Chapter 625 - 49: Nightmare Monster

Chapter 625: Chapter 49: Nightmare Monster

When Mickey woke up, he felt strange.

He lay on his familiar bed, staring at the familiar ceiling.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 p.m., but the light outside was as dark as evening—gray and hazy, exuding an indescribable sense of oppression.

This was his home.

Of course he recognized the apartment he’d lived in for five years.

The painting on the wall was a birthday gift from a friend last year. The scratch on the floor was from moving the sofa. The curtains, half-drawn, were a style he’d chosen himself.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

His head felt groggy, as if it were stuffed with cotton, with the same dullness as waking up after a hangover.

He blinked, trying to sit up, but found his body was somewhat unresponsive, as if he were piloting it through some kind of barrier.

"Mickey!"

A voice called from the direction of the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

The voice was familiar, so familiar that he felt an instinct to reply.

Mickey looked toward the sound.

There was a figure in the kitchen.

’Is that... my mother?’

A middle-aged woman in an apron stood with her back to him, busy at the stove.

Her silhouette, the beige sweater she wore, her pinned-up hair—it was all exactly as he remembered.

’Huh? Wait a second.’

’Was there someone in the kitchen a moment ago?’

Mickey frowned, trying hard to remember.

When he’d woken up, he was sure he’d glanced at the space connecting the living room and kitchen. It had been empty. There was no one there.

But now...

"What are you spacing out for?" His mother turned around and smiled at him. "I’m roasting your favorite turkey. It’ll be ready in half an hour."

’Turkey?’

Mickey’s attention was immediately captured by the word.

His mother’s roast turkey—it was a taste he’d grown up with. The skin was crispy and fragrant, the meat tender and juicy, served with her special sauce.

Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

’Forget it.’

’Whether someone was there or not doesn’t matter.’

’What matters is the turkey.’

"Okay!" Mickey replied with a smile, his voice full of anticipation. "I’ll be waiting!"

Hearing this, his mother’s smile deepened.

She turned around, opened the oven, and then... she took out a turkey.

A whole, golden-brown, glistening, and aromatic roast turkey.

Mickey froze.

"Wait—" he blurted out instinctively. "Didn’t you say it would be another half hour?"

His mother placed the turkey on the dining table, dusted off her hands, and said matter-of-factly, "It’s ready."

"But you just said..."

Mickey’s words were cut short by the overwhelming aroma.

The scent was too tempting—the unique, savory smell of turkey fat mixed with the herbal notes of rosemary and thyme, and a hint of honeyed sweetness.

The fragrance shot up his nostrils straight to his brain, scattering all his doubts to the wind.

’Forget it.’

’Whether it was half an hour or right now, it didn’t matter.’

’What mattered was that the turkey was ready.’

Mickey climbed out of bed, walked over to the dining table, and sat down.

His mother sat down as well, right across from him, wearing that familiar, loving smile.

Mickey picked up his knife and fork and cut off a piece of turkey.

The golden-brown skin parted to reveal the snow-white meat inside, its juices seeping out slightly and glistening under the light.

He put the meat in his mouth—

’Wait.’

Just as the piece of meat was about to enter his mouth, Mickey suddenly thought of something.

He looked up at his mother across the table.

"Mom, aren’t you supposed to be at work?"

His mother paused. "What?"

Mickey put down his knife and fork, his brow furrowed slightly. "Aren’t you supposed to be at the office today? How do you have time to come here?"

He remembered very clearly.

His mother worked a nine-to-five job in another city, with occasional weekends off.

And today was neither a weekend nor a holiday.

"I’m on vacation," his mother said.

"Vacation?" Mickey’s frown deepened. "That can’t be right. It’s not vacation time."

His job was unique—he was a salesperson, which made him especially sensitive to dates.

Besides, if he didn’t know the date, he wouldn’t be able to corner the customer service reps—no, that’s not right, greet customers and make a sale.

Today wasn’t a public holiday, nor was it a rescheduled workday. There was no way his mother’s company would give her time off now.

But his mother looked at him with a hint of exasperation, the same expression she’d have when he was being stubborn as a child.

"Mickey, you’ve been working too hard. You’ve mixed up the dates," his mother sighed. "It’s vacation time now."

"Is it?"

Hearing his mother say that, Mickey suddenly felt uncertain.

He tried to recall the date, to remember his schedule for the past few days, but the cotton in his head was still there, leaving him in a groggy haze. He couldn’t think clearly at all.

’What Mom said... it seems to make sense, doesn’t it?’

’That’s right, it must be vacation time.’

’How else would she be here?’

Mickey nodded and picked up his knife and fork again.

He used his fork to lift the piece of turkey to his mouth.

The first bite—

It was too sweet.

That was Mickey’s first reaction.

It wasn’t the savory flavor a turkey should have. Instead, it was sweet—a sickeningly cloying sweetness, like he’d eaten three slices of cream cake in one go.

He chewed.

’This is wrong.’

’It’s not just the sweetness, the texture is wrong too.’

Turkey meat should be firm and fibrous, but this piece of "meat" was melting in his mouth—soft, fluffy, and delicate. It was basically...

’Cake?’

’The texture is like cake?’

Mickey’s movements froze.

He immediately raised his fork, intending to take the unfinished morsel out of his mouth.

But as he brought the fork to his lips, he stopped short.

On the fork was a small, brownish-yellow, fluffy piece of...

Cake.

’Cake?’

Mickey snapped his head down to look at the dining table.

On the table sat a whole, golden-brown, glistening turkey.