Magical objects were, at one point in history, all the rage. It didn’t matter very much how they came to be magical, whether it was through ensorelement or enslavery. Not all wizards – this being a very male dominated industry at the time – were adept enough to charm a weapon for proper use. Many needed to trap spirits, or demons, or the occasional drunk and foolish god.
Warriors were added to weapons, so that swords would strike true or guns would never miss. Models were trapped in mirrors to provide a true level of vanity for its owner.
In the case of Ed, he was trapped inside a spoon.
This was, of course, the most dreadful thing Ed could imagine. He was not, as far as he remembered, supposed to be a spoon. He was above that sort of thing, he assumed. He couldn’t quite recall a huge amount about his life, and he assumed this had something to do with the trauma of being, for lack of a better word, spooned.
The worst part about being a spoon, aside from feeling useless for so much of the time, was being used. Cereal was unpleasant when it simply swamped around him. Mouths were dark, damp caverns. He thought if he could remember kissing someone, the memory would be spoiled for him forever.
In his spoonful way, he thought three simple words that sealed his fate: I need freedom. He thought this as his current owner, who lived alone and was not prone to talking to himself, was devouring his breakfast.
Ed sprang into accidental action.
If you have never heard the sound of someone choking on your head, it is somewhat disturbing. Akin to the sound of meat grinding through a blimp, it filled Ed’s senses. His owner had somehow swallowed him, Ed was slicing his throat. He was showered in blood in a way he couldn’t remember ever experiencing in life. He didn’t know if he was the sort of man who showered in the blood of his enemies when he was alive – or indeed if he was a man – but he found that he rather liked it. There was a warmth in the blood, and the salt stripped the milk from his body. The wheezing attempts for breath were met with gushes of further blood, and Ed began to sense that his owner was dying.
He had never felt so spoonfully alive.
When his owner collapsed onto the table, his spirit ready to depart, Ed bit. This was new to him. He had never bitten anything before, but he felt a sort of strange compulsion to snap at the departing soul. He couldn’t quite chew or swallow, but he managed to wholly consume the man who’d used him as a mere tool for years.
Then the cold came, and Ed knew he needed to escape, or forever remain in lockup.
With strength he never knew he possessed, he forced the corpse around him to move, and to cough him up. He splashed into the cereal bowl, and remained in souring milk for two days before the body was discovered.
The owner had been single, and alone, Ed discovered. His wealth and possessions were sold at auction a few months later, months in which Ed longed for the taste of another soul. He fought his desires. He could consume, or he could be free, but he couldn’t do both. Not really. If he didn’t find a way to convince someone to call an exorcist, he would remain trapped in the spoon for eternity.
His new owner was a woman named Wendy, whose son lived with her. His name was Alan. They fought constantly.
It took Ed four months to discover that Alan was simply waiting for Wendy to die, and that Wendy spent half her time in church. Oblivious, too. If he were a more violent man, Alan might have killed her.
Ed decided to take things into his own hand. He was beginning, now, to understand what he was capable of. While Alan used him for soup – and he the wrong shape of spoon – Ed turned the food sour. Slowly, Wendy’s son was poisoned.
The doctors saved him, of course. That was never Ed’s intent, to kill, though he had been tempted. Instead, he waited.
When he was barely recovered from his upset stomach, Alan burned himself using that same spoon. He might have thought nothing of it, except that he was having cold cereal.
Wendy was beginning to get suspicious, though she remained open to the idea that her son was just a little bit clumsy. Things changed when Ed refused to share a drawer with the other cutlery. The moment he was put with the other spoons, he forced them out. Spoons, forks, knives, everything that Wendy kept in the little drawer suddenly rocketed out, stabbing the walls and ceilings with such force that it wasn’t certain any if it could be removed.
So they made the call.
The priest, new to the business of exorcisms, did not look happy to see the state of the house. Ed overheard his new owners complain about the haunted spoon in their possession.
This was it. This was the moment of Ed’s freedom. Trapped in the drawer, however, he could see nothing of the priest’s preparations.
They were quiet for some time longer than he would have liked, until the drawer was opened.
Light flooded Ed’s spoony senses, light and heat and the feeling of something pure in the air. Something holy. It lifted his spirits, as a pair of iron tongs lifted him up and out of the drawer.
He waited for some chanting, for an incantation or a prayer, but nothing came.
Instead, he was dropped into the source of the heat in the room, a dark pot burning on the gas stove. Hot metal rose to meet him, trapped him.
The spoon began to melt, but Ed was still trapped, long after the metal cooled.
There he would remain, a solid block of metal in the priest’s pot, a gift for the visiting bishop, spoon-fed in life, and served up in death.