their heads lolled to one side in awkward positions. Frank slowly approached Richard and saw he was clutching a note in his left hand. Frank reached over and grabbed it.
As he did, Richard’s body slid off the chair and onto the floor. Frank leapt back, startled.
‘Fucking hell fire,’ he cried out.
Frank froze for a moment in abject fear.
Finally, he slowly reached out a tentative hand. ‘Richard?’
No answer, Richard was definitely dead.
‘Calm down you fucking idiot.’ He said, drawing his hand back and looking at the handwritten note.
My dear Richard,
By the time you read this it will already be too late. I know about your affair with Juliette. You have destroyed me. I thought I could get past it, that it was a phase, that you would realise we are more important than…her. For months I tried to make an effort for you but was met with despondency and the excuse you were ‘too tired because of work’. Well, you weren’t too tired for your recent two-week ‘conference’ in Malaysia, were you? The hotel you stayed at called to say that Mrs Vanguard left her purse in the restaurant. You really shouldn’t give your home phone number as your emergency contact. You left me with no husband, so now I deprive you of your children, your wife, and your life. I poisoned the quiche we are eating; I waited a couple of mouthfuls before passing you this note. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about the slut. I took her a quiche earlier today. You took everything away from me, so I’ve taken it all away from you.
Your loyal wife, Valerie.
Frank dropped the note.
‘That fucking bitch,’ he said, his anger rising at seeing his wife’s name, ‘that cheating fucking bitch.’
His stomach grumbled as he looked at Richard lying awkwardly on the floor.
‘And you, you bastard. You were supposed to be my friend.’
Frank’s stomach grumbled again, and he felt a sharp pain across his midriff. Sudden realisation spread across his face.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he said.
He started putting two of his fingers down his throat, but there wasn’t enough time before the next wave of pain hit him. ‘Jesus, somebody help me,’ he cried out.
He stumbled to the bureau, reaching out a hand to steady himself.
Another sharp pain, worse than the first two, caused him to double over and collapse onto his knees. It felt as though his insides were ripping themselves to shreds. He sensed liquid dripping down his chin, hearing it hit the floor. Looking down, he saw it was blood.
Another wave of pain washed over him as he collapsed to the hardwood floor onto his back in the pool of blood. He couldn’t move; he didn’t have any control over his body. All he could do was lie there and watch out of the corner of his eye as the pool of blood spread further. One last wave of pain ripped through his entire body; he’d never felt pain like it and never would again. His eyes darted from left to right before settling on a book, taped on the underside of a drawer in the bureau, the word Passwords written on the cover in black ink.
‘Bastard,’ was the last word Frank managed before he choked on his own blood.
