Skips Chips

MEET THE SKIPS

Skips Chips always looked its best at night.
The storefront glowed under the streetlamps like a warm lantern, its yellow awning fluttering gently in the cool breeze. The bell on the door chimed with a soft, cheerful ring every time someone entered - a sound so innocent it almost erased the faint metallic scent that lingered beneath the buttery aroma of fresh chips.Tourists adored the place.
Locals swore by it.

Everyone trusted Evan and Jamie Skips, the friendly siblings with easy smiles and a reputation for making the best chips in town. No one ever wondered why the shop closed exactly at nine.

No one ever asked why the siblings never hired help.

No one ever questioned the strange hum beneath the floorboards.When the last customer left and the bell gave its final giggle, the siblings locked the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and the warmth of the shop dimmed. The fryer hissed quietly, cooling. The lights buzzed overhead. And the metallic scent grew stronger - rising like something waking up.

THE HATCH

Jamie moved first, her steps light and precise, crossing to the flour cabinet. She opened it, revealing the disguised hatch beneath. Cold air rose from the darkness below, brushing her face like a warning.Evan followed behind her, dragging tonight's "ingredient."

A tourist who had stayed too late, asked too many questions, and trusted the siblings' friendly smiles a little too much.The descent into the basement always felt like entering another world.

The stairs creaked under their weight.
The air thickened.
The hum of machinery grew louder.
Down here, the cheerful chip shop vanished.
The basement was sterile, cold, and high‑tech in a way that didn't match the quaint storefront above. Bright surgical lights illuminated stainless‑steel counters, wide drains, and racks arranged with unsettling precision.

Jamie's Room

Jamie's prep room was immaculate.
Too immaculate.She hummed softly as she worked, a gentle tune that echoed off the tile walls. She didn't like chaos. She didn't like screaming. She preferred order.
Efficiency. Clean lines. Clean cuts.

She injected the tourist with a sedative, watching their panic fade into unconsciousness. Then she laid them on the table, adjusting their limbs with the same care someone might use to arrange flowers.Her tools gleamed.
Scalpels aligned like silver teeth.
Peeling blades sharpened to a whisper.She worked slowly, methodically, her hands steady.

The dread in the room thickened as she peeled the skin with delicate precision, lifting it like fabric, smoothing it, trimming edges. The skin was washed, dried, and placed on the racks, where warm air whispered across it, turning it into pale, crisp sheets.
The process was quiet. Controlled. Almost peaceful.

Evan's Side

Evan hated peaceful. He preferred the other side of the basement - the containment chamber. The reinforced gate rattled as he approached, the creature inside sensing fresh skin.Their father - or what used to be their father - lurked in the shadows. His breathing was a wet, animal rasp. His body was a grotesque mass of muscle and bone, warped beyond recognition. His eyes were human only in shape, not in thought.
And he despised skin.
Whenever Evan dragged victims down alive, the creature erupted in fury, slamming against the gate, claws scraping metal, teeth gnashing. The sound was indescribable - a violent, primal storm.
Evan loved it.
Jamie hated it.
Their father didn't remember them, but he remembered the skin. He remembered the rage. When Skin Is Left OnIf a victim arrived with their skin still intact, the creature reacted like something feral and betrayed. The moment he smelled it - that warm, living sheath - his entire body convulsed with a rage that seemed older than language.He didn't attack cleanly.
He didn't kill quickly.
He erupted.
His hands - swollen, fused, claw‑like - latched onto the victim's shoulders.
He didn't peel; he wrenched. Skin stretched first, distorting, pulling away from muscle like wet cloth. The tearing came in brutal, jerking bursts, each one punctuated by a guttural, wet snarl.

When the skin resisted, he bit - not to eat, but to break the seal. His cracked teeth dragged across the surface, scraping and shredding, leaving gouges that exposed the red beneath. He spat out whatever he tore off, furious that it wasn't the part he wanted.
He wanted the whole thing gone.
He wanted the human erased.

Only when the skin was removed or destroyed did his rage collapse into trembling exhaustion. Only then did he feed, slow and methodical, the fury replaced by grotesque calm.

THE CHIPS

Jamie carried the dried skin upstairs, where the fryer hissed like a hungry serpent. The chips curled as they cooked, edges crisping, bubbles forming, turning golden. The smell drifted through the shop, warm and inviting, masking everything beneath. Customers always said the chips had a "unique texture."
Jamie always smiled.

By the time the siblings returned upstairs, the shop looked normal again. Warm. Bright. Safe. Evan wiped the counter. Jamie arranged fresh cones of chips.

The TV above the counter played the late‑night news, muted but captioned.A headline flashed across the screen:

"LOCAL BACKPACKER STILL MISSING - LAST SEEN NEAR SKIPS CHIPS"

Jamie didn't look up.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't pause.
The door chimed as a customer walked in - a young woman, cheerful, oblivious, drawn in by the smell of fresh chips. Jamie greeted her with the same warm smile she always used, sliding a cone of steaming chips across the counter.

"Welcome to Skips Chips,"
she said softly.

"Try the new flavor. It's... very fresh."
Evan snorted behind her.

The customer laughed, unaware.
The bell chimed again as she left.And beneath their feet, in the cold dark of the basement, the creature stirred - sensing the faint scent of skin lingering on the siblings' hands, waiting for the next meal.

Some say the chips have a texture they can't quite place. But no one ever questions too deeply.
Not when the chips taste that good.