I never thought I’d say this out loud, but my toaster is haunted. Or cursed. Or broken in the strangest possible way.
It started last month. I put in a slice of bread, pressed the lever, and went to make coffee. When the bread popped up, I froze.
Across the surface, burnt perfectly into the toast, was the word: “Sarah.”
I don’t know any Sarah.
I thought it was a fluke. A weird burn pattern, a factory defect. But the next morning, the toaster did it again. This time: “Daniel.” Letters charred into the bread like some sinister typewriter.
After a week, I had a pile of toast with names burned into them. “Mark.” “Angela.” “Theo.” “Lydia.” None of them meant anything to me.
Until they did.
One night, scrolling through local news, I saw a headline: “Car Accident Victim Identified as Sarah M.”
The next day, another story: “Daniel R. Found Dead in His Home.”
Every single name from my toast appeared in the obituaries.
I stopped using the toaster. Unplugged it. Shoved it in the cupboard. But two days later, I woke up to the smell of burnt bread. The toaster was on the counter. Plugged in. A fresh slice popped up with a name seared across it: “Evelyn.”
I didn’t know what to do. Call a priest? A repairman? A therapist?
I started saving the toast in plastic bags, dated, like grim evidence. My kitchen looked like a morgue for bread.
Then, last Thursday, it got worse.
The name was mine.
Perfectly blackened into the bread: “David.”
I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I stared at that toast for hours, terrified to throw it away, more terrified to keep it.
On Saturday, I heard the toaster click by itself. I crept into the kitchen, heart hammering. A slice popped up, still steaming.
This one didn’t have a name.
It had an address.
My address.
And beneath it, a time: 3:17 a.m.
I checked the clock. 3:14.
The toaster clicked again. Another slice began to lower into the slot by itself.
And as I reached for it, the lights went out.
