Midwest Gothic
2 a.m. The house is still, the fridge hums low. You reach inside, fingers brushing the cheese—then stop. A face, small and sunken, stares from a hole in the pale yellow block. Unmoving. Watching.
You grab the pepper jack instead, slam the door, breath unsteady.
When you open the fridge again, the face is gone.
But as the door swings shut, from deep within the cold—
A wet, wheezing laugh.
You are pretty sure that you just saw the Wisconsin Cheese Man.








