The Feast That Waited in Shadows

At dusk the house was hushed and low,

The frost clung close to every pane;
A single candle’s trembling glow
Made ghosts dance wild along the grain.

The table waited—cloth of white,
So pure it seemed to mourn, not dine;
Each fork and knife caught shards of light,
Like watchful eyes that dared not shine.

A whisper brushed the hallway’s throat,
A chair creaked once, then all was still;
The air grew thick enough to float—
A silence bent to unknown will.

Then—tap tap tap—upon the door,
Three knocks, deliberate and slow.
The clock struck six, perhaps no more,
Yet shadows deep refused to go.

I swallowed fear, then crossed the room,
Each footstep heavy, sharp, unsure.
The handle turned; out spilled perfume—
Of cider sweet, of autumn pure.

There stood my kin, all bundled tight,
Their laughter bursting through the chill;
And what had seemed like haunted night
Was merely evening’s playful thrill.

They tumbled in with coats and cheer,
With pies and stories, wine and song;
The shadows fled, replaced by near—
The warmth for which we all belong.

Aunt Ruth declared the turkey cursed—
(It smoked and hissed, yet tasted fine!)
Uncle Ned’s tall tale rehearsed
The “ghost” that stole his pumpkin wine.

The candles burned with dancing grace,
Reflected in each shining plate;
What once had felt a haunted place
Now brimmed with joy to celebrate.

And when the laughter shook the floor,
And gravy dripped like gilded sin,
I swore I heard, outside the door,
The night itself sigh soft—“come in.”

No demon, ghost, nor cursed delight,
Just family drawn by hearth and flame;
The dark that prowled around the night
Had only sought to play a game.

So now each year when dusk grows near,
And silence hums with half-known things,
We set a place, pour one more beer—
For mystery’s child, and joy it brings.