The Cecilnomicon: 5 Salem Sandwiches and the Ghosts that Stole Them

IT is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good sandwich must be in fear of a ghost.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on settling down to his meal, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of all surrounding spirits, that his sandwich is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of the restless dead.

What follows is a list of the top five sandwiches I looked forward to eating, where I purchased them, and the ghost who robbed me of my repast.

5. Steak Bomb - Stacia’s Place - Private Isaac Gould, 8th Massachusetts   

Memorable because it was the first time I became aware of the ghost/sandwich connection. The Private was very polite with me, even though his translucent rifle was aimed squarely at my chest. He explained about the ghostly love of sandwiches, particularly freshly made ones like you can get at Stacia’s Place. Judging by the mutterings and scraping in the dark alleyway behind him he was not alone which explains why I was such an ideal target - Stacia’s Steak Bombs are big enough to feed a platoon! I thanked him for his service as I handed over my meal, he tipped his hat, and we both called it a day.

4. Salami & Cheese - Polonus - Pawel Zawadzki

There is a simple elegance to Polunus’ sandwiches. While I don’t begrudge Salem’s many other Sandwichsmiths and upper reaches of the Art they practise, sometimes you just want good meat with good cheese on good bread. Pawel, who was only nine when he passed away in the Great Fire, agreed. We spoke at length - as he was but a child he was happy with half my sandwich. Looking back, I wish I had asked him more questions about the afterlife rather than spending so long explaining the game Tetris to him.

3. Fraggle Rock - Coven - The Whispering Doorman

Don’t believe the Doorman’s lies - he’s just a ghost, not some sort of dark envoy of a faceless horror born in the void before Time Itself. Myself, I hate braggarts and the Doorman is one of the worst. Seriously, a total jerk. He’s nowhere near as old as he lets on and given the ease at which he lifted the sandwich from my knapsack while I was distracted, I suspect he was a criminal in life. The next time we met, I was ready for him, having surrounded my meal in a ring of salt. The salt kept him out and proved his lies - the Dark Envoys would laugh through the sides of their multi-lipped mouths at a simple salt ward like that.

2. Firehouse Chicken - The Hungry Whale - Giles Corey

“Woe, woeful tidings approach!” moaned the ghost of Giles Corey as I settled onto a park bench near Jefferson Apartments. I rolled my eyes because, even though I had not met Corey before, he had a bit of a reputation as a drama queen. I waited, slowly peeling open the foil covering my piping hot chicken sandwich. “Tis a doom! A DOOM!” screamed Corey right before he kicked me in the shin and snatched the sandwich out of my hand. He was across Bridge Street before I knew what happened, fading into the mists that hung low over the Howard Street cemetery. I started to wonder how a ghost could kick someone in the shins but was distracted when I licked some of the hot sauce from the sandwich off my fingers. Dang that stuff was good and I immediately headed back to the Hungry Whale to purchase another. I ate it quickly, standing just outside the door, snarling at any who approached.  

1. Junior Bacon Cheeseburger - Wendy’s - William Howard Taft

Imagine a figure that at best is only a vague sketch of a human. Its features are broad and round, its skin pale and glistening with something you’d rather not think too much about. It shambles, vast bulk on tiny legs. Eyes like small lumps of coal stuck deep in a tallow snowman’s face peer about endlessly in search of food because it hungers. It always hungers.

This was William Howard Taft in life. Now imagine him in death. In your imagination, he has cornered you on the pedestrian walkway at the bank of the South River, drawn to you by the scent of hamburgers in a greasy paper bag. You do what you can. You hurl the bag at him, knowing there is no way it could miss that gaping, slavering maw. As you run, you risk a glance backwards to see the shade of the 27th President of the United States and 10th Chief Justice of the Supreme Court tear greedily into cheap hamburgers, globs of.. of... something weighing down his walrus moustache.

Late at night in the depths of a storm, I can still hear his howl.

Honorable Mention: Howling Wolf Burrito - Howling Wolf - Z’rpblat

Technically, this should not be on the list at all. As we all know, burritos are not sandwiches. There is no court that would call them as such and still be recognized as a legitimate legal authority. Still, the burritos at Howling Wolf are wondrous things that are, apparently, known far beyond Salem. Z’rpblat (more on him in future entries) is also not technically dead, although he is not technically alive either, being “born” in a vat like other Zeta Reticulons. So if we broaden the definition of sandwich to “delicious things inside bready things” and ghosts to “being not of this Earth,” this encounter can count.

That Z’rpblat arrived that cold night in late November was not a surprise - he’d phoned ahead to expect his arrival earlier in the week - but the fact that he chose to arrive not ten minutes after a friendly Howling Wolf employee delivered my dinner was. Usually the ship doesn’t hover above my house until after one in the morning. Z’rp’s intentions became clear when I woke up five hours later to find a few scraps of foil and an empty plastic bin of queso. I’m mostly including this experience to let Z’rpblat know that he’s On Notice and owes me a burrito.

Abductions are one thing, but Burrituctions? No Thank You.