NYAC | 3min Read
Published on May 6, 2026
Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!
Happy Birthday, Tasty Boy!
My watch clicks once every second, loud enough to feel like it’s inside my skull.
11:59.
The house is dead.
My watch clicks over to 12:00 a.m.
That’s when I step onto the porch.
The house looks ordinary, maybe too ordinary. No lights, no music, no decorations. Just
a quiet family home with a welcome mat that hasn’t been shaken in years.
I flick the ash from my cigar and press the doorbell.
Nothing.
I try the handle.
Unlocked.
The moment I cross the door, the air shifts.
I blink.
The hallway explodes into color.
Streamers cling to the walls where paint should be peeling. Balloons rise as for the first
time, strings creaking softly.
A birthday banner stretches across the ceiling, letters crooked, spelling HAPPY
BIRTHDAY in pure red.
Music hums fill the room.
My cigar slips from my fingers and dies on the carpet.
“Happy birthday!” voices sing.
They drift down from above.
Children, actually the shapes of children float near the ceiling, bodies stretched and
translucent, their faces pressed outward like masks under rubber.
Their mouths open too wide when they smile.
“This is so fun!”
“Happy birthday!”
I move forward because stopping feels worse.
The dining room table is set perfectly. Plates. Hats. A cake at the center, candles
burning steadily. Arms push out through the icing like decorations, fingers flexing. A leg
protrudes from the side, sock still on, smeared with cream.
Sugar coats the back of my throat. Something rotten sits beneath it.
I hear laughter from the next room, this time higher.
Baby-sized balloons bounce off the walls, squealing and shrieking, the sounds folding in
on themselves until joy and terror are indistinguishable.
Then I hear footsteps.
Slow. Careful. Measured to the music.
In the living room, a figure dances.
He is tall and wrong, his limbs too long, joints bending a second after they should. His
skin is dark and cracked, like something scorched and stretched back into shape. A
party hat sits neatly between two curling horns.
He holds a balloon by its string.
The balloon has a boy’s face pressed into it, with freckles, missing tooth, eyes wide and
wet. The mouth laughs, then trembles, then laughs again.
They spin.
The figure notices me and stops.
“Oh,” he says, voice layered, several tones speaking at once. “A late guest.”
He gestures to a chair that slides back on its own. “Sit.”
I don’t.“What are you?” I ask.
He smiles, and the room seems to lean toward him. “I am the host.”
I pull the photograph from my wallet. My son stares back at me, Gary, seven years old,
cake smeared on his cheek, candles burning behind him.
“He vanished on his birthday,” I say. “I was at work.”
The host inhales deeply. His nostrils flare. His grin widens.
“Ahh,” he purrs. “Tasty boy. Tasty, tasty Gary boy.”
My gun is in my hand before I realize I’ve drawn it. “You took him.”
“I celebrated him,” the host corrects gently. “Candles were lit. Wishes were made. The
doors were open.”
I fire.
The bullet passes through him like smoke and bursts a floating child behind him. Red
mist rains down. No scream.
The others keep smiling.
The host sighs. “You always bring noise to parties.”
He steps closer. The balloons recoil, strings tightening.
“You missed his,” he whispers. “But don’t worry.”
He taps my watch with one clawed finger.
“Yours is soon.”
The music swells.
The balloons begin to rise.
And standing there, surrounded by color and laughter, I finally understand: birthdays
aren’t about growing older.
They’re about being ready to be taken.
