Last November 1st, in the trash laden aftermath of my Halloween party, I found a bloodstained knife in the butter. I didn’t think it odd. The party we held the night before had fake-blood chocolate pudding, Jello made to look like brains, and spaghetti sauce without garlic, because we didn’t want to offend any fake vampires.

Pulling out the knife, I saw that the blood had run all through the butter. I threw it out. No reason to keep a ruined bit of butter. I’ll buy more later at the store for breakfast is what I said.

The next morning, November 2nd, I woke up to make toast. I opened the butter, dipped a knife in, and that’s when the butter began to leak red. Bleeding butter? I threw it out and ate cereal. I swore off toast.

My wife woke and watched me eating cereal at the table. “Where’s the butter?” she said.

“I forgot it yesterday. I’ll get some for you at the store today.”

“Remember, the Romanian brand.” She had recently become specific about her butter.

After another night, I woke and grabbed myself Captain Cruncher. My wife came to the kitchen, put in the bread, and took the butter from the fridge.

“You’re having toast.” I said with a blank look.

“Yeah?” she questioned.

I turned back to my sugar cereal and avoided her gaze.

Her toast dinged up, and so she plated it, grabbed a butter knife, and put it in the butter.

I ran over and looked at the butter.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Didn’t it bleed?” I said.

“What?” She spread the butter on her toast, and walked to the table.

I put toast in the toaster, grabbed a knife, and started skimming butter. It started to bleed. “Why! Why!” I took the butter to her. “Why is there blood in the butter?”

She looked down. “You’re delusional. There’s no blood down there.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Blood covered the butter knife, and blood dripped from the container.

I walked away and back to the bedroom. I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I walked back into the kitchen to see her drinking the blood from the container.

“Why are you drinking the blood butter?” I said.

She just looked at me, and smiled with a shark-sharp set of fangs. “I guess the secret’s out. By the way, I don’t eat garlic anymore either.”