Welcome to Macabre Miscellanea, a curated collection
of creepy curiosities. Tonight's story involves
a $60 refrigerator, a young woman who received
clear instructions, understood them perfectly,
and looked anyway. We've all met her. Some of
us are her. The only thing more inevitable than
curiosity is what happens when it's corrected.
Tonight's tale, Footprints in the Butter. Turn
down the lights. Let's begin. My mini fridge
dies on a Tuesday, which feels rude even for
a kitchen that already looks like it's losing
a fight with time. I find out because my milk
is warm. Not left it out for 10 minutes warm.
Warm like it's been thinking about becoming something
else. The air inside the fridge has that sweet,
sour, lazy smell that says biology lab. I stand
there in my socks, door open, staring at the
limp carton like it might explain itself. The
light inside flickers once, then gives up completely.
Okay, I say to nobody, great, perfect, love that
for me. I've been in this off -campus rental
for two weeks because it's what I can afford.
The cabinets don't line up, the floors slope
just enough that my desk chair slowly migrates
toward the wall if I don't wedge it. The kitchen
window looks directly into a brick wall, so all
the daylight comes pre -filtered through mildew
and disappointment. The mini fridge was the one
nice thing I brought with me. It survived three
roommates, one power outage, and the time my
ex tried to help and defrosted it with a butter
knife. Now it just stops. Like it clocked out.
I pull everything onto the counter. Eggs, leftovers,
a tub of hummus I don't trust anymore. My phone
blinks a low battery warning from the pile of
mail it's been sitting on, like it's also about
to give up out of solidarity. I should call my
landlord, but my landlord is the kind of guy
who responds to maintenance requests with a thumbs
up and then never shows. I should buy a new mini
fridge. But I am in the financial bracket known
as college student who is always one expense
away from cereal for dinner forever. So I do
what broke people have done since the dawn of
time. I open Marketplace. It's a graveyard of
like new items photographed in dim basements.
Couches with mystery stains. Desks with missing
drawers. Appliances that look like they were
pulled from the wreckage of something. I scroll.
I squint. I do the mental math of what can I
actually survive without. Then I see it. Old
refrigerator. Works. Must pick up today. $60.
The photo is bad. Too close. Too angled, like
the person taking it didn't want to stand in
the room any longer than necessary. The fridge
itself is beige, scuffed, from an era when appliances
were built like tanks and decorated like office
buildings. But $60 is $60. I click. The seller's
name is Mike. His messages are neat, short, polite.
Yes, it works. Yes, the light is fine. No delivery,
cash only. I type back. Any issues? Weird smells?
Flickering light? Three dots appear. Then...
Old fridge. Quirky. It's fine. Then a second
message, a beat later. Don't go looking for the
little guy. I stare at that line longer than
I mean to. When I'm a kid, there's this joke
adults tell when you stand at the open fridge
too long. Close the door. You're letting the
cold out. You'll make the little man tired. He
has to turn the light off. My dad used to do
the whole bit, peering into the fridge with one
eye like there really was a tiny guy in there
with a clipboard. My aunt always added, if you
see footprints in the butter, that's the dead
giveaway. It's a dad joke, an old wives tale,
something parents say so you stop breathing expensive
electricity with the door hanging open. I type
back. LOL fridge man? Mike replies almost instantly.
Something like that. No laughing emoji. No haha.
Just the words sitting there on the screen. I
should feel uneasy. Instead I feel hungry and
mildly annoyed which is usually how my bad decisions
get started. I borrow Tasha and her boyfriend's
truck because my car is currently in the shop
in the same way a corpse is resting. We drive
across town with the kind of forced cheerfulness
you use when someone's doing you a favor and
you're both pretending it's fun. Um, 60 bucks
for a full fridge is a steal. Tasha says, drumming
her fingers on the wheel. Even if it's haunted.
It's not haunted, I say, because saying it out
loud feels like inviting it to be true. Everything's
haunted, she says. That's just adulthood. You're
haunted by your student loans. I'm haunted by
my ex. This fridge is haunted by being beige.
Mike's building has narrow stairs and carpet
that smells like wet dog and old cooking oil.
He buzzes us in without asking who we are, like
he's been waiting at the door. He opens it before
we knock. He's around 40, close -cropped hair,
sunglasses on inside. His face is calm, pleasant.
Blank in a way that would read as arrogance if
it didn't also read as something else. I notice
he's not looking at me. He's looking slightly
past my shoulder, head angled, like he's tracking
my voice instead of my face. Fridge is in the
kitchen, he says. Straight back. His apartment
is tidy in the way a place gets tidy when clutter
is a hazard. Nothing on the floor. Furniture
positioned with intention. Corners clear, small
strips of tape along the counter edges, a textured
line running the length of one wall. The fridge
sits against the far wall, humming softly. Beige,
scuffed, older than me. I open the door, light
on, shelves empty. Smells like baking soda and
cold plastic. See? Tasha says quietly. It's fine.
I close the door. A second later, click. The
light comes on behind it. I freeze, hand still
on the handle. Tasha's smile goes uncertain.
Old relay, she says. Probably. I look at Mike.
He's still facing us, hands in his pockets, listening.
It does that sometimes, he says. It's fine. We
get it down the stairs the ugly way, scraping
walls, sweating, swearing. Mike stands at the
top the entire time, not offering help, not moving,
just... Tasha glances up at him from the second
landing, both of us red -faced and wedged against
the wall with a half -ton of beige appliance.
Hey, don't worry about us, she calls up. Two
90 -pound girls in a refrigerator, we got it.
Really, please stay right there. She drops her
voice to a mutter. I'm sure he's got a lot of
standing to do. Mike says nothing, just listens.
When we finally get it into the truck bed and
I look back up, he's still there in the doorway.
Take care of it, he says. On the drive home,
Tasha glances at me. He was blind, right? Yeah,
I say. Oh, I think so. Cool, she says. Cool,
cool, cool. So we bought a haunted fridge from
a blind man who said something cryptic. It's
not haunted, I say again, and it sounds weaker
this time. Tasha nods. Okay. But check the butter
for footprints. Shut up. Dead giveaway. Back
at my place, we haul the fridge inside. My kitchen
is barely big enough for two people without touching.
The beige fridge takes up half the visual space
immediately, like it's already decided it lives
here. We plug it in. The compressor kicks on
with a deep, steady hum. Moment of truth. Tasha
says. I open the door. Light on. Fine. I close
it. Click. Tasha's smile falters. Okay, that's
a thing. It's wiring, I say. It's old. We fiddle
with it the way people fiddle with things when
they want to feel competent. I press the little
door switch with my finger. Light off. I let
go. Light on. Normal. I close the door and press
the switch through the gasket seam. The light
should be off. Click. It isn't. I try it six
more times. Same result. The light comes on when
it wants to, on a schedule I can't identify.
Patient and unhurried. Like it has somewhere
to be and isn't worried about being late. Tasha
checks her phone. I have to go. Study group.
She steps toward the door, then pauses, hand
on the frame. Just don't be weird about it. I'm
not being weird about it. She looks at the fridge.
Then at me. You're already being weird about
it. After she leaves, the apartment feels quieter
than it should. The hum fills the space. I clean
the fridge because cleaning is what I do when
I can't control anything else. I wipe the shelves,
scrub the gasket, run my fingers along the rubber
seal. I find tiny pinprick holes space evenly
along the seam, like someone tested the same
spots over and over with something sharp. I tell
myself it's age, wear, nothing. I pull a shelf
out to wipe underneath it and notice the manufacturer
plate bolted to the back interior wall. Faust
and Sons stamped into metal, small and official.
The kind of plate that's been there since the
factory. I don't recognize the brand. I don't
particularly care about the brand. I put the
shelf back and keep cleaning. I put my groceries
in. Milk, eggs, butter, leftovers. The fridge
is cold. It holds food. That's the job. I text
Mike. Hey, the light keeps clicking on when the
doors close. Do you know why? Three dots. Then.
Old fridge. Quirky. It's fine. Don't stare at
it. I stare at that message until my eyes ache.
Then I put my phone down and try to be normal
about the fact that I just paid $60 for a fridge
that apparently has opinions. Alright, I say
to the kitchen, to nobody, to the hum. Fridge
man, clock out. The click follows me into the
next room like a period at the end of a sentence
I didn't write. That night, I wake up thirsty.
It's not dramatic. It's not ominous. It's 2 .13am
and my mouth feels like cotton and I want a glass
of water. I stumble into the kitchen and stop
because the fridge is glowing. Not through a
crack. Not a sliver. The beige door is solid
but there's a thin line of light bleeding out
along the bottom gasket. I stand there barefoot,
brain fogged, staring at it. My dad's stupid
bit floats up. Close the door. You'll make the
little man tired. I take a step closer. The light
clicks off. I blink. A second later, click. It
comes back on. I text Tasha because it's 2am
and she's the only person I know who might actually
respond. The fridge is doing the thing again.
Three minutes pass. Then... Maya, it is 2am.
Okay, but the light is on with the door closed.
It's a fridge, not a haunting. Go back to sleep.
What if it is a haunting, though? Then it is
the most boring haunting in recorded history.
A ghost that turns a light on and off. Incredible.
Groundbreaking. Go to bed. I set the phone down.
The fridge hums. The light leaks steady along
the bottom gasket. Tasha is right. This is boring.
This is a wiring issue in a $60 appliance purchased
from a stranger on the internet. This is exactly
what I paid for. I get my water. I go back to
bed. But I leave the kitchen light on because
the dark in there feels different now. Not empty,
just occupied. And I am 20 years old and broke
and alone in a cheap rental and I am absolutely
allowed to leave the kitchen light on if I want
to. I don't text Tasha that part. The next morning,
I tell myself I imagined it. I'm tired. I'm stressed.
I'm living alone in a cheap rental where the
floors slope and the daylight comes pre -filtered
through a brick wall. My brain is doing what
brains do when they're bored and slightly afraid.
It's finding patterns. It's inventing agency.
It's turning a wiring problem into a thing that
watches. I make coffee. I eat toast, I go to
class, I come home and try to ignore the fridge
the way you ignore a weird roommate you've decided
not to engage with. It doesn't let me. Every
time I walk past it, I hear the click. Not constant,
not random, timed. A few clicks close together,
then a pause, then again. I start noticing the
rhythm without meaning to, the way you notice
a dripping faucet only after you've already been
listening to it for 10 minutes. I test the switch
again because I can't not. Door open. Light on.
Normal. Door closed. Click. Light on. Not normal.
I wedge a spoon handle in the door gap so it
can't seal fully. The light should stay on. Door
is technically open. I come back an hour later.
The spoon is on the floor. The door is closed.
The light clicks on behind it. I try to laugh.
The sound comes out wrong. Okay, I tell the fridge.
Nice. I eat dinner at my desk with my back to
the kitchen. This works fine until I realize
I've been listening to the click the entire time
and unconsciously timing it against my own chewing,
which is exactly the kind of thing that means
you've lost the thread of normalcy and are just
pretending to hold it. I open the butter dish
to make toast. There are faint marks in the top
of the butter, small dents, like something pressed
its fingertips in. I stare at them. I used a
knife this morning. I could have done that. I
definitely did that. I set the lid back down
carefully. Like, if I'm gentle enough about it,
the marks will decide to mean nothing. They keep
meaning something. So I do the thing that feels
like science. Because it looks like science.
I buy a new stick of butter. I unwrap it and
set it in the dish. With the back of a spoon,
I smooth the top perfectly flat. No marks, no
grooves, clean surface. I tear a thin strip from
a notepad and lay it under the lid so it will
crease if the dish is opened. I step back and
look at it. All right, I say, and my voice is
working very hard to sound casual. Let's see.
That night, I set my phone on the counter and
hit record. Audio only. If I record video of
my fridge, I will have crossed a line I'm not
ready to name. I go to bed and lie there listening
for clicks that don't come because my brain has
decided that silence is now also suspicious.
I fall asleep anyway because bodies do that,
even when you'd rather they didn't. In the morning,
the first thing I do is check the butter. The
paper strip is still there, but it's creased,
lifted, and pressed back into place carefully,
like someone was neat about it. I lift the lid.
The butter is not smooth anymore. There are prints
in it, not smears, not gouges, neat little toe
pad impressions, space -like footsteps, marching
across the top and angling toward the side of
the dish closest to the fridge. I don't move
for a full second. My brain tries to jam it into
something normal. It's me. It's the spoon. It's
the knife from yesterday that I already accounted
for. It's... It's none of those. I know what
a knife does to butter. This is pressure. This
is weight. I lean closer like proximity will
make it less true. The prints are tiny. Like
a doll. Like... A child's toy. I walk to my phone
and stop the recording. My fingers are steady
in the way fingers get steady when your brain
has quietly decided that falling apart is not
currently an option. I press play. At first it's
nothing. Refrigerator hum. House settling. My
own faint breathing. Then at 3 .07 AM. Click.
Click. A pause. A soft scrape. Something small
dragging plastic against plastic. Then click.
I rewind and listen again. The scrape is there.
Delicate. Not a mouse. Not a loose panel. Something
small moving with purpose. Like it has a checklist
and is working through it. I find it on the floor
near the gasket seam. A sliver. Thin as a needle.
Dark at one end. Caught in the rubber like it
got lodged mid -flight. I pinch it between my
fingers. Too light to be metal but stiff, the
tip sharp enough to catch my skin. A dart. I
set it on the counter and look at the fridge
for a long time. Then I text Mike. What is in
the fridge? Three dots. Longer than before. You
saw it. No, I type, not yet, but I have footprints
in my butter and a dart in my gasket, and an
audio recording of something moving around in
there at 3am, so I think we're past quirky. A
pause, then... Don't look directly at it. Use
a reflection if you have to look. It doesn't
like being seen. It will correct you. Correct
me how? I type. The dots appear and disappear
twice before his answer comes through. You've
already met the dart. I put the phone face down
on the counter. I stand in my kitchen in my socks
looking at a $60 beige refrigerator that contains
something with a job and a weapon and apparently
a professional objection to being known and I
think about the pinprick holes in the gasket
seam that were already there when I bought it,
evenly spaced, like someone had tested the same
spots over and over. Like this has happened before.
Like Mike knew exactly what corrected meant because
it had been corrected into him. I pick the phone
back up. Why are you blind? I type. The dots
appear. Disappear. Appear again. I tried to catch
it in a reflection. I go to Mike's apartment
the next day because I don't know what else to
do. Going to the police is impossible. Calling
my landlord is a joke. Texting Tasha would turn
me into a story she tells at parties. Remember
when Maya thought there was a gremlin in her
fridge? What? He says, I need to understand what's
in there, I say. He steps back. Kitchen. His
apartment is even more deliberately arranged
than I remembered. Tape along the counter edges,
a textured strip running the length of the hallway
wall. Furniture positioned so nothing is ever
in the way. A space designed to be navigated
without sight. He stands at the sink, hands braced
on the counter. You're going to ask me why? He
says, yes. Because you think if there's a why,
there's a fix. I don't answer because he's right.
He turns his head slightly, oriented toward the
sound of my breathing. It's not angry. He says.
It's not cruel. Then why the dart? It doesn't
want to be known. He says. That's not malice.
That's procedure. You became a problem the moment
you started looking. I swallow. So, it just lives
in appliances? Mike's mouth tightens. A system,
I say. He says, correcting the way you say a
word, you've had a long time to get used to.
Flat. Final. Like a door that doesn't open anymore.
I think about the butter lid pressed back down
neatly. The tape receded. The clicks on schedule.
Every interference I made, quietly undone. Did
it make you blind? I ask. He lifts a hand and
touches the rim of his sunglasses. I caught it
in a spoon, he says, in the glossy side of the
fridge door, just long enough to confirm the
joke. He lowers his hand. It didn't chase me.
It didn't attack me. It corrected the witness.
The word witness lands wrong. Too official. Like
I've been entered into a record somewhere. So
you solved the problem by making it someone else's,
I say. His jaw tightens. I got rid of it. That's
not solving it. That's just moving it down the
street. Silence. Then... No. He says quietly.
It's not. I force myself to ask the thing I've
been not asking since I walked in. How do I get
it out? Mike's head tilts. You don't. I can unplug
it. I can... It doesn't need your power, he says,
and there's something almost bitter in his voice
now. It's not a ghost. It's not electricity.
Your fridge is just where the job happens right
now. I stand there with my hands clenched, running
the logistics in my head because logistics are
what my brain does when it can't handle the alternative.
I can't keep it. I can't throw it out without
passing it somewhere. And passing it somewhere
is exactly what Mike did. And I am standing in
his carefully taped apartment, looking at where
his eyes used to work. And I understand it completely.
And I hate that I understand it. I have to go.
I say. Mike nods once. Don't look again. He says.
At the door I stop because apparently I am constitutionally
incapable of leaving well enough alone. What
happens if someone else sees it? I ask. His answer
comes immediately. Then it corrects them. Back
home I decide I can't live with it for another
night. I stand in front of the fridge with a
roll of duct tape and my phone in my pocket like
it's a talisman. The fridge hums. The click comes
once, then twice, steady as a pulse. I don't
open the door. I kneel and yank the plug from
the wall. The hum dies. The kitchen goes quiet
in a way that feels wrong, like a sound got removed
that was covering something else. I tape the
door shut. One strip across the top, one across
the middle, one across the bottom. Then I grip
the sides and start to pull. The fridge is heavy.
It fights me with pure physics, weight, and friction,
and the way cheap linoleum grabs. I drag it an
inch, then another. My breathing gets loud. Then,
from inside the sealed, unpowered fridge, click.
The light comes on. It shouldn't. There's no
power. There's no reason. The click comes again,
then again. Faster. A cluster, like a hand tapping.
I stop moving. My gaze goes to the door seam
where the gasket meets the frame. The thin line
where light leaks out. I know better, Mike told
me. The dart already told me. Every reasonable
part of my brain is in complete agreement that
I should not look. I pull a spoon from the drawer
without thinking, the nearest reflective thing.
My hand is shaking hard enough that the spoon
rattles against my fingers. I angle it toward
the gasket seam, toward the leaking line of light,
like I'm trying to see without seeing. The spoon
catches the glow. And there it is, small hunched
shape behind the switch cavity. Goggles pushed
up on its forehead, skin soot smudged, leathery.
Mottled like something that has lived too close
to heat and dust for too long. Pointed ears torn
at the edges. Long, clever fingers working the
switch mechanism with the focused patience of
something that does this for a living. Then its
eyes find the spoon. Two wet points of reflected
light. It goes perfectly still. The grin it has.
Wide, stupid, impish. slides off its face the
dart comes so fast i don't process the motion
a sharp sting near my right eye precise and immediate
like a snapped rubber band against bare skin
my eyelid spasms shut i gasp and drop the spoon
and it clatters off the counter onto the floor
hot tears flood my eye instantly the kitchen
light blooms into a smear Edges warp in halo.
I stagger back, one hand over my face, the other
slapping at the counter. I don't go to the hospital.
I sit on the kitchen floor with a bag of frozen
peas pressed to my eye and my phone open to search
results I can't focus on properly. Eye injury
needle puncture. The internet offers two options.
You're fine or you're dying with nothing in between.
I laugh once, sharp and ugly, because this is
where my life is now. My vision on the right
side is softer. Bright lights flare, edges smear.
When I blink, the world tries to stitch itself
back together and mostly succeeds. I think about
calling Tasha. I think about saying, hey, do
you have a minute? I got darted by the fridge
man. I picture her face. I don't call. I think
about dragging it outside anyway, and then I
look at my swollen eye and I hear Mike's voice,
flat and certain. It corrects them. I'm not corrected
enough. Not yet, but I understand now that corrected
is a direction, not a destination, and I don't
want to find out where it ends. So I do the worst
thing, which is also the only thing. I decide
to pass it on. I take the duct tape off carefully
because I don't want to provoke anything. The
tape peels away slow and the fridge door swings
open easy like it's happy to be back at work.
The light is on. Of course it is. I don't stare
at the bulb. I don't... Angle spoons. I remove
my groceries without making eye contact with
anything and close the door. The click comes
immediately after. Steady and calm. I sit down
at my laptop and open Marketplace. My hands hover
over the keyboard. I type, old refrigerator.
Works great. $60. Pick up today. I stop. I stare
at my own words like they belong to someone else.
I add, light flickers sometimes. Probably wiring.
My fingers shake. I start to type a warning.
There is something inside it. I delete it. I
type it as a joke. Fridge man included. No extra
charge. I delete that too. I type cash only.
I hit post. The act feels small. Clicking a button.
Moving on. But my stomach twists like I've just
signed something in a language I only half understand.
Within the hour, a message pops up. A guy named
Kyle's profile picture, baseball cap, dorm room
mirror selfie, the particular glow of someone
who has not yet learned that cheap is never just
cheap. Is it still available? My throat tightens.
Yes, I type. Can you pick up tonight? Yeah, my
roommate and I can come. I close the laptop and
look at my kitchen. The beige fridge sits there
humming. Light clicking occasionally behind the
closed door, doing its job like I was never part
of this. I find myself thinking about Mike's
apartment. The tape along the counters, the textured
strip on the wall, the careful empty corners,
his hands braced on the sink like a rail. I think
about the way he said, corrected. I close my
eyes. I tell myself, I'm doing this because I
have no choice. Then I tell myself the truth,
which is that I have a choice and I'm making
it anyway. And the only difference between me
and Mike is that I haven't found a way to call
it something else yet. Kyle and his roommate
show up at 740, cheerful and oblivious, smelling
like cheap cologne and takeout. Wow. Kyle says,
stepping into my kitchen. Old school. Yeah, I
say my voice sounds normal. I don't know how.
He opens the door. The light flares bright and
steady. He grins. Nice. It even has a light.
I look away. He closes the door. A second later,
click. Kyle pauses. Huh. Old wiring, I say. The
lie comes out smooth like I've been saying it
for years. Relay thing. Kyle shrugs. Yeah, my
last fridge did that. We load it into the truck.
I keep my eyes away from reflective surfaces
the whole time. Spoons, windows, the chrome on
the truck bumper. My whole body is tuned to angles
and glass. Kyle hands me three 20s. Thanks me.
Tells me to have a good night. I nod like a normal
person. Then they drive away. My kitchen is suddenly
too empty. The space where the fridge sat looks
like a missing tooth. I stand in the doorway
for a long moment, listening for a click that
isn't there anymore. My eye throbs. The world
on the right side still looks slightly wrong,
like the sharpness got turned down and nobody
told me where the setting is. I shut the door,
lock it, lean my forehead against it and breathe.
My phone buzzes an hour later, a message from
Kyle. Hey, sorry, dumb question. Is it normal
to find little footprints in the butter? I stare
at the screen with one good eye. My thumb hovers.
I start typing a reassuring lie. Yeah, old fridges
are weird. Probably just... I stop. The cursor
blinks. On. Off. On. Off. Like a tiny bulb doing
its job. I don't finish the text. And that was
Footprints in the Butter. The little man was
doing his job. He always was. The tragedy isn't
the dart. It's that she set up the butter trap.
She already knew. She just needed to be sure.
If you want more, follow Macabre Miscellanea
here. And if you prefer your nightmares with
visuals, the full video version is on YouTube.
Until next time. Remember, curiosity doesn't
kill you. It just corrects you.