A Thanksgiving to Dismember

It was the Henderson family’s first Thanksgiving in their new house—a charming, albeit slightly decrepit, Victorian on the edge of town. Angela had insisted on hosting this year to prove to her in-laws she could handle it. “It’ll be perfect!” she’d declared, imagining a picturesque dinner spread and everyone praising her for years to come.
She hadn’t accounted for Edward.
Edward, as Angela had learned shortly after moving in, was the house’s resident ghost. According to the local historical society, he had been a baker in the late 1800s who tragically died in the kitchen when his scarf got caught in a dough mixer. Ever since, his restless spirit had haunted the house, interfering with any culinary activity. Angela had thought it was just a charming urban legend—until the toaster started launching waffles across the room one morning.
Thanksgiving morning began with cautious optimism.
She’d barely gotten the turkey in the oven when the trouble started.
As she reached for the sage, a gust of cold air swept through the room, and the spice jar slid off the counter, crashing to the floor. Angela froze, muttering through clenched teeth, “Edward, don’t you dare.”
A faint whisper echoed around her. “Needs rosemary…”
“Rosemary? On a turkey? Are you insane?”
The oven door creaked open slightly, as if in response.
By the time Mike wandered into the kitchen an hour later, Angela was already frazzled. “What’s going on in here?” he asked, sniffing the air.
“The ghost thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay!” Angela snapped, pointing to the counter where a knife was stuck upright in a pumpkin pie she hadn’t even started baking yet.
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s just trying to help?”
“Help?” Angela pointed to the wall, where the words TOO BLAND were scrawled in flour dust. “Does this look helpful to you?”
Before Mike could reply, the oven timer dinged. Angela turned to check on the turkey, but as soon as she opened the door, a loud BANG erupted. She jumped back as the turkey—her beautiful, golden bird—shot out of the oven like a cannonball, skidding across the floor and crashing into the refrigerator.
Mike blinked. “Well. That’s… new.”
“Edward!” Angela shouted at the ceiling. “Stop ruining my dinner!”
A soft, ghostly laugh echoed through the room.
Things spiraled quickly from there.
The stuffing, which Angela had left cooling on the counter, mysteriously relocated to the top of the cabinets. She climbed a stepstool to retrieve it, only for the bowl to tip over, raining breadcrumbs down on her head.
The gravy turned itself a disturbing shade of green when Angela’s back was turned, and the cranberry sauce disappeared altogether, only to reappear in the bathroom sink for reasons no one could explain.
When Angela tried to mash the potatoes, the electric mixer turned on by itself, spraying mashed potatoes across the walls like some sort of dairy-based Jackson Pollock painting.
By the time her mother-in-law, Barbara, arrived, Angela was on the verge of tears.
Barbara stepped into the kitchen, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, dear. It smells… unusual.”
Angela forced a smile, her hair dusted with flour and her apron streaked with gravy. “Just a few minor hiccups.”
Determined to salvage dinner, Angela decided to carve the turkey. She placed the bird—now slightly dented from its collision with the fridge—onto the cutting board and picked up the carving knife.
As soon as the blade touched the turkey, the lights flickered. The knife flew out of Angela’s hand, embedding itself in the wall. The turkey jerked upright, spinning slowly on its platter like a grotesque ballerina.
Barbara screamed.
“Mom! The turkey’s haunted!” Lily shouted from the doorway, her phone already out to film the spectacle.
“It’s not haunted!” Angela insisted, though she wasn’t entirely sure.
The turkey stopped spinning and, as if on cue, collapsed into a pile of bones and stuffing.
“Okay, maybe a little haunted,” Angela muttered.
Dinner was served an hour later, though “served” was a generous term. The turkey was a pile of scraps, the mashed potatoes had been scraped off the walls, and the cranberry sauce had been hastily scooped out of the bathroom sink.
Barbara poked at her plate, her expression somewhere between horrified and amused. “This is… certainly memorable.”
Mike tried to lighten the mood. “Well, at least we’re all together, right? That’s what matters.”
Angela shot him a look that could curdle milk.
Just as everyone was starting to eat, the chandelier above the dining table began to sway. A soft hum filled the room, growing louder and louder until a ghostly figure materialized above the table.
Edward.
He was a stout, mustachioed man in a flour-dusted apron, his expression one of deep disappointment.
Angela dropped her fork. “Oh, come on!”
Edward sighed. “I only wanted to assist.”
“Assist?!” Angela gestured to the table. “This is the worst Thanksgiving ever!”
Edward frowned. “You lack seasoning. And your gravy…” He shook his translucent head. “An insult to the culinary arts.”
Angela stood, slamming her hands on the table. “Listen here, Casper. I’ve had enough of your meddling! I worked hard on this dinner, and it’s not perfect, but it’s mine!”
The room fell silent. Edward floated closer, studying Angela with narrowed eyes. Finally, he nodded. “Fair enough.”
With a snap of his ghostly fingers, the turkey reassembled itself into a picture-perfect roast. The green gravy returned to its proper brown color, and the mashed potatoes floated back into their bowl, smooth and fluffy. Even the cranberry sauce reappeared in its dish—sparkling clean.
And with that, he vanished.
Dinner turned out to be a roaring success. Barbara even asked for Angela’s stuffing recipe, and Ryan’s video of the turkey fiasco went viral on TikTok.
As Angela finally sat down with her own plate, she caught a faint whiff of flour and heard a soft whisper in her ear: “Next time, try adding nutmeg.”