It began as a hobby over lockdown. The sourdough starter was a gift from his watchful neighbour, Marge. Before that, David had no interest in baking. He’d always been perfectly content with his shop bought pan. But soon he found himself setting four-a.m. alarms, getting up to feed the culture with the attentiveness of a new father.

He liked that the starter needed him. A living being under the same roof. He could talk to it, like you might a dog or a houseplant.

The starter was pallid and frothy, like cottage cheese that had got a little too excited. Its smell: acerbic, eye-watering if he leaned in too close. Soon David found he was making more bread than he could eat. He gave fresh loaves to neighbours and visited soup kitchens and shelters with his surplus goods.

The more he fed the starter, the greedier it got. He couldn’t say exactly when it happened, but soon he was up four or five times a night, sleepwalking to the kitchen to feed his growing charge.

Then one day there was no space left for his other food. So David got rid of the jams and pickles, the tins of tomatoes, sweetcorn and beans that had once benignly shared the cupboard shelves. Eventually he had to get rid of the shelves altogether to make room for the starter, which bubbled contentedly like a yeasty cauldron.

They missed David at the soup kitchen and the shelter, when he stopped coming by, but life continued on. Everyone thought he must have given up the baking, gone back to the office like everyone else.

It was a warm day in June when Marge called round. Finding David’s door unlocked she pushed inside, curious to see the decor-choices of her unassuming neighbour.

Marge heard the sound before reaching the kitchen, the gentle hiss and slop of something wet moving. The smell was powerfully organic, like a forgotten rabbit’s hutch or week-old sweat. She stopped in the doorway when she saw him. David’s torso lay on the tiles, but his legs had been dragged to the open door of the press. Open mouthed Marge wanted to scream but in the warm kitchen no sound came out. The colour of David’s skin matched the grey hue of the bubbling monstrosity that surged towards her from the tiled floor.

Jennifer Lindsay Gray is a Scottish writer living in County Clare. Her writing has featured in journals such as Neon, Gutter, and Glasgow Women Poets. Her work has been shortlisted for competitions including The Mslexia Women’s Novel Competition, The Scottish Mental Health Awards Writing Competition and The Cheshire Prize for Literature. Her short story “A Green Glass Heart” was featured on RTÉ Radio 1’s The Prompt. Jennifer works as a Copywriter and holds a Master’s degree in Creative Writing from The University of Edinburgh. She is a member of the Clare Poetry Collective and the darkly-inspired Nocturne Writers.