If you’ve spent any good amount of time around the Munfield Covert, you’d be amiss not to have heard the tales of the Spoon Fucker, and the hideous jingle-jangle of its silvery utensils that heralded his coming. When vagabonds and passers-by would come through the nearby town of Dawsbury in search of work or shelter, they would often hear it firsthand—the strange melody, that clickity-clang of metal on metal followed by guttural, venereal moans, like an animal in heat, as a figure emerged from the underbrush and loped down Jameson Street toward them, all long hair and tattered rags and feral smile, brandishing a gleaming set of kitchen implements with one hand while beating time with the other, singing out “Who’s come for supper? Who’s come for supper?”
But no matter how much these wayfarers might want to run away screaming from this spectral vision, their feet were glued to the ground, rooted there by some instinct older than reason, because when he got closer, the man stopped singing and said, “You are cordially invited.” And after a moment, if he was especially lustful, he’d add, “So bring your appetites.” Then, before anyone could get up the courage to turn tail and flee, he’d grab hold of them by their ears, drag them off into the woods, and do whatever unspeakable thing came to mind.
Afterwards, people would look back and tell themselves that what had happened to them was nothing more than a ghastly dream, but few dared speak openly about it. Those who did soon found themselves being driven from town in disgrace. In fact, within two years of the first reports of the Spoon Fucker’s atrocities, the last known trace of him could only be found at the edge of town, from a dilapidated old shed at the end of an isolated dirt road. It was said that anyone foolish enough to try to investigate the place never returned. The old hut itself had been reduced to rubble. Even so, someone reported seeing lights flickering inside, as though candles were burning somewhere deep in the heart of the ruin. But nobody ever went back to see for sure.
The next summer, Dawsbury grew quiet again, except for the usual bickering among the leading citizens over whether the proper authorities should send another armed expedition to destroy the remaining evidence of the Spoon Fucker’s activities. One day, just before the new school semester began, the teachers received a cryptic letter from the superintendent, saying that due to circumstances beyond his control, he would not be able to meet with them until September. When pressed, he admitted that something rather peculiar had occurred in town during the past year, and promised to elaborate further when he saw them in the Fall. A fortnight later, his corpse was discovered in Munfield Covert. He had been decapitated, then dragged from his home and buried upside-down in the middle of a large clearing in the forest, surrounded by hundreds of shiny silver spoons, arranged in perfect lines around him like soldiers standing at attention. They had been polished to a mirror finish by the many rains that had fallen since his passing, which accounted for their unusual shine. No one knew why.
By that time, however, most people had come to believe in the second coming of Spoon Fucker. Though none had actually seen him, everyone knew who he was, even those who didn’t care to admit it. People claimed to have spotted him lurking in dark alleys, crouched behind bushes, waiting for unwary souls to stray too close. Others swore they’d caught glimpses of him outside, staring at them through their bedroom windows, grinning evilly with his tongue hanging out, showing all his teeth. They couldn’t understand what possessed him to return now, after such a long absence. What possible use could he have for so many shiny silver spoons? There were rumors of course. Some claimed he had fallen victim to an unfortunate accident involving a spoon carousel and a meat grinder. Others insisted that he had gone mad after witnessing some great tragedy, while still others maintained that the Devil himself had abducted him, forcing him to perform unnatural acts. Most people thought the answer lay somewhere in the middle, believing that, perhaps, some supernatural force had drawn him to Dawsbury once again. You could fill up a book with the amount of speculation and hearsay that arose as a result. I could happily tell you more over a delicious bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup over at my lovely abode, just at the edge of town. I’ll be sure to bring out my finest of cutlery…