Okay, so no one believes me when I tell this story, but I swear on my last slice of pizza it happened. It was a regular Thursday. I came home from school, backpack heavier than my little brother after he’s eaten five pancakes, and all I wanted was a snack.
I tossed my backpack like it was on fire and headed straight to the kitchen. That’s when things got weird.
I opened the fridge, expecting normal fridge stuff: milk, ketchup, and maybe a suspicious old banana. But no. The inside looked … different. Like, way deeper. Endless rows of food shelves stretched into the darkness. I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Blinked again. Still there.
At that point, a voice … an actual voice … said, “Enter if you dare.”
Now, a normal person might’ve closed the fridge and called a priest. But not me. I grabbed a flashlight, put on my bike helmet (safety first), and crawled inside. Don’t ask why. I was hungry and curious and possibly not thinking straight.
The deeper I went, the colder it got. I passed an icy cave of frozen chicken nuggets, and a field of yogurt cups, and what I’m pretty sure was a mountain made of expired cheese sticks. I saw a pack of grapes form a tiny marching band. One of them winked at me. I didn’t know if I was dreaming, hallucinating, or just deeply snack-deprived.
Then I heard it. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrowl. But it wasn’t my stomach. It was the fridge.
I turned around. The entrance was gone, the shelves were closing in like the fridge was digesting me. “YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE ENTERED!” the voice boomed. “Now you must pay the price.”
“Uh, can I pay with a granola bar?” I said, trying not to scream.
The fridge didn’t laugh.
A popsicle exploded near my face like a frosty grenade. A swarm of angry blueberries buzzed around me. I ducked behind a loaf of stale bread. That’s when I remembered my mom had said, “Don’t mess with the fridge. It’s been making weird noises all day.”
Oh. Cool. NOW she tells me.
Thinking fast, I grabbed a bottle of hot sauce from my pocket (Yes I carry emergency hot sauce. School food is so bland. Don’t judge me.) I sprayed it at the wall of yogurt trying to trap me. It screamed and melted like a snowman in a microwave. I ran for my life, dodging a flying meatball and what may have been a haunted stick of butter.
Finally, I burst out of the fridge and slammed the door shut.
It hasn’t done anything weird since. But I don’t trust it. I keep a baseball bat by the counter now. And when I want a snack? I ask politely.
Just in case.
Also, I’ve started using the pantry more. It’s less risky, even if it smells a little like old cereal and mystery crackers.
Oh, and I told my friends at school. They laughed at me, of course. Except for Max. He came over the next day, opened the fridge without warning, and vanished. We haven’t seen him since.
So yeah. The fridge is still hungry.
