The basement smelled like dead ambition.
Dylan had found the fuse box; Mara had found a stack of old Popular Mechanics magazines, and Pete had found doom.
“I can see it now. Police report, page one, big black letters. Death in suburbia.” Pete muttered, peering down at the enormous chest freezer squatting in the corner. Its sides were white once, now mottled with rust blooms. “Mysterious dead scientist, creepy old house, still-running freezer. It’s practically begging to be the prologue to a cautionary tale.”
Mara crouched beside it, brushing frost away with the edge of her glove. “Or it’s just a freezer,” she said with a chuckle in her voice. “Relax. We’re cleaning out a house, not starring in The Thing.”
Pete pointed at her. “That’s exactly what the guy who dies first always says.”
“Good thing we’re not in a movie, then.” She grinned at Dylan, who was leaning on a broom’s handle, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Please don’t encourage him,” Dylan said. “He’s been quoting horror movies since we walked in. He’s working himself into a lather.”
“I’m not lathered,” Pete said. “I’m aware.”
“Ah huh.”
“Can nobody else hear the ominous music?”
The freezer hummed faintly. A thin layer of frost crawled up from the lid like it was slowly exhaling. Pete pointed excitedly, but no one paid him any mind.
There was a label on the side, written in neat, faded script: EXPERIMENTAL PROTOTYPE – DO NOT OPEN
Dylan squinted. “That’s definitely just some old guy labeling his venison.” The freezer made a small click.
“It’s a containment unit,” Pete whispered. “Did you not notice that the frost is drifting up, not down? That’s always the first sign. I have one life rule, never open anything that is labelled Do Not Open and clicks at me.” Dylan watched the frost, then dismissed it.
“Or, hear me out,” Mara said, exasperated. “It’s something awesome.” She ran a hand over the frost. “Come on, the guy was supposedly some kind of scientist, right? Maybe he was doing research. A Cold War project or something. What if it’s a piece of history?”
Pete stared at her. “What if it’s a frozen plague? Or a disembodied head? Or—hear me out—a living entity from beyond time that feeds on curiosity?”
“Come on Pete.” Mara warned. “Can you wait with the doom saying at least until we find a corpse? Anyway, the frost isn’t even purple. Everyone knows purple is trouble.”
Dylan sighed. “What if it’s just dinner?”
“Exactly!” said Mara, pointing between the two men. “Let’s find out.” They found a hair dryer upstairs, plus a butter knife from the kitchen drawer. Dylan watched in grim silence as Mara chipped frost away from the lid.
“Just saying,” Pete said with a hint of anxiety, “that this is how people get tetanus and hauntings in the same afternoon.”
The ice cracked and popped like knuckles. Steam from the hair dryer fogged her glasses.
“Almost there,” she said.
Pete was standing well back, narrating under his breath: “And here we see the doomed explorers desecrating what is clearly a containment unit—”
“Shut up, Pete.”
With a loud pop, the lid loosened. A blast of frigid air billowed out, smelling faintly of iron and freezer burn.
Mara peered inside. Her breath caught.
“Oh my god.”
Dylan leaned over her shoulder. “Oh my god,” he echoed flatly.
Pete winced. “Is it moving? Should we be running now?”
“No,” Dylan said. “It’s dinner.” Inside, wrapped perfectly in brittle 1950s foil, lay a frozen Swanson-brand TV dinner—meatloaf, peas, mashed potatoes, and a tiny square brownie. The label was pristine, like it had been sealed in time.
The corner read: Property of Langley Labs, 1956. Prototype #1.
Mara’s eyes sparkled. “It’s a frozen prototype! A relic! We must document this.”
Pete shook his head. “You don’t document cursed artifacts. You bury them.”
Dylan prodded the edge of the tray with a screwdriver. “It’s not cursed. It’s food. Sort of. I think.”
“It’s glowing. That’s always the first sign. The government is trying to hide glowing meat loaf. This is bad.” Pete said.
“It’s just reflecting the light.”
“There is no light.”
“Then it’s a bioluminescent meatloaf. Congratulations, you discovered lunch plankton.”
Mara was already taking photos on her phone. “This is amazing. We could call the Historical Society. Or Time Magazine. Or, or both.”
Pete’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Mara. Every horror movie starts with ‘This could make us famous.’”
“Yeah, every good one,” she shot back.
They didn’t hear the van pull up outside.
It wasn’t until the back door creaked open and a pair of men in gray suits stepped in—each holding identical metal briefcases—that the room went still.
The first man flashed a badge too quickly to read. “Step away from the appliance, please. Slowly. No sudden culinary decisions.”
The second man reached into his coat, pulled out a roll of yellow tape, and began cordoning off the freezer like it was a crime scene.
Dylan blinked. “I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Department of Energy, Special Research Division,” said the first one. His tone was flat, memorized. “You are in possession of classified material not approved for civilian digestion.”
“Do you have identification?” Mara asked. The agents looked at each other; the second agent ran his hands over his pockets, shrugged.
Pete made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I knew it. I would like everyone to note that I called this. For the record. For the court.”
Mara frowned. “It’s a TV dinner.”
“A prototype,” the agent corrected. “Containing materials of strategic significance.”
Dylan crossed his arms. “You’re telling me the government just confiscated a fifty-year-old Salisbury steak?”
“Negative,” said the agent. “We’re confiscating the entire freezer.”
They wheeled it out in silence. The old power cord trailed behind them like an umbilical cord to the unknown.
When the van doors slammed, the house fell quiet.
Pete finally exhaled. “Well,” he said, “at least we didn’t open something horrifying.”
Mara stared at the empty patch of floor where the freezer had been. “Depends on how you define horrifying. I think we just stumbled into a cover-up.”
Dylan rubbed his face. “Great. That means paperwork.”
Three days later, a courier dropped off a small, unmarked box at Dylan’s apartment. Inside, wrapped in foil, was a single frozen brownie square. A note tucked underneath read:
Sample returned per agreement. Dispose properly.
Dylan stared at it for a long moment; it was too perfectly square.
From the living room, Pete called, “You didn’t eat anything suspicious, did you?”
Dylan considered lying. Then, the microwave dinged.
He sighed. “Define suspicious.” ∎
Dr. A. A. Chibi, FRHS, is a historian and novelist specializing in Tudor and Reformation Europe. He holds a Ph.D. in History from the University of Sheffield and has published both academic works and historical fiction. His scholarly books include Henry VIII’s Bishops and Fear God, Honor the King, while his novels—under the pen name A. Allan Chibi—include The Unprofitable Servant and The Saga of the Stolen One. He lives in Windsor, Ontario.
The Dilettante 
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