One Slice Short

It was Jason’s third week on the job at Hot & Fresh Pizza, and he was already running on fumes. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills. He was on his final delivery of the night—a house at the edge of town, nestled deep in a forest. The customer, listed as Ms. Eliza Morrell, had left an unusually specific note:

“Deliver promptly. Do not let the pizza cool. Ensure it is complete.”

Jason glanced at the clock on his dashboard: 11:03 PM. The pizzeria closed at midnight, and he was eager to drop the order off and head home. As he pulled up to the crumbling Victorian house, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the brisk night air. The house loomed over him, its windows dark and lifeless.

Grabbing the pizza bag, Jason trudged up to the door. He knocked twice, the sound echoing unnaturally. The door creaked open, revealing a woman who looked like she had stepped out of a black-and-white photograph. Her eyes were sharp, her face pale, and her long, bony fingers wrapped tightly around the doorframe.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice low and cold.

Jason forced a smile and handed her the pizza. “Sorry about that, ma’am. Traffic.”

She took the box, her eyes narrowing as she opened it. Jason shifted uncomfortably as her expression darkened.

“One slice is missing,” she hissed, her gaze snapping to him like a snake striking.

“What? No way,” Jason stammered, leaning in to look. Sure enough, there was an empty space in the box where a slice should have been.

He tried to explain. “I—uh—I don’t know what happened. Maybe it slid—”

Ms. Morrell raised a hand to silence him. “Carelessness has a cost,” she said, her voice laced with venom. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

Before Jason could respond, she slammed the door.

By the time Jason got back to his car, the encounter already felt like a bad dream. He chalked it up to a weird customer and drove home. But as he climbed out of the car and reached for his keys, he noticed something strange: his left pinky was gone.

There was no blood, no pain—just smooth, unbroken skin where his finger used to be. He stared at his hand in disbelief, turning it over as panic bubbled in his chest.

“What the hell?” he whispered.

The next morning, Jason woke to find his reflection missing in the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t just his image—his toothbrush floated in mid-air, his pajamas sagged on an unseen frame. He staggered back, clutching his face. His hands felt his features, but there was nothing to see.

By noon, his right foot vanished, leaving his pant leg limp and empty.

Jason called out of work and spent hours trying to retrace his steps. He drove back to Ms. Morrell’s house, but the road seemed to stretch endlessly into the forest. No matter how far he drove, the house never appeared.

Desperation clawed at him. He went to the pizzeria, tearing through receipts and orders. None of the records listed a “Ms. Eliza Morrell.” Even her address was missing.

By the third day, Jason had lost an arm, his left eye, and his voice. Each disappearance was preceded by an agonizing sense of emptiness, as if something vital was being pulled from him. The worst part wasn’t the physical loss—it was the growing understanding that he was being erased.

On the fifth day, Jason awoke to find a note pinned to his chest. The paper was brittle and yellowed, the words scrawled in ink that seemed to writhe:

“One slice short. One life lost. Make it whole.”

Jason didn’t know how to “make it whole,” but he knew he was running out of time.

The next night, he parked outside the pizzeria and waited until it closed. He broke in through the back door and headed straight for the kitchen. Maybe the pizza was cursed—maybe the ingredients held the answer.

He tore open the dough bins, the sauce containers, and the cheese bags. Nothing. Then, in the corner of the freezer, he found a small, locked box. Breaking it open, he discovered a single slice of pizza, preserved and glowing faintly.

Jason didn’t think. He grabbed the slice and bolted to his car, speeding back toward the forest. The road seemed endless, but at last, the house came into view.

He stumbled to the front door, banging on it with his remaining fist.

Ms. Morrell opened it, her unblinking eyes locking onto the slice in his hand. She smiled, a slow, predatory grin.

“You’re almost too late,” she said.

Jason held out the slice. “Take it,” he croaked.

She took the slice and placed it into the box, completing the circle. The moment she closed the lid, Jason collapsed, his missing body parts returning in a sickening rush of sensation. He gasped for air, clutching his chest.

Ms. Morrell’s grin widened. “You’ve made it whole. But some mistakes leave scars.”

Jason didn’t dare ask what she meant. He fled, never looking back.

The next morning, Jason quit his job. But he couldn’t shake the lingering unease. Every mirror he passed seemed to show a faint smudge where his reflection should have been.

And every time he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice:

“One slice short. One life lost.”