The office was at its most tolerable in the early morning when the hum of fluorescent lights filled the silence and nobody was around to ask him for things. Harland Bixby valued this time. No meetings. No passive-aggressive Slack messages. No one microwaving fish. Just him, his inbox at zero, and the singular joy of getting to the bagels first.
Bagel Day was sacred.
Once every other Wednesday, a catering service—no one was sure which one—delivered a basket of bagels to the break room. It was the only reason Harland willingly arrived before sunrise. If he got there first, he could claim the perfect bagel.
The everything bagel. The one that had the ideal crispness, a balanced distribution of seeds, and a chewy, golden center.
This was a mission.
He moved quickly, navigating the dimly lit hallways like a man with purpose. The office was mostly dark except for the glow of screens left on overnight. The break room door loomed ahead, slightly ajar. A single light flickered from inside.
Harland stepped in.
The bagels were waiting, nestled in a neat wicker basket at the center of the table. The sight of them filled him with an unreasonable amount of relief.
He was the first one here.
Or so he thought.
Something shifted in the far corner of the room.
Harland’s breath caught in his throat.
A figure stood near the coffee machine, unnervingly still.
At first, he thought it was a coworker, maybe one of the quiet ones from accounting who snuck in early to avoid human interaction. But the longer he looked, the clearer it became that something was wrong.
The figure was tall, too tall, dressed in old-fashioned black. Gloved hands were folded neatly in front of them, unmoving. The head, tilted slightly, was covered by a face that was too white. Smooth. Painted.
A mask.
No.
The Killer Mime.
Harland’s stomach twisted into a knot. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to walk away, leave, abandon the bagels, nothing is worth this.
But he did not leave.
He had come for a bagel, and by God, he was taking one.
With slow, measured movements, he inched toward the basket, eyes locked on The Killer Mime. The figure did not react, did not move, did not even acknowledge his existence.
Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was a promotional thing. Some bizarre marketing stunt for a theater show no one asked for.
Harland reached out, fingers grazing the best everything bagel in the pile.
Then, The Killer Mime moved.
Not a slow, unsettling turn. Not a dramatic lunge.
A gesture.
One smooth, practiced motion.
A single, gloved hand reached into the empty air.
And pulled out an invisible bagel.
Harland watched, frozen, as The Killer Mime carefully, delicately, sliced the nothingness in half. The invisible knife moved with precision as if cutting something only The Killer Mime could see.
Next came the cream cheese.
The Killer Mime mimed spreading it over the empty surface, the nonexistent blade scraping across an unseen bagel half.
And then, The Killer Mime took a bite.
It should not have mattered. There was nothing there.
But Harland heard the chewing.
A slow, exaggerated crunch.
The Killer Mime chewed, swallowed, and looked directly at him.
The bagel in Harland’s hand suddenly felt much lighter.
He looked down.
A bite was missing.
The blood drained from his face. He hadn’t moved. No one had touched it. But the bagel was no longer whole.
A sound broke the silence.
A slow, deliberate chew.
Harland turned and bolted.
He ran past the break room door, down the hallway, past the copier that was always broken, past the front desk where Cheryl would later ask why he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Only when he reached his desk did he stop, gasping for breath.
He clutched the bagel, staring at it in horror.
Another bite was missing.
From the break room, far down the hall, the sound of chewing continued.
Harland never ate Bagel Day bagels again.