text: It’s Thanksgiving. You arrive at your distant relatives’ house after a long, hard semester, give and receive hugs, and all that jazz. But something’s nagging at the back of your mind. You can’t quite recall what, but you remember that you get the exact same feeling every single year at this exact time. It’s probably just the fact that you haven’t seen your family in forever, so you shrug it off. The family gathers in a big circle, holds hands, and prays, thanking their preferred god for the meal they’re about to consume. All seems to go as you remember it going every year, but something still feels wrong. You go up to the kitchen table to construct your plate exactly how you like it, no deviations from the norm whatsoever. Then, you see it. Just off to the right of the Turkey, surrounded by platters of stuffing and homemade cranberry relish, there sits a glass bowl. Inside that glass bowl, there’s a thick, sinister white substance with yellow and orange chunks. You finally see why you’ve been feeling uneasy. You are staring directly at it. The Ambrosia. You immediately pretend to ignore it, picking up the things you like instead. As you make your way to table assigned to your generation, you hear a voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You turn around to see your mother, who has somehow materialized behind you within milliseconds. Wasn’t she talking with her brother about his latest misadventures? How did she get here? You play coy and show her your already completely full plate-- Turkey, ham, Hawaiian Roll, green beans, olives, black beans and corn, all around a beautifully crafted mashed potato volcano. There should be nothing wrong with this. All the food groups are present, so what could her issue be? You get a sad feeling as you see her arm sweep in an almost planned-out manner, gesturing to the bowl of that vile, chunky white substance. “What about the Ambrosia?” she asks, feigning polite curiosity in order to hide her clear disapproval. Dammit, you think to yourself, Almost escaped. “But my plate’s already full,” you try to argue. “Aunt Sharon worked long and hard to make this!” she cuts back in, feigning insult. She’s trying to guilt trip you. You don’t stand a chance. There is no avoiding it. You start running through your options... Feign sickness? Not worth skipping dessert. Run outside and hitchhike home? But your cousins are all discussing that movie you have an interesting theory on. Tell your Mom the truth? But Aunt Sharon’s right within hearing range. Just say No Thanks? Hmmm “No Thanks,” You stammer, “not right now.” Phew. Crisis averted. You sit down at your generation’s table and gladly join in your cousins’ debate about that awesome new movie, pouring yourself a fancy champaign glass of sparkling cider. After a while of cheery conversation and feasting, you almost forget what you’ve been avoiding. Almost. Then you feel it. A looming presence standing directly behind you. You turn. “I imagine you guys are doing well,” your mother feigns a smile at you, holding a heaping mini plate of Ambrosia, “But there’s something you haven’t finished.” Oh no. Now’s your chance to run, but social obligations are chaining you to your seat. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. You sigh a little and take the plate, turning back to the table. You can still feel your mother’s eyes drilling into the back of your head, expectantly. Your cousins fall silent, eyeing the mini plate of muck, then you, and then your mother. Unsure what to do, your cousins give you looks of pity. Even Aunt Sharon’s daughter, Jenna, is very clearly mortified for your sake. Under duress, you sift your spoon through the gelatinous mass. Chunks of preserved pineapple and tangerine reveal themselves in the unholy mixture of marshmallow fluff and sour cream. Their stench is overpowering-- sickly sweet as a siren song. I’ve had this before, you psych yourself up, I can choke down one bite and then throw the rest out. You take just a big enough spoonful of the Ambrosia to impress your mother and your Aunt, and slowly and deliberately bring it up to your mouth. Then you quickly swallow it just to get it over with. Immediately, you are overpowered with a surge of heaves as your stomach tries to defend itself from that cold, creamy, cloying concoction, but you manage to keep it down with a final gulp. In all of your years of trying Aunt Sharon’s Ambrosia, you have never experienced anything besides violent revulsion. Now, however, it seems that you are not only experiencing the revulsion that you are accustomed to, but also a sense of detachment. You are no longer yourself. You can still see yourself move and hear yourself speak, but you are no longer in control of your actions. Your view is largely blocked by a mysterious sigil painted in white and orange. You watch yourself rejoin the conversation, but find that your words seem to make less and less sense as the minutes pass. Soon you rise from your seat, speaking in an inhuman tongue. The white and orange sigils burn brighter and brighter in your eyes. As far as you can tell, no one else attending the gathering is acting like this is normal. In fact, they seem horrified. You take the carving knife and plunge it into your nearest relative’s--Cousin Jenna’s-- chest, carving the sigil that your eyes are now nearly blinded by. Instead of blood, though, Ambrosia pours out. She starts speaking in sync with you. You proceed to do the same to everyone else who is too paralyzed with horrified intrigue to run away. More people join the speaking in tongues, and more people start stabbing each other with whatever they can. What have you done? What is happening? You frantically fight to regain control of yourself, and somehow, you eventually manage to do so. Knowing that you have little time left, you scream. “I’m sorry for everything,” you cry out, plunging the carving knife into your own chest, this time carving a cross. The sigils fade from your vision. As you slump backwards and your vision fades, your Aunt Sharon approaches you with a look of cold pity. “How pitiful,” she clicks her tongue, her irises flickering between white-orange and their usual dark brown, “You may have won this time, but I will return next Thanksgiving. You have only delayed me, child...” You know nothing else.