November 11, 2024
Bryce Johnson stared at the crinkled recipe in her hands, her pulse hammering as she tried to comprehend what she’d just read. It wasn’t a simple cranberry pie recipe from her grandmother Alice—it was an oath.
Growing up, Bryce had always loved Thanksgiving. Every year, without fail, her grandmother made her famous cranberry pie, its tart sweetness so perfect that it felt like magic. But Thanksgiving also held sadness. Every year, right before the holiday, they lost someone in the family. A pattern Bryce had thought was nothing more than a sad coincidence—until last year, when her grandmother herself passed away just before Thanksgiving. Yet, somehow, her grandmother had still managed to make the pie that year, leaving it in the fridge for Bryce to serve at dinner. It had felt like her final gift to the family.
Now, sitting alone in her kitchen on November 11th, Bryce unfolded the recipe that had arrived from her grandmother’s lawyers, a part of her inheritance that had finally come through probate. As Bryce read her grandmother’s note, her hands shook. You were chosen, the note read. The one to keep the promise our family made 400 years ago. This is not just a recipe, Bryce; it is a responsibility. Use it well.
Confused, Bryce had unfolded the old parchment. It wasn’t a recipe so much as it was a declaration, an ancient document with worn ink and curled edges, dating all the way back to 1621. The more she read, the colder she felt. Her family, it turned out, had arrived on the Mayflower not just for religious freedom, but to escape something dark. The pages detailed a terrible story: a demon that had pursued them out of Europe, tormenting her ancestors across the ocean, promising to unleash unimaginable horrors on them. In desperation, they’d made a pact with a Native American shaman to protect themselves.
The pact was simple: to keep the demon at bay, each Thanksgiving season, the family would sacrifice one of their own bloodline. The life of the chosen family member would be magically transferred into a baked pie—its scarlet filling their essence, offered up for the family’s protection. The sacrifice would ensure the demon remained bound. If this tradition were ever broken, if the family failed to provide the yearly offering, the demon would be released, destroying them and then the world.
Bryce’s mind spun, flashing back to the deaths before each Thanksgiving: an aunt one year, a cousin another. And finally, last year—her grandmother. Did Grandma pick herself to die? Bryce wondered, her horror mounting as she recalled slicing up that very pie, its perfect scarlet filling, and serving it to her family, who ate it with smiles and nods of approval. It hadn’t been just pie—it had been a sacrifice, her grandmother’s life given up to keep them safe.
Bryce felt a chill settle over her as she grasped the reality of her inheritance: the burden of the curse now rested on her. Thanksgiving was just over a week away, and this year, it was up to her to choose who would die.
For days, she lived in a state of dread. How could she possibly decide who to sacrifice? She loved her family—well, most of them. She cycled through faces in her mind, searching for reasons to spare some and not others. Her sister, Cary? Absolutely not. Her father, maybe—but he was still family. Uncle Charlie? The odd, abrasive one? She couldn’t really imagine it, but she wasn’t sure she could let herself imagine any of it.
Thanksgiving day arrived, and with it, twenty-two members of her family, each bringing a dish and cheerful smiles. They hugged her, complimented her hosting, and eagerly asked if she’d made Grandma’s cranberry pie. Bryce nodded with a heavy heart, telling them it would be ready soon. All day, she watched them with a strange detachment, her mind battling between duty and love, responsibility and horror.
Finally, as dinner was served, Bryce found herself giving in to the gravity of what she had to do. Her family sat around the table, laughing and eating, blissfully unaware of the terrible choice weighing on her. Bryce rose to make a toast.
“Dear family,” she began, voice shaking, “thank you all for being here to celebrate our first Thanksgiving without Grandma Alice. She loved you all so much, and I want this holiday to honor her memory.” She took a deep breath. “No matter who you voted for.”
An awkward laugh rippled around the table, but it was quickly silenced by Uncle Charlie’s loud, boorish voice. “As long as it wasn’t the black woman!” he sneered, a chuckle escaping his lips as he looked around the table for support.
A horrified silence filled the room, all eyes turning to Charlie. He just smiled, apparently oblivious to the glares from his family. Bryce felt something shift within her, a strange calm settling over her. She knew. She’d known all along, hadn’t she? She’d felt it in the way her skin prickled when she looked at Uncle Charlie, the way her grandmother’s words about “choosing wisely” had rung in her ears every time he opened his mouth.
“Uncle Charlie,” she said quietly, her voice steady, “could I speak with you in the back room for a moment?”
Charlie shrugged, mumbling something under his breath, and followed her down the hall to a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves of books and her grandmother’s mementos. Bryce closed the door softly behind her, the echoing click like a final note.
She looked at him, the words of the spell from the ancient oath turning over in her mind. She didn’t know how she knew them, but it was as though her grandmother had whispered them to her as she slept, had been waiting all along for this moment to arrive.
When she returned to the dining room ten minutes later, she held the cranberry pie in her hands, the gleaming, scarlet filling seeming to pulse in the light, a strange, dark glow beneath the surface. She set it down, forcing a smile as her family leaned forward, eyes lighting up at the sight of it.
“Uncle Charlie had something come up,” she said quietly, “and he won’t be joining us for dessert.”
The family murmured, a few looking toward the door, disappointed but easily distracted by the pie that Bryce began slicing and serving. She passed a piece to each family member, watching as they eagerly took their first bites, their faces lighting up in appreciation.
As Bryce took her own forkful, a strange warmth spread through her, a sense of calm that felt almost unholy. She had done what was necessary, what was right. She was the keeper of the family’s safety now, the one who had made the hard choice. The taste of the cranberry pie, sweeter and more satisfying than she’d ever remembered, settled on her tongue with an indescribable, haunting tang.
And though she tried not to think about the curse, about the ancient demon lurking somewhere beyond her sight, Bryce knew that next Thanksgiving, she’d be ready—her mind already scanning her family, already deciding who she’d choose when the time came again.
You can also listen to this story on the Ghostumentary Scary Short Stories Podcast on any of your favorite players.
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