Before the last frame of celluloid rolled off the reel, Jacob was yanking the curtain closed with one hand, raising the house lights with another and jerking his head for the intermission singers to get on with it.

Jacob burst out into the house like some had set a firecracker off under his rear. He only had three songs to get up to the projection booth and load the next film.

Bounding up the stairs, he found the Theatorium’s owner, Mr. Dinstuhl, sitting on the landing, shoulders slumped.

“Sir?” Jacob asked, unaccustomed to seeing his hardworking boss like this.

“Ah, Jacob, my boy” Mr. Dinstuhl looked up with a weak smile. Then, without warning, asked, “How are you at making candy?”

“I dunno? I just run the projectors.”

“You know, I opened this nickelodeon to sell candy. Chocolates, toffees, brittles. I could give two shakes about the movies, I just wanted to sell these rubes sweets. Now they all want something called ‘popped corn’. Popped corn! What the hell is that? Killing my margins, that’s what. Gonna have to sell the blasted theatre to make up for it.

“So, let me rephrase. Would you like to learn to make candy?”

Memphis Note
The Theatorium was Memphis’s first official nickelodeon. Films were the main draw, with live acts only being used between features. The theatre was opened by Charles Dinstuhl, who owned a confectionary next door. He rightly saw the theatre as a way to increase his customer base. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much interest in the movies or the business of running a theatre, and when pop corn began to over take candy sales, he pulled out of the movie business. Which was probably a for the best, since he went on to found the legendary Dinstuhl Fine Candy Company.

The storm howled outside. Howled like a monster.

Little Marky Dinstuhl was trapped inside his grandfather’s ancient wooden house. His parents had left him here while they’d gone out to dinner.

As he wandered the labyrinthine mansion, something felt wrong. He was sure the howling was coming from inside the house.

He listened intently, following the disembodied noise through the winding halls to a door. A thick, dark, mysterious door. Which Little Marky opened for no good reason.

There he saw it. The horrible thing. Powdery white. Slavering. Howling. Straining against its chains.

Suddenly his grandfather was behind him. His spider-like fingers wrapped painfully tight around Little Marky’s arms.

“You tell anyone, you’ll ruin it all for us! They’ll take all of this away! Throw us in the streets! Maybe even into jail!” He hissed.

His grandfather smelled of whiskey and reeked of madness.

“This is the dark secret of the Dinstuhls! The truth behind our legendary candies!”

He pointed a bone-thin finger at the creature.

“The Albino Sugar Beast of Ling. I sold my soul to a wandering Chinaman for its confectionary secrets. It is our family’s curse. Our family’s legacy! Your legacy!”

The beast howled. Sweetly.

Memphis Note
Dinstuhl’s Fine Candy Company has been making amazing confectionary delights in Memphis for over a hundred years. I grew up with them, I patron them to this day, and I’m friends with a member of the family: the Little Marky Dinstuhl in this story. Mark is by no means little and the Dinstuhl candies are by no means made by a demon hellbeast. Even though you might question it for how good they are.