I'm bringing horror to Thanksgiving dinner!

Randolph Winslow IV sat at the head of the table in the dining room of his family estate. His children and their spouses sat along either side of the table, staring at the lavish spread presented to them in celebration of Thanksgiving. His grandchildren were in the adjoining parlor with their own table set.

“I’ll say the blessing. Our Father, thank you for bringing us together. We give thanks for your abundant provisions. Guide us toward paths of righteousness. We pray, humbly, in the name of Jesus, our Savior. Amen,” Randolph said. “As you all know, my seventieth birthday is approaching. Winslow Imports has enjoyed record profits despite massive inflation over the last few years. We must reflect on our family’s struggles since the cotton plantation was taken from us after the War. I look forward to what each of you will accomplish along with my grandchildren. Soon, they will join us at this table.”

“Young Randolph VI has already asked about that,” said Randolph V, sitting to his father’s right.”

“Soon! Now, we focus on family, the most important thing on this day of thanks. Pearl! Bring out the cranberry sauce.”

A slender, black woman came from the kitchen in a simple, brown dress with a white apron tied around her waist. With her head down, she went to a gap between two chairs. The tray she carried held a platter with cranberry sauce in the shape of a can. She placed it in its designated spot.

“Thank you, Pearl. You may go now.”

“Yes, sir,” she said with a nod.

“You may eat now.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you,” Pearl said and left.

“Grandchildren, come here and partake of the tradition. Bring your plates.”

The six children ranging from five to seventeen joined them.

“This tradition has continued for many years. We have the finest foods, but this simple thing reminds us of our roots. Instead of having the freshest sauce, we use this to stay connected to our past. Before anything else, cranberries.”

“Gross,” mumbled one of the children.

“Take a spoonful of cranberries,” Randolph IV said. “We will taste in unison before dinner is served.”

The second child, Clarabelle, took a small blob. Her husband did the same and passed it along. On the far side, Jefferson Davis, the youngest son, allowed the children to get some. The platter continued to its spot.

“Now, remember our humble origins,” the patriarch said. He took his bite along with the others. The youngest grandchildren needed a nudge. “Good! Now, let’s enjoy this meal.”

Smoked turkey, black-eyed peas, cornbread, collard greens, and more were available. It was enough for three times as many people, but that was normal for Thanksgiving.

Pearl took a seat in the servant’s quarters at the back of the house. Her daughter, son, and best friend, Madichon waited. Madichon was a Creole woman whose real name was Adonatille.

“Are you sure it’ll work?” Pearl asked.

“You’ve known me for sixty years. Have I ever disappointed you?”

“You have not.”

“Each of them will have the cranberries?”

“I can assure you that Randolph IV will require each of them to eat some. Will it matter how much they have?”

“No,” Madichon said. “A taste will pass the curse I placed on the dish into their bodies.”

“Then what?” asked Pearl’s daughter.

“Shortly, their inner desires will take over,” Madichon said.

The Winslow family ate and talked about their lives. Finally, as the meal drew to a close, Randolph V stood and looked at his family.

“There is something I’ve been wanting to say,” he said. “Now is the time. I believe it is time for me to take over Winslow Imports!”

“You what?” asked his father.

Randolph V grabbed the carving knife and stabbed it through his father’s throat. The blood sprayed out onto the table. The old man struggled to get his breath, but his lungs were already filling with blood.

“How dare you?” demanded Clarita, the youngest sister. “I wanted to do that!”

A moment later, the youngest Randolph approached. He was holding a butter knife in his hand and a look of contempt in his eyes. He drove the knife into her back. She screamed out, falling forward onto the table. Dishes shattered. She squirmed in agony.

Her husband, Rogers, spun and punched the teen in the face, rupturing blood vessels in his nasal area. The boy stumbled a few steps away, holding his nose, before collapsing. His mother, Emily, screamed and pulled a .22 pistol from her handbag.

She shot Rogers in the forehead. Violence erupted as all remaining attendees took up weapons. Clarabelle acted first, stabbing a fork into Emily’s arm, causing her to drop the gun. They scrambled for it, but Jefferson Davis got it. He stepped back and fired until the gun clicked.

The children had devolved into a melee. They stabbed each other with forks and knives, spattering blood across the fine rugs and onto the walls. Screams of pain and anger echoed through the house.

Only Randolph V and Jefferson Davis remained, facing each other across the table. A mixture of blood, vomit, and other fluids coated the ruined setting.

“You’re bleeding, brother,” Jefferson Davis said, gesturing toward Randolph’s gut, where a deep gash hung open.

“It’ll heal,” the elder brother said, yanking the carving knife from his dead father’s throat.

“This won’t,” the younger said and jumped onto the table.

He offered an evil grin, gripped the forks in either hand, and lept onto his brother. The forks pierced Randolph’s temples. His eyes rolled back and his knees gave out. Jefferson Davis went with him, thinking he had won. When they hit the floor, a pain shot through his chest. He realized that Randolph had skewered him with the carving knife.

Before everything went dark, Jefferson Davis saw the bodies lying around the room covered in blood. There was no one left to call for help.

Pearl and her family gave thanks for their blessing.

The End

This flash fiction story is copyrighted by Robert Whitmore in 2024!