Thanksgiving has never been my favourite holiday. I used to blame the memories – strained smiles across the table, the barely contained resentment that hung in the air like smoke.

But now I know better.

Thanksgiving isn’t about gratitude, not for this house. Not for me.

It started the night before, as it always does. The wind howled around the house, pressing against the old windows as though it wanted in. The sound had a strange pitch, a keening undertone that crawled under my skin. Emma and Sam were upstairs, snug in their beds, and I was in the kitchen, trying to focus on the turkey.

It was massive, the kind of bird that makes you think of Norman Rockwell paintings and family togetherness. But as I ran my hands over its clammy skin, I felt a faint shudder. I pulled back, staring. It wasn’t possible, but I swore the damn thing moved. Just a twitch – a subtle ripple beneath the pale flesh.

“Just nerves,” I muttered. My voice sounded thin, unconvincing.

I grabbed the knife to finish prepping it, but my hands were slick with something that wasn’t juice. Blood. My blood. A deep gash had opened on my palm without warning.

The red seeped into the turkey, disappearing as if it were soaking into a sponge. For a moment, I froze. My pulse pounded in my ears as the smell hit me – a sulfurous, meaty tang that was wrong. I tried to shake it off. Accidents happen, right? Nothing to panic over.

Still, I bandaged my hand quickly and avoided touching the turkey again.That night, the house seemed to breathe. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt it yourself… that sense of something alive lurking in the walls. The creaks and groans were sharper, more deliberate. The air was heavier, colder. I poured a glass of wine and curled up on the couch, determined to ride out the unease.

Tomorrow would be fine. It had to be.

The scratching started just past midnight.

At first, I thought it was a mouse. God knows the house was old enough for them. But this sound wasn’t tiny claws scurrying. It was slow, deliberate. A scraping of nails, or maybe bones, dragging across wood. It came from the dining room.

I set down my glass and stood, every instinct screaming at me to stay put. But the sound was getting louder, more insistent. The dining room was dark, the long oak table barely visible in the faint glow from the hallway. I reached for the light switch, but the bulb flickered once and went out.

I stepped inside anyway.

The table was set perfectly. Too perfectly. My grandmother’s antique silverware gleamed under an unseen light, the plates pristine. But the scratches I’d heard? they were real. Deep gouges marred the tabletop, fresh and raw, as if something had clawed at it in a frenzy. The centerpiece – a simple bowl of plastic fruit – had been replaced. In its place was a heap of blackened bones.

A cold breath washed over my neck, and I spun around.

Nothing.

“Who’s there?”

My voice was barely above a whisper.

A low laugh answered, rising from the shadows. It wasn’t human… it was too deep, too layered, like a dozen voices speaking at once. It filled the room, vibrating in my chest.

I bolted back to the living room, heart hammering. The air had changed. It smelled wrong now. Thick with decay and sulfur. My hands trembled as I reached for my phone, but the screen wouldn’t light up.

Dead.

The laughter followed me, seeping from the walls. It grew louder, a cacophony of voices whispering my name.

“Claire…”“Claire…”

I turned toward the stairs, desperate to check on Emma and Sam. The house seemed darker now, the hallway stretching impossibly long. Shadows bled from the corners, pooling on the floor. The stairs groaned under my weight as I climbed, each step louder than the last.

At the top, Emma’s door was open. She lay in bed, her back to me, the glow of her tablet lighting the room. Relief washed over me for a moment.

“Emma?” I said, stepping inside.

She didn’t respond. I moved closer, reaching for her shoulder. When she turned, my breath caught in my throat. Her face was pale, too pale, her eyes black pits that seemed to stretch into eternity. She smiled, her teeth sharp and wrong.

“They’re hungry, Mommy,” she said, her voice layered with something ancient.

“We have to feed them.”

My scream choked in my throat as I stumbled back, nearly colliding with Sam.

He stood in the hallway, cradling something in his small hands..

a piece of bone, twisted and charred.

His face was blank, his eyes as hollow as Emma’s.

“They’re waiting,” he said, his voice reverberating through the walls.

The shadows in the hallway began to move.

They slithered and writhed, shapes forming and dissolving like smoke. One of them stretched toward me, long and spindly, a hand of darkness reaching for my throat.

I grabbed Sam and bolted, dragging him downstairs. Emma’s laughter echoed behind me, high and cruel.

The dining room was worse now. The table was set for three, the plates piled high with steaming meat that smelled of rot.

A figure stood at the head of the table. Tall, impossibly tall, its body shrouded in black.

Its head was featureless save for two burning eyes that flickered like dying embers. It raised a clawed hand, pointing at me.

“You cannot run,” it growled, its voice shaking the walls.

“The feast is ours.”

The shadows surged forward, engulfing the room. I screamed, clutching Sam tighter, but his body crumbled in my arms, disintegrating into ash.

Emma’s voice rang out, mocking and gleeful.

“They took us, Mommy. And now they’ll take you.”

The last thing I saw was the figure at the table, grinning with rows of jagged teeth.

The world went black.

I woke in the dining room.

The table was set, the food untouched.

Emma and Sam were gone. Their rooms were empty, their beds cold.

But I wasn’t alone.

The shadows lingered, whispering promises of hunger and pain.

And on my plate was a single piece of bone, blackened and pulsating with heat.

They’re still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

And every Thanksgiving, I hear the laughter again, the sound of nails dragging across wood.

The table is always set.

I don’t dare leave. Because I know if I do, they’ll find someone else to feed the darkness…