There’s nobody to answer the door because the elves are in the back making his cookies. Don’t you remember that story about the elves and the shoemaker?”
“Now you’re quoting the Brothers Grimm as your occult source? I keep telling you there’s no such thing as carnivorous elves, fairies maybe, but not elves.”
“Okay, so they’re fairies, then. Whatever. Come on. Let’s check out the back where she said she found those dead cats.”
I led her around the back of the shopping center. Out back it was even darker and creepier than the front side. Each back door was solid metal stenciled with the name of the store. We found the one to the tanning salon easily. There were bloody debris on the concrete pad behind. I pointed at it.
“See! I told you we’d find something.”
“Oh, my God.”
Ann took a step back and covered her mouth with one hand. I looked to see what the other hand was pointing at. The bloody debris I’d noticed but not really seen came into focus.
It was a human arm.
The arm was child sized and had been bitten or torn off at the elbow. Apparently the neighborhood had run short of pets so they’d switched to something else.
The other white meat.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, turning away. I put my hands on her shoulders and propelled her back towards the dumpster along the far perimeter wall.
“You’ll be all right. Just think of something else, something happy: brown paper packages tied up with string, dewdrops on roses, whiskers on kittens…”
Maybe that last one wasn’t the best thing to mention. She groaned and staggered behind the dumpster where she was noisily sick.
“Uh, sorry,” I said.
I turned away and looked back toward the building. We hadn’t reached the back door to the bakery but I could see it clearly from here. But there was something strange about it.
“Ann, take a look at this.”
She lurched out from behind the dumpster, ashen faced.
“What do you want me to look at this time?” She accused.
“There. In the back door to the bakery. Do you see what that is?”
“It‘s a little doggie door. So what?”
“So, the health department regulations don’t allow live animals in any food preparation areas. They can’t have a dog or cat.”
“So what’s it for?”
“I’ll bet if we got closer we could see a sign that says ‘employees only’ on it.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, stop it about the elves, will you? What’s next? Wanted posters down at the post office with the caption: ‘Do you know the Muffin Man?’”
“Sush!” I pulled her back behind the dumpster, but watching where I put my feet. “Look,” I said, pointing toward the door.
In the distance the doggie door flap lifted up, waved a bit and then dropped. Then it did it again.
The door repeated its action ten more times, flipping up, wobbling a moment and then dropping back into place. But we saw nothing move through the door.
“What’s happening?” She asked.
“Break time is over. That was the night crew going back to work. Did you see how many there were?” I asked.
“Twelve?”
“Plus the baker makes what? And don’t tell me thirteen.”
She thought a moment. “A coven?”
“No, silly. A baker’s dozen.”
She sighed. “Okay, so what do we do about it?”
“That arm came from somebody. We go to the cops and report a murder.”
“And what do we tell them? That carnivorous elves working the night shift did it? If that’s the plan you’d better call it in because if you do it in person they’ll keep you overnight until you sober up.”
“Okay, we’ll just turn in an anonymous tip about where to find the arm and that somebody at the bakery is responsible.”
She shook her head. The color was returning to her cheeks.
“And what are the police supposed to do about it? Those creatures aren’t elves. But they’re probably demonic, harassing spirits, maybe. The police aren’t equipped to deal with something like that, even if they were willing to believe they were responsible. And the muffin man probably has an ironclad alibi.”
“Well, maybe we call a tip in to Immigration and have them aid the place.”
“What? And hope your invisible elves don’t have their green cards handy? Ed, it’s up to the two of us. We’re the only ones who can stop these things. Let’s come back in the morning when the sun’s out. We’ll confront their boss. He’s the one with the power. He’s the one who’s responsible. He summoned them. Maybe once he understands what they’re doing on their lunch break he can bring them back under control.”
* * * *
The next day we were back. The Muffin Man was his jovial self behind the counter.
“Good morning, what can I get you folks today? More elven waybread?”
The crumb cake seemed to be calling my name but I ignored it, addressing him instead.
“We’ve got to talk,” I said. “In private.”
“What do you mean? Is there a problem with something you bought? Satisfaction is guaranteed so I’ll replace it or refund your money.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said.
Ann stuck out an accusing finger.
“We know who you have working for you at night, who keeps coming and going through that little doggie door of yours.”
He smiled.
“Oh, yeah, the elves. Har, har, har. Well, just don’t tell Keebler. Har, har, har.”
“They’ve eaten all the dogs and cats in the neighborhood and now they’ve started on the children.”
His friendly grin was replaced with a look of concern. “Maybe we should step into the back and discuss this in private,” he said.
He led us around behind the counter and through a door into the kitchen. There was a big mixer in the corner with a row of paddles and dough hooks hanging above. Along one wall by the door were several bins of ingredients and a shelf with small jars of spices. Along another wall was a pair of doors for a walk-in cooler and a freezer. But strangely, the big oven door was set only inches from the floor and the worktable was equally short-legged as if made for a baker the size of a small child. A stack of miniature pans on a tiny wheeled rack completed the ensemble as if the production line had been designed by the E-Z-Bake Company.
I just stared at the equipment. Finally confronting the proof of my theories was even weirder than watching the self-opening doggie door the night before. But Ann continued her pitch.
“You’ve got to stop using your elves or whatever they are. They’re too dangerous.”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but they’re just too good. I’m making bank on this place. I could never get anyone who could bake as good as they can, and worse, then I’d have to start paying wages.”
“But they’re killing people!”
“Have you thought about going to the police?” He asked.
“They won’t believe something like that.”