Tracie Hicks

Emily’s fingers grazed the frayed edges of her grandmother’s recipe box, a worn artifact of decades spent feeding the family. The box’s hinges creaked as she opened it, revealing a jumble of yellowed index cards, their surfaces etched with faded ink and flour-dusted corners. A gust of November wind rattled the windows; its mournful howl echoed through the colonial home that had been in the Mitchell family for seven generations.

“Still feels weird without them,” Sarah said as she folded a linen napkin into a crisp triangle.

Emily nodded, her throat tightening. At twenty-one, she was used to being the responsible one, but the weight of her parents’ recent deaths bore down on her like lead. “Mom would’ve had us running around by now, triple-checking every detail,” she said, forcing a laugh.

Two years younger and quieter by nature, Sarah glanced toward the cabinet where the good china was shelved. “She would’ve wanted us to keep the traditions alive. Even if it’s just the two of us.”

Emily flipped through the cards, her eyes skimming cranberry sauce and stuffing recipes. One card caught her attention—its text was written in a familiar script, but not for a dish. She frowned, pulling it out.

“Sarah, you have to see this?” Emily asked, holding the card up.

“What is it?”

Emily hesitated, her pulse quickening. “It’s… instructions for a séance. Grandma’s handwriting. She even wrote it like a recipe.” She scanned the lines aloud. “To commune with family past, perform on Thanksgiving night before the feast. Use only once for each generation.”

Sarah leaned closer, her brow furrowing. “Why would Grandma keep something like that in the recipe box?”

“No idea,” Emily said, her voice tinged with unease. “It has to be a joke, right?”

Sarah didn’t laugh. Instead, a spark of curiosity lit her dark eyes. “What else does it say?”

Emily squinted at the card, her voice steadying as she read aloud. “Set the table for the living and the dead. Include something personal for each ancestor you wish to invite—an heirloom, a photograph, or a favorite item.”

“That’s specific,” Sarah said, leaning closer.

“Light white candles in a circle around the table,’ Emily continued, “Join hands and recite the invocation. Be respectful and grateful. The spirits will come only if welcomed with sincerity.”

Silence hung between the sisters.

“You don’t think this could actually work, do you?” Sarah asked.

Emily shrugged, the weight of the card in her hand heavier than its paper should allow. “I don’t know. But it’s… interesting, right? Maybe it’s just some weird family tradition. And it’s once per generation, which means it’s our turn.”

Sarah bit her lower lip, her gaze drifting to the candle drawer. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“You’re serious?”

“Why not?” Sarah said with a shrug, though her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth. “Thanksgiving feels empty this year. Maybe this is a way to make it less… lonely.”

Emily hesitated, her pulse quickening. The idea was strange—borderline absurd—but something about it resonated. “Fine,” she said, her voice firm. “Let’s do it. But we stick to the instructions exactly. No improvising.”

Sarah nodded, her face lighting up with anticipation. “Deal.”

The sisters exchanged a glance—half daring, half reassurance—before turning toward the dining room. The recipe card was clutched in Emily’s hand.

Preparing the Table

The sisters busied themselves, their unease cloaked in the rhythm of preparation. The instructions demanded heirlooms or photographs for each ancestor they wished to invite. Emily brought out their great-grandfather’s hand-carved figurine, their grandmother’s silver hairpin, and weathered black-and-white pictures of other relatives.

Sarah hovered over the table, arranging the mementos with care. “What about Mom and Dad?”

Emily’s hand paused mid-reach. The mention of their parents felt like a fresh wound. “Not tonight,” she said quietly. “It’s… too soon.”

Sarah didn’t argue. Instead, she struck a match, lighting the white candles they’d placed in a circle around the table. The room’s corners blurred in the golden glow, shadows leaping like dancers along the walls.

The dining room, always a space of warmth and familial chaos, now felt foreign—eerily silent, as though the house itself waited.

The Séance

Emily took a deep breath, her voice wavering as she began the chant.

“Spirits of those who came before,
Cross the threshold, open the door.
We invite you to this sacred space,
Join us here, show your face.”

Sarah joined in, their voices weaving through the stillness.

The candle flames wavered, shrinking into blue-tinged pinpoints before stretching tall, their light flickering like heartbeat pulses. The room grew colder, the chill pressing against their skin, tangible and relentless.

“Do you feel that?” Sarah whispered, her grip tightening on Emily’s hand.

Before Emily could answer, the air shifted—a faint but unmistakable breeze carried the scent of lavender and pipe smoke. The sisters exchanged a glance, wide-eyed and breathless.

At the head of the table, the space wavered like heat rising off pavement. Slowly, mist began to swirl, its tendrils coalescing into forms. Shadows deepened into shapes, and shapes into faces—faces they knew.

Meeting the Ancestors

Their grandmother appeared first, her silver hair pinned back in the style she’d always favored. Her eyes, sharp and full of mischief, sparkled as though no time had passed.

“Grandma?” Emily’s voice cracked, her body frozen in awe.

The old woman smiled warmly, her gaze sweeping the table. “Emily, Sarah. You’ve grown so much.”

Beside her, their great-grandfather materialized, his burly frame and weathered hands solidifying as though carved from smoke. He regarded them with an approving nod. “Good to see the Mitchell tradition hasn’t died with us.”

One by one, more figures emerged—uncles and aunts from faded photographs, ancestors whose names had been spoken only in family lore—the table filled with their presence, their voices mingling in a gentle hum of greetings and whispers.

Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth. “This… this is real?”

“Of course it’s real,” her great-grandfather said, his voice carrying the deep timbre of authority. “Did you think we wouldn’t answer the call?”

A Family Thanksgiving

What began as a séance transformed into a reunion. The spirits spoke in turns, sharing stories, teasing one another, and marveling at the lives their descendants led. Their grandmother told tales of chaotic Thanksgivings, pies burned to ash and turkeys dropped on kitchen floors. Their great-grandfather recounted building the dining table, his hands as steady in memory as they’d been in life.

Emily and Sarah soaked in every word, their laughter mixing with tears. For the first time in months, the heaviness of grief eased, replaced by a sense of connection that spanned centuries.

“Mom and Dad?” Sarah asked hesitantly, her voice breaking the upbeat rhythm.

The room quieted, the spirits exchanging somber looks. Their grandmother leaned forward, her translucent hand brushing the edge of the salt circle. “They’re adjusting,” she said gently. “It’s not their time to come through. But they are watching, always.”

Closing the Door

As the hours passed, the spirits faded, their forms unraveling like mist in the morning sun. Their grandmother was the last to go, her gaze lingering on Emily and Sarah.

“Thank you for remembering us,” she said. “Carry our stories forward. They are what keep us alive.”

Emily’s throat tightened, her fingers curling around Sarah’s. Together, they recited the closing words:

“Spirits who joined us in this place,
Return now to your time and space.
Our gratitude to those we adore,
Go in peace, and close the door.”

The candles flared one last time before extinguishing, plunging the room into darkness.

The Morning After

Sunlight streamed through the windows, chasing away the night’s shadows. Emily and Sarah sat at the table, their eyes heavy with exhaustion but their hearts lighter.

“Do you think we’ll ever do it again?” Sarah asked.

Emily smiled, vividly remembering their grandmother’s warm gaze. “Yes, when our kids are ready.”

As they cleared the table, the heirlooms and photographs felt heavier in their hands, charged with meaning. The sisters had lost their parents, but they’d found something just as precious—a family that, despite death, remained unbroken.

This Thanksgiving, they had feasted on more than food. They had fed on memory, love, and the unshakable bonds of those who came before.