Ian had always been a bit of a skeptic. Ghosts, haunted houses, things that go bump in the night? No, he was a logical guy. But there were some things in life that even the most reasonable of minds could not explain, like the case of the haunted toaster.
It all began when Ian’s old toaster broke. It had been his trusty appliance through thick and thin, but now it was on strike. It wasn’t just a minor malfunction, either. It completely refused to pop the toast at the correct time. It would either burn the bread into charcoal or leave it raw; it must have had a vendetta.
So, naturally, after weeks of rising toast-based anxiety, Ian bought a new toaster. A sleek, modern number with all the perks. It even had a “crispness level” dial and a display that looked like it belonged in a futuristic spaceship. He was thoroughly pleased. At last, a toaster that would not ruin his morning.
The first morning with the new toaster, Ian placed a slice of bread in, adjusted the dial to level five to achieve the right amount of golden brown, and pressed the button.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
One minute passed. Then another. No popping sound occurred. No toasted deliciousness. Just silence.
Ian raised an eyebrow. Maybe it’s just a delayed response.
He waited some more.
Five minutes later, still nothing. The toaster sat there, smug.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” Ian muttered, walking over to the kitchen counter. He reached for the plug, but as soon as his fingers made contact with the cord, the toaster emitted a soft click, followed by a pop.
A single, perfectly toasted slice of bread soared out of the slot, right at his face.
Ian yelped, barely dodging the flying bread. He stood there, stunned by the toaster.
“That’s… new,” he said.
But it was far from over. The next morning, he tried again. Same situation—toast sat there, untouched. Ian waited, fidgeted, gave it a few cautious shakes for good measure. And then it happened, the pop. The bread flung out once again, but this time, right into his cup of mango juice.
He stared at the soggy toast, blinking rapidly.
“Okay, I think I got it,” he said, pacing the kitchen. “I bought a demon toaster.”
It was enough. He was not going to let some appliance make him a joke.
The next morning, Ian came prepared. Armed with a wooden spoon, he stood ready for battle. He put in the bread, set the dial, and this time, he stared at the toaster like his life depended on it.
Pop! The toaster shot out, this time flying straight toward his face with alarming precision.
Ian ducked. But the toaster didn’t stop there. It spat a second slice at him, like a cannonball.
“Enough is enough!”
He grabbed the toaster by its handle, marched over to the sink, and submerged it in water.
There. Problem solved.
Or so he thought.
