“That damn pan again,” muttered Sarah, staring at the ancient cooking vessel that somehow kept materializing in her kitchen, no matter how many times she threw it away. Its scratched surface seemed to mock her, like an unwanted house guest that refused to leave.

Stream of thoughts flooding… memories of grandmother’s kitchen, that same pan, always there, always watching. But grandmother’s been gone three years now. Why won’t this thing stay gone?

Detective Morris leaned against her counter, notebook in hand. “So you’re saying this pan appears mysteriously, Ms. Walker?”

“For the hundredth time, yes! I’ve thrown it in dumpsters, donated it to Goodwill, even drove it two states away and left it at a rest stop. But every morning - there it is, sitting on my stove like some sort of… culinary stalker.”

Her neighbor Tom poked his head through the window. “Sarah! You won’t believe what I found in my-”

“Let me guess. A pan?”

“How did you know?”

Detective Morris scratched his head. “Interesting. And when did this start?”

The memories swirled… grandmother’s funeral, the reading of the will, that stupid pan mentioned specifically - “To my dearest granddaughter Sarah, I leave my most prized possession, my loyal cooking companion of fifty years…”

“Right after the funeral,” Sarah sighed. “I thought it was just a regular pan. But it’s like it’s… haunted or something.”

“Haunted cookware? Ms. Walker, I deal in facts, not fantasy.”

Tom interjected again through the window, “Mine makes perfect eggs though! Every time!”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Wait - you’ve used it?”

“Well yeah, it was just sitting there in my kitchen this morning…”

Detective Morris closed his notebook. “I think we’re done here. Clearly this is just a case of-”

CLANG!

The pan had somehow migrated from Sarah’s stove to Tom’s window sill, then crashed to the ground below.

“See? SEE?” Sarah pointed frantically. “It has a mind of its own!”

The detective peered out the window, then looked back at his notes. “Ms. Walker, I’m going to level with you. In twenty years on the force, I’ve never seen anything like this. But I think I know what’s happening.”

Sarah leaned forward eagerly. “Yes?”

“Your grandmother… was she by any chance involved in any occult activities?”

“What? No! She was a sweet old lady who liked to cook!”

“Hmm.” Morris flipped through his notes again. “And this pan - does it only appear to people who need to learn how to cook?”

Sarah blinked. Tom looked sheepish.

“Because based on the takeout containers in your trash, Ms. Walker…”

The pan had somehow made its way back to the stove. Sarah could swear it was gleaming smugly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Fine! I’ll learn to cook! Is that what you want?”

The pan sat silently.

Detective Morris packed up his notebook. “Well, looks like this case is solved. Though I must say, this is a first - death by culinary intervention.”

As he left, Sarah could have sworn she heard her grandmother’s laughter echoing from the pan.

Tom’s voice drifted through the window: “Hey Sarah, want me to teach you how to make those perfect eggs?”

She sighed, reaching for the haunted cookware. “I suppose it’s better than being stalked by kitchenware for the rest of my life.”

The pan gleamed victoriously in the morning light.