Mrs Biscuit’s house was once the loveliest in the neighbourhood. I don’t remember that myself, because I’m far too young, but that was always what my Dad said.
At Christmas, he’d talk about how the house would glow with warmth, the windows lined with garlands of holly and twinkling fairy lights. Dad used to say you could smell gingerbread and cinnamon wafting from Mrs Biscuit’s kitchen as you walked past.
Mum would clam up whenever someone asked about Mrs Biscuit, or her house, especially during the holidays. She used to take me the long way when we’d walk home from school in December, just so that she could avoid the sight of the old, sagging house that stood like a ghost at the end of the street, but Dad didn’t mind talking about it. Sometimes, we’d bundle up in scarves and hats and go walking down there, the cold air biting at our cheeks.
He’d pull funny faces as he edged closer to her overgrown front garden, pretending he could hear carols coming from the house or sniff out the faint smell of her famous biscuits.
We’d laugh all the way home, making up increasingly bizarre Christmas tales about the unlucky few who found their way into her house.
I had never seen it in its former glory, just the derelict, drab tower at the end of the street, wrapped tightly in weeds as its shadow stretched across the pavement.
The house would creak, whistling in the winter wind as people walked past, and they’d jump, dashing away as quickly as they could. I always did the same, unless I was with my Dad.
I was never quite as brave as him.
It wasn’t until Dad died last Christmas Eve that I found out why they called her Mrs Biscuit.
This Christmas, the house is all I can think about.
I can’t stop. I dream of it. I spend hours stood in front of it, staring at the cracked windows adorned with faint, tattered remnants of long-forgotten Christmas decorations—bits of faded red ribbon clinging to the frames like cobwebs. I scream and sob at my mother to tell me what she knows, but she won’t talk, so I had to find another source.
I need to know everything about Mrs Biscuit, because she killed my Dad.
Mum refuses to hear about it, and everyone else acts like I’m bonkers, but I know what I saw, and I know what she did.
They’re all cowards, afraid of that… thing, I suspect, but as afraid as I am, I also need justice. So here I am posting everything that I know on every place that I think could help, and asking you to give me some answers.
So, let’s start with what I know for sure.
Whatever they tell you, Mrs Biscuit is NOT dead. They’ll try and tell you that she is, and that her death was just the usual old-age stuff, natural causes, you know, but that’s nonsense.
She’s… well, not exactly alive, but she certainly isn’t a pile of bones in the ground, and anybody close to that house of hers is in danger.
They call her Mrs Biscuit because of the old rumour. Not exactly the town’s finest hour, I suppose.
She used to bake biscuits, just for the kids next door at first, but before long, the whole place was buzzing about the fantastic biscuits that a local woman made, and soon, she was being encouraged to monetise the whole operation. People were throwing money at the poor woman, and begging her for biscuits.
She had an actual name back then. Mrs Sarah Cooper. Made a widow by the Falklands, but still holding her husband’s memory close, with his medals and ashes proudly displayed in the living room. She never remarried, or even dated, completely devoted to her true love.
She had stayed inside for months after his funeral, and baking for the kids next door was the first thing to bring her out of her shell in a long while.
It was at Christmas when her biscuits became legendary. She made batches of them for the church’s holiday bazaar—perfect little stars, bells, and trees, dusted with sugar that glittered like snow. They sold out in minutes, and people clamoured for more.
It all got a bit too much for her, I think. Everyone suddenly wanted a piece of her, and she just wanted to stay home, bake a little, and live a quiet life.
It wasn’t just biscuits that people wanted, but also her recipe. I’ve never tried them myself, but apparently, her biscuits were the most beautiful things that anyone had ever tasted, and her competitors were jealous.
From what I can tell, the local supermarket’s press team started the rumour. A bunch of executives couldn’t stand a little competition, and decided to put an end to it.
Bastards.
They said that there was something awful in the biscuits—something unholy—and they hinted that the secret ingredient might have been far darker than sugar and spice.
It all came to a head one Christmas Eve, the year everything went wrong. People were whipped up into a frenzy by the rumour, and Mrs Biscuit was watching her life fall apart from her living room window.
A crowd gathered outside of her house, angry families, journalists, all sorts of people, shouting, screaming and storming her front door.
Some say that she was dragged from the house and murdered. Some say that she stayed inside forever, overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment. It’s hard to find a clear answer to what happened that night, because… well, everyone who was there is dead too.
As the new year sprang into life, sickness spread through the town. It began like a flu, but soon, each person who fell into its grasp could barely move from their beds, shaking and sobbing for hours as the nights wore on.
They’d scream and shudder as they slept, never lasting more than a few nights, before the disease devoured them.
The parents, the children, the journalists, they all died within weeks of each other.
Dad used to tell me about how they merged all the children into one class, because so many got sick and died.
Rumours began to spread again, and people became convinced that somehow, the sickness all linked back to Mrs Biscuit, and that’s when people began avoiding her house like the plague.
Mrs Biscuit was never seen outside of the house again, and one by one, the bulbs in each of the Christmas lights that adorned the windows faded to dullness and it was nothing more than a reminder of something nobody really wanted to discuss.
Last Christmas Eve, Dad picked me up from work, and we headed home to begin the festivities. As usual, he insisted on walking past the house, the one everyone whispered about but no one dared to approach after dark. His grin stretched wider as we drew closer, the thrill of his big performance bubbling up inside him. He loved to tease, loved to scare, and this was his favourite audience—me. “Don’t get too close,” I said, tugging on his sleeve, playing my part, just as I’d done since I was a child. “They say Mrs Biscuit’s ghost still watches from the window.”
He laughed, a loud bark that echoed down the empty street. “Mrs Biscuit? She better have baked me something, because I’m starving!” he joked, stepping closer to the overgrown garden. The weeds, thick as ropes, seemed to move in the windless night. I felt a cold chill creep down my spine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a faint flicker of movement in the upper window. A pale, face staring down at us.
“Dad, seriously, let’s just go home,” I urged, my voice tighter than I intended.
He waved me off, stepping closer to the gate with a smirk. “Oh, come on. It’s just a story love, you know that.”
I nodded, trying to settle my nerves as I watched him creep towards the house.
It happened in an instant. I could barely believe my eyes.
The weeds around his feet coiled like living things, snaking up his legs and pulling tight. “What the—?” he shouted, panic breaking through his bravado as he struggled to free himself. Christmas lights—bright and tangled—sprang from the windows, wrapping around his torso like glowing chains. He fought harder, but it was no use. The weeds and lights dragged him forward, through the rusted gate and toward the crumbling front porch of Mrs Biscuit’s house.
“Dad!” I screamed, rushing to help him, but it was like an invisible wall held me back. My legs refused to move, my voice caught in my throat. All I could do was watch in terror as he disappeared into the shadows, the heavy door creaking open as if to welcome him inside.
And there, in the window, she stood. Mrs Biscuit—or what was left of her—loomed in the gloom, her withered frame barely more than a shadow against the cracked glass. Her face was a ghastly mask of decay, her skin stretched so thin over her skull that it seemed ready to tear with the slightest movement. Deep, hollow sockets where her eyes should have been glowed faintly with a flickering, ghostly light, cold and unfeeling, as if they saw straight through flesh to the trembling soul beneath.
Her mouth hung open, frozen mid-scream, or perhaps mid-laugh. Strands of cobweb-like hair clung to her scalp, shifting slightly in an invisible breeze. Her tattered, stained dress billowed unnaturally around her, as though something beneath the fabric was alive, twisting and writhing.
She moved with a horrifying stillness, her skeletal hand slowly rising, each joint creaking with a sound that cut through the night like splintering wood. Her bony finger extended, pointing straight at me, accusatory and unrelenting. Her cracked lips twisted into what might have been a smile—or a sneer—before the light in her empty sockets flared brighter for a moment.
And then, as if the house itself obeyed her will, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang, the echo rattling the icy air and leaving me alone in the crushing silence.
I was suffocated by the stillness for a spell, staring at the door with wide eyes, hoping and praying that Dad would emerge with his usual smile.
I don’t remember leaving, but at some point, I found myself wandering the street, blinded by confused, frightened tears, wondering what I’d tell my Mum.
It’s been almost a year now, and she still won’t talk about it. It’s just like that first day. She clams up, her eyes brimming with tears as her nails dig into her palm until the skin turns red and blotchy.
It’s always the same, so she’s no good to me.
I’m not even sure what my aim here is. I tell everyone I know, but what can they do?
There is no hope of revenge on a spirit, and no way to bring back what has been lost, but every day as I pass that house, she catches my gaze from the window, and all over again, I am imprisoned.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 