As the holiday approached, people’s expectations grew. This time would be different, they thought, no stress, apprehension, or ill feelings. However, the guests were destined to repeat the same stories, ask the same questions, and avoid the sight of relatives they despised. Rarely did expectations survive reality.
The weather, though appropriate for November, did not help. The sky was dreary, cloudy, and gray. Only a few leaves await their fall.
Ironically, for some, the autumn colors were always a source of joy. The dying leaves on a gray sky had a special effect even on those of base spirits.
The couple’s first home was still cause for celebration. Their two-story house was old, and after a few remodels, it had become a clash of country and Victorian styles. A few windows still displayed stained-glass with angel motifs. Yet, the couple was happy with their purchase. The lot was large, with mature trees and colorful shrubs, and the neighbors were fair.
II
K. and Isabella, for the first time, hosted Thanksgiving.
They were excited at the idea of “entertaining”, a term that had become popular among upper-class wannabe young professionals.
“K., isn’t nine too many people?” said Isabella. “It’s enough to deal with Ma.” K., excited at the idea of having people at his place, said, “As long as they show up on time.” Worried, K. said, “I only hope that your family doesn’t start fighting.” Isabella didn’t reply; she was glued to her cellphone screen. “Don’t worry, it will all work out”, K. added in a conciliatory tone. K. generally had a sunny Boy Scout disposition, as he was desperate to make his mark. His friends knew him as industrious, ingenious, and the one to get things done. But, as if another being lurked within him, K. was prone to volatile, intense emotions; his space between joy and anger was very short. K’s vindictive streak shortened that space. Yet, unlike Isabella, he enjoyed being around others.
“What are we going to serve?” Isabella finally said, coming out of her cellphone coma. “Don’t worry, I got it”, K. said. “I think an eclectic dinner would do”. He then asked, “Would you take care of the dessert and the wine, honey?” Isabella replied, “I think we should use silk tablecloths and purple drapes.” She had returned to her cellphone slumber.
Their parallel monologues lasted a few minutes.
“She’s so repulsive.” K. thought, as he struggled to get Isabella’s mother out of his mind. On a few prior occasions, K. felt like “putting her in her place”. Instead, he avoided her sight. On Thanksgiving, K. hoped their path would not cross. “With luck, she’d get drunk quickly…” To K., Isabella’s mother was like an unavoidable burp after a heavy meal.
III
`One by one, the guests arrived. One last guest arrived later.
Isabella and K. sat at each end of the oval table. K, filled with goodwill, tried to be a good host and kept the conversation going, but the guests seemed disengaged, offering only short answers. Isabella kept on checking her cellphone. At every turn, K. felt Isabella’s mother’s eyes on him. “Oh, I see what’s missing.” K. stood up to grab a bottle of wine.
On his way to the kitchen, K. heard one of the guests say, “The thing about the President is that he’s just a yellow, farting old man.” The other guests took the comment as an invitation to vent their opinions. “Old or not, you will see!” said one guest. “You can’t have the Fox guard the hen’s house”. Isabella’s mother, not short of opinions, rapidly chimed in, “He’s nothing but a rapist”.
The guests looked at each other. Some of them appeared angry. Isabella, unaware of the conversation, continued her rounds through TikTok, Instagram, and her other Apps.
“Men just take whatever they want.” Isabella’s mother added, undeterred. Another guest blurted out, angry, “Joe Rogan said that they just need to let the man do his job!”
The tension seemed palpable. The other guests said nothing. One, for being non-confrontational, remained mute. Others, for the belief that even a broken clock is correct twice a day, decided. “Just split the baby in half”.
“Can you believe that the Giants lost again?” K. said as he put a wine bottle on the table.
The guests sat quietly again. As they dined, only a distant voice from the TV and the clinking of silverware were heard. The guests ate while avoiding each other’s gaze. The dining room was sparsely lit because of Isabella’s purple drapes.
Suddenly, breaking the silence, one guest asked, “Is there more wine?” K. was sure that minutes ago he had put a bottle of wine on the table.
“No wonder they are so quiet”. K. left to grab another bottle.
K. tried hard to keep the tempo going, but it all seemed in vain. The troops had retreated to their respective trenches. As the night approached, K.’s mood darkened. The guests were distracted, perhaps bored; some clearly angry.
“What’s the score?” one guest asked.
Abruptly, everyone felt a cold breeze blowing through the table. It was not your typical window draft, but rather the coldness of a deeply interred object. “Damn, it’s freezing here!” said Isabella’s mother, and glanced angrily at K. None of the windows were open. K.’s festive mood was long gone.
A few seconds after Isabella’s mother’s complaint, one last guest arrived. “I did not plan to go out tonight”, she said. No one heard her comment. The last guest who arrived stood silently in one corner of the room.
IV
All the guests, like following a religious procession, had moved to watch the game in the family room. Finally, Isabella put her phone down and followed them. K. stayed in the kitchen. “Did they even like the dinner?” he mumbled. A fleeting thought traveled through his mind. “What happened to that bottle?”
The family room grew animated after a touchdown. A loud voice trumped the others. “Touch down!” echoed toward the kitchen. K.’s stomach churned at the voice of Isabella’s mother. K. recalled his parents’ admonition, “Don’t wish evil on anybody”. K. couldn’t help it. Isabella’s mother was already drunk.
K. walked around the kitchen, seemingly lost. He felt the cold draft. The pile of dishes was monumental; the garbage bin was overflowing. “Quite a mess”, he said, and, unsettled, opened the fridge door. Unexpectedly, Isabella’s mother, behind him, mumbled unintelligibly. “What?!”, K. startled. Isabella’s mother, barely standing, repeated, “Where’s the bathroom?” K. did not understand her slurred words. He glanced deep into her eyes. In that instant, he saw in Isabella’s mother all the flaws of his wife. A big disappointment was added to his bitterness.
Isabella’s mother defiantly glanced back at him. Where’s the bathroom?” She repeated, with a petulant intonation and dismissive mannerisms, pointing at him. K.’s burning fury quickly turned into consuming hatred. “There… in the basement”. K. pointed with vile contempt at the stairs.
Isabella’s mother muttered unintelligibly and walked by him. There was no bathroom there. Instead, the stairs were slippery and had no railings.
A few moments later, “Where is ma? K. heard. Isabella had seen her mother stumbling out of the family room. “I don’t know?” said K. The kitchen was cold and dark.
The last guest to arrive, who had moved to one of the kitchen corners, observed the entire scene and smiled.
K. started talking to Isabella when they heard loud thumps down the stairs. Isabella ran toward the basement, followed by K. The last guest to arrive followed them.
At the sight of her mother on the ground, Isabella screamed and fell to her knees. K. then looked at the mangled body of Isabella’s mother and felt a deep joy.
Isabella’s mother gave K. one last hateful look and tried making a snide remark. Only a gurgling sound was heard as she stopped breathing.
K. kneeled and embraced his wife, who cried inconsolably. “K., it’s so cold here!” she said. K. looked at Isabella’s mother, and the echo of his parents’ voice resonated in his mind.
The last guest to arrive, who was delighted to be watching the scene unfold, repeated, “I did not plan to go out tonight.” No one heard her voice, again. But “I’m glad I did”, she said with a wide smile, as she claimed Isabella’s mother.
P.R. Thompson
November 27, 2025.
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Ooooh, P.R….what a compelling, thoughtful piece you have created here. It’s fascinating in the way it blends the banality of a family holiday with an undercurrent of something quietly sinister. What impressed me most is how you allow tension to accumulate almost imperceptibly. The familiar irritations …..recycled conversations, unspoken resentments, Isabella’s mother’s barbed remarks – – become the scaffolding for a much darker turn without ever feeling forced.
K. is particularly well-drawn. His veneer of cheerful competence barely conceals a volatility that feels both psychologically credible and narratively dangerous. When that simmering hostility finally crystallizes in the momennt at the basement stairs, it lands with the kind of inevitability that comes from careful character work rather than shock value.
And the “last guest” is a SUPPPPER brilliant touch ….its subtle, spectral, and yet disturbingly matter-of-fact. You never explain her, which is exactly why she works. She feels less like a character and more like a presence the story has been summoning from the first paragraph.
The result is a story that reads like a domestic tableau slowly tilting into myth — ordinary people, ordinary resentments, and then the quiet arrival of something ancient that has been watching all along.
Bravo.