Just Desserts

Cooks of The Crypt

A woman calls out from the front end, "Bones?" The voice carries, echoing throughout the kitchen as Mr. Bones looks up from the stovetop. She sounds upset.
"That's me," he says. "What can I do for you, love?"
Rian steps through the kitchen door, wrangling a young boy. She sets a plate with three slices of cake on the counter and clears her throat. "I caught this one in the display case trying to make off with three slices of chocolate cake." The boy smiles and laughs as Rian raises a brow. "You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"
Mr. Bones leans forward, and scoffs, his tone playful yet stern as he speaks to the boy. "Master Brandon, how could you?"
"Bones, please," Rian says as bones and the boy let out a fit of laughter. "Pull yourself together."
"I can't, miss. My arm is currently busy." He points to the other side of the kitchen. His boney hand grips a ladle that stirs a pot of chili. His arm, detached and without skin or tissue, anchors itself to the table for leverage.
Rian's lips tighten and she places her hands on her hips. An imposing woman, her green eyes stare out from beneath a mane of black hair. Such a star would make one's skin crawl. Mr. Bones wouldn't know, however. He doesn't have any.
"What?" He asks.
"I know you're involved," Rian replies with a sly smile.
"Why, I would nev-"
Rian laughs. "Three slices, bones. I have two children and Silas is abroad. The staff wouldn't be so bold."
"Ah…" Mr. Bones hangs his head in shame. "I see. I guess that's it then."
"What?" Rian replies.
Silas, the boy, speaks up with crocodile tears welling in his eyes. "Mr. Bones, no."
Mr. Bones throws his voice, crying out as if in deep sorrow, "Oh yes. I'm afraid it's back to that dreadful mausoleum for me. I've been found out."
"No," the boy cries.
Bones ignores her protests. "I've done it this time. Stealing from the family. Why, what will the other skellys think of me?"
Rian rolls her eyes. "Boys, please. Just leave the display alone. If you were to be seen…" her words fall on deaf ears. The two huddle together as if sharing the last hug they will ever have. Rian storms out of the kitchen with a laugh. "Oh, stop. Get back to it."
Mr. Bones looks up and sees the plate left behind on the counter. "Brandon…"
The boy looks up at him with a dry face and a wide grin. "What?"
Bones whispers in reply, gesturing with a nod. "Get your brother. She forgot the cake."

---

On a long winding road just outside of Houston, Texas is an unassuming restaurant with a dark past, its history steeped in rumors of black magic, occult rituals, and other forms of twisted, profane debauchery. The keys have sat in the dusty pockets of many, passed down from one patriarch to another, until finally, the family business rests firmly on the shoulders of one Madame Ersebet Kingsley… her real name is Rian Hardy, just so we're clear.
Just Desserts has a reputation, yes, but it's grossly exaggerated. What started as a bakery in 1966 grew into a tourist attraction. Folks from all over the US, and even the world come seeking what the locals call with a raised brow, "soul food." It didn't matter what they served. Somehow, it always makes you feel good, like coming home and sampling mom's cooking.
It hasn't been a bakery in twenty years. The menu is varied with flavors suiting any taste. The Hardy family is good at what they do, but they've always had a little help. They're special, one foot in hell and the other firmly planted outside. The dead turn in their graves just to get a taste, and the Hardy's are always willing to provide.

The Cook of the Crypt

It started with a man named Hubert Lloyd Hardy. Lloyd wanted to open a bakery and did with little to no trouble. As is so often the case, tragedy struck soon after. Martha Hardy, Lloyd's wife, perished in a car accident two weeks after opening day. The one driving the other car was one of us, someone in the know. The accident shouldn't have happened in the first place, but Martha had a secret.
Martha was a medium, bathed in Candlelight. She could sense Spirits and the like. She was still around, or at least that's what Lloyd told himself. He couldn't have known for sure. Come Halloween night, Martha visited him, and taught him her ways, along with their children.
This is when the bakery started getting it's darker aesthetic. It was Halloween all year for the Hardy's. They took it upon themselves to handle local hauntings and even traveled out of state if the money was good. The rest is history, as they say.

Ghastronomy

The secret to their talent comes from their cooking. They can prepare a dish catered to the ghost they hunt, be it a common phantom or the most violent of revenants. The dish is damn near mesmerizing, capturing the ghost's attention till it just has to have a taste. By the time the meal is done, the ghost will be gone for good.
The Hardy's talked to them, engaging the Spirits in conversation. They've solved murders and even absconded with more than a few inheritances meant for ungrateful beneficiaries.
As time passed, their business grew, as did their fame. Members of the family started adopting personas meant to add to the mystique of the restaurant, though it's really to protect themselves from spoiled heirs and irritated Spirits.

Now

The restaurant is still in its prime, with a diverse five-page menu and a staff of six outside of the family. The latest Hardy to take over is one Rian Hardy, and her fiance, Silas Pryor. They have two children together.
Their firstborn son of 11 is named Skylar Hardy. Their youngest son of 4 is named Brandon hardy. The two boys tend to keep out of sight in the small home built above the restaurant but are invaluable during their late-night feasts with the dead.
Also on the payroll is one Mr. Bones. We do not talk about Mr. Bones. All that needs to be said of Mr. Bones is that he is a fine, upstanding gentleman of supreme moral fiber and anyone who disagrees can go fly a kite.

The man smiled and cast us a knowing look. "I'd wager you have some kindling for the candle if you catch my drift." He nods and continues. "You're in the know, yeah? I can see it."
I nod in response. "Yes. Is there a safe house nearby?"
The man crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "Don't know bout any safehouse, but If you fancy a meal, you can't do better than the Hardy's." The man flashes another grin, his crooked teeth on full display. "The food's to die for."

by Ray Shrewsberry

The Restaurant

The restaurant is spacious, with black and red tile across its 2145 square foot interior. The walls are paneled with solid mahogany. The front counter features a glass display of the day's culinary masterpieces, available for purchase at quite the bargain. The family isn't exactly hurting for money, after all. Expensive and sometimes morbid Halloween decorations litter the interior, giving the restaurant its spooky flair.
As with the interior, the exterior is well maintained, the lot looking as if it had been freshly paved and has since the day it opened. A neon sign out front depicts a mighty handsome skeletal face and hand, the hand gripping a cone with two dips of his favorite ice cream, rocky road. The image lingers just above the words "Just Desserts" flashing in dark red light on the lot below.
The menu has evolved, moving well beyond baked goods and Ice cream, though I believe the ads in the papers of the day read 'I Scream." In the early 2000s, the menu began adding other forms of cuisine, recently adding glorious, deep-fried, southern cooking. Still, there's plenty on the menu to accommodate any taste and walk of life… or unlife.

---

Fun Fact: The Undertakers

You won't hear much about the undertakers. To be fair, they aren't even an organization. The Web has many secrets, but sometimes, those secrets have secrets of their own.
You can't do what we do without leaving behind a few bodies. Now monsters you can just burn, but our friends… our families? No. They need a proper send-off. Our friends over at The Chiron Group have a solution.
Undertaker is a term to describe those dedicated to handling the dead by those in the know. They handle last rites, burials, and funerals. They tackle ghosts and spooks aplenty, eager to make sure everyone gets some proper rest. They have a reputation for being a little creepy, often content with digging graves, performing autopsies, and preparing bodies compared to socializing with others in The Web.

Petty Necromancy

The undertakers are exorcists and hobbyist necromancers. They know every sacred rite by heart. It's nothing flashy, but when raising the dead or sending a ghost to the great beyond, you don't need it to be.
The undertakers operate all over the world but do so alone. They don't communicate with one another, nor do they offer any trade secrets to those of us out here just trying to survive. Then again, it makes sense. Their job is so specific, that no one else can do it.
That brings us back to our friends, the Hardy's. They're undertakers, but their methods may seem a little unorthodox. They cast no circles, nor do they mutter incantations meant to soothe the dead. Every undertaker has a special way of doing their job. The Hardy's chose to cook.

---

Silas clutches a wound, the blood slowly dripping from between his fingers and down the front of his apron. He tries to stay awake, slaving over the campfire and stirring the contents of the skillet nestled in the embers. The fire roars. The smell of garlic rises into the air, followed by the familiar stench of death and rot. Rian was right, he thinks, I really should have brought backup.
The crypt is calm; lonely. He looks down the stone hall, his gaze catching the slightest sign of motion. Something stirs in the shadows. It's back.
He kneels and picks up a brown bottle. "Throw another poker at me and this conversation will be very different."
A figure steps into the moonlight, a cloaked, menacing silhouette filled with hate and rage. It doesn't speak, stepping forward to finish what it started.
"No, no. I got one last ingredient." Silas holds up the bottle as if it were on display. "Bock." He opens the bottle and pours it on the steak in the skillet. "You have some excellent taste, my friend."
The shadow nears, only a few feet from Silas before it stops. Silas smiles and nods. "Yeah, get a whiff of that."
The shadow leans forward and for the first time, Silas manages to see its face. An old man stands before him, with dark eyes and a long gray beard. Silas notices the robes and laughs. "You were one of the monks, weren't you?"
The man nods and watches as Silas fills two plates. Once done, Silas hands one to the monk.
"I'm Silas."
"Caspar Emser." The monk replies. He sits down and starts cutting his steak.
Silas watches. He's eager but patient. What comes next is his favorite part. It's why he started cooking in the first place. When cooking for the dead, though, it hits so much harder.
The monk takes that first bite, and it's like the taste alone reignites a spark of life. His face lights up. The monk smirks and nods then he puts on the widest grin. It's just a good steak, but to this monk, it's the best thing ever tasted. It reminds him of home, of life. It eases his worries and his pain.
They'll talk for a while about nothing in particular. It's always a trip how language never seems to matter when you're dead. Maybe the old man has some lessons to teach. It always ends the same: Satisfaction. At the end of the meal, a spirit is laid to rest. All that's left is an empty space at the table.