THE FEAST
Copyright 2018
The Cartwell family gathered every Thanksgiving at Grandpa Cartwell’s log cabin in the mountains. Both sons and daughter drove in from the city, just an hour’s drive, and brought their own children. Sometimes aunts and uncles would make the trip, too, nieces and nephews, and once the Cartwell family fall get-together boasted nearly forty guests! This year, however, the total was almost half that, which suited the senior Cartwells just fine.
The log cabin was one of those fancy two-story domiciles, with lots of spare rooms for visiting family. Plus the downstairs rec room could be used for extra guests, if needed. Grandpa Cartwell wouldn’t hear of family having to stay at motel, if he could help it. And family was the most important thing to him…next to the traditional and very special holiday gathering.
The annual autumn Feast was THE event of the season.
Like most families, they ate early in the day, Grandma Cartwell preparing the usual assortment of Thanksgiving delicacies, with help, of course, from their daughters and granddaughters. They sat around the large open-air family room, sipping after-dinner drinks (non-alcoholic for the kids, although the teenagers were allowed to sample Grandpa’s homemade cider).
While the adults were mostly relaxed and comfortable, the children got antsy and anxious, as usual. They bounced around in the downstairs rec room, watching movies but mostly playing video games or watching YouTube, excited for the evening’s delicious grand finale. You see, after the afternoon’s sumptuous meal, they waited until later to enjoy their final meal of the day. The Feast always ended with a fine, unforgettable dessert of the most exquisite variety. But Grandma wasn’t responsible for this, no, this was Grandpa’s doing. You could say it was truly the one thing everyone looked forward to.
As dusk approached, they exited the spacious home for the vast backyard, which led down a gently sloping and neatly kept lawn to the wooded hills. Beyond that loomed the mountains. As the extended Cartwell family settled around a medium-sized bonfire, Grandpa brought along his banjo and harmonica, and they all sang and laughed. Once night fell, the elderly Cartwell put down his instrument and glanced over the flames at his oldest son, who nodded at him.
Both men quietly left for the house, heading for a pair of locked cellar doors set to the left of the rear back deck. Everyone watched expectantly, eyes gleaming with barely restrained excitement.
High above in the night sky, the full moon washed down on them with ashen pale light.
Five minutes later, the elder Cartwell and son led the shackled figure over to the bonfire. He’d stumbled along behind them, led by a thin chain leash and sturdy leather collar attached to his neck. Earlier in the day, down in the locked basement cell, he’d been hosed down after his clothes had been removed. Later, those filthy garments would be destroyed, incinerated in the bonfire. His wallet and its contents, as well. The man had a smartphone when they’d found him, but that had been taken care of weeks ago, the battery and SIM card removed and disposed of. His pickup truck with out-of-state plates was long gone, too. No one knew he’d been the Cartwell’s very special guest for tonight…or Guest of Honor, you could say.
The younger son met them just short of the bonfire, grinning, and the rest of the family, including the kids, rose from the seats. Everyone stared raptly at the naked man. He swayed on his feet, eyes widening, mouth working, but no words that made sense came out. His tongue had been removed a while ago, the wound cauterized. And he’d been given a steady diet of whiskey and high-calorie shakes to fatten him up a bit.
“You made a big mistake coming to town, buddy,” the younger son quipped. He’d drunk his share of cider, but was only mildly buzzed, unlike the man. “You should’ve never messed with Jenny out at the truck stop. She’s a sweet, pretty gal, but she’s only 17, you fucking pervert!” He loosed a loud, braying guffaw.
“Honey, the language…the kids!” his wife said. But she only chuckled at her admonishment of him. He shook his head, tugged off his sweater, and dropped it to the ground. It was a chilly night, in the mountains, but it usually was in late November. His wife started to unbutton her sweater and blouse, and soon everyone began to disrobe. They felt the sharp cold air on their bare skin, goosebumps rippling over exposed flesh, nipples hardening, but soon it wouldn’t matter.
Grandpa Cartwell unhooked the leash from the trembling man, who babbled incoherently, moaning as drool ran down his chin. He’d remove his clothes last, as would his own wife. Not that they were shy around their children and grandchildren. Not at all. After all, they’d enjoyed the yearly Feast together for many years. They just wanted the younger ones to have their fun.
“Go, get, run!” Grandpa said, dropping the coiled leashed to his feet. The man took a few unsteady steps away from the Cartwells and the bonfire, in the direction of the dark wall of trees. If he was lucky, he might make it a few dozen feet inside the densely wooded vegetation. But he kind of doubted it.
Then he ran for the trees, like a pack of hellions were on his heels. He stumbled over his own feet after maybe a hundred feet or so, and tumbled to the ground. When he glanced back at them, his eyes bulged. The naked Cartwells writhed and convulsed on the close-cropped grass, the fiery light revealing flesh that rippled and flowed, unearthly sounds of bones reforming, and simmering growls of lusty hunger. In moments, as he got back to his feet, they were no longer naked. Thick dark fur covered their bodies. Almost in unison, their glowing yellow eyes locked onto him.
They howled. He ran. They charged in pursuit.
The man’s ululating screams lasted for maybe a minute, if that.
He’d managed to get fairly close to the woods, but Grandpa Cartwell had been right.
And they gave thanks for another successful Feast, blood-stained muzzles lifted up to the moonlight sky.
