The Hollow Feast

The first time I saw Great-Aunt Marguerite, I was six years old, and we had driven eleven hours through a rain that never seemed to end. My mother had just gotten the news that her aunt had fallen ill—a bad fall, they said, and the family was obligated to come. We were, as Mom put it, ‘paying our respects.’ But the way she said it, with her jaw tight and her eyes fixed on the road, made me think it wasn’t a simple visit.

The house sat at the end of a gravel road in the Upper Peninsula, surrounded by pine trees so thick they swallowed the sky. It was a two-story Victorian, all peeling paint and crooked shutters, with a porch that sagged like an old dog. My brother Danny and I shared a small room in the back, down a narrow hallway that always smelled of mothballs and something sweet—like rotting fruit. The other bedroom at the front belonged to Great-Aunt Marguerite, and next to it was a small room for her grandson, Eli. Eli was older than me, maybe fourteen, with dark eyes that never quite looked at you. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was in a whisper, as if he was afraid of being overheard.

On the first night, I woke to the sound of scratching. It came from the wall behind our bed, a rhythmic, skittering sound like claws on wood. I lay still, holding my breath, and listened. Then it stopped. I told myself it was a squirrel or a rat, and I drifted back to sleep. But in the morning, I saw a line of small, dark beads on the windowsill. They looked like seeds, but when I touched one, it crumbled into black dust.

Great-Aunt Marguerite never left her room. We could hear her sometimes, a low, guttural humming, or the creak of her rocking chair. Mom and Dad took turns bringing her meals, leaving trays outside her door. But one afternoon, I wandered past her door and it was ajar. I peeked inside. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle on a dresser. She was sitting in a rocking chair facing the window, her back to me. Her hair was white and thin, and she wore a black dress that hung off her shoulders. But what caught my eye was the table beside her—it was covered in jars and bottles, and in the center sat a large, silver platter with a thick, dark liquid pooling in the middle.

I must have made a sound, because she turned. Her face was a web of wrinkles, and her eyes were milky white, like she was blind. But she looked straight at me, and she smiled. Her teeth were yellow, and there was a gap where one was missing. She said, ‘Come closer, child. Let me see you.’

I ran back to our room, my heart pounding. I told Danny, but he just laughed and said I was imagining things. That evening, at dinner, Mom and Dad exchanged worried glances. Eli sat at the table with us, but he didn’t eat. He just stared at his plate. Finally, Mom said, ‘Eli, is your grandmother… behaving strangely?’ Eli looked up, and for a moment, his face was blank. Then he said, ‘She’s just old. She forgets things.’ But I noticed his hands were trembling.

That night, the scratching came again. This time, it was louder, and it seemed to move along the wall, following me. I pulled the covers over my head and hummed a song to drown it out. But then I heard a voice—a soft, whispering voice that seemed to come from right next to my ear. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it said. ‘I’m still hungry.’

I screamed, and Danny woke up. He turned on the lamp, and we saw that the wall was covered in thin, dark lines, like cracks, but they were moving, writhing slowly. Danny’s face went white, and he grabbed my hand. ‘We have to get out of here,’ he whispered.

We ran to our parents’ room, but they weren’t there. The door was open, and the room was empty. We searched the house, but it was dark and quiet. Then we heard a sound from the kitchen—a wet, chewing sound. We crept down the stairs and peeked around the corner.

Great-Aunt Marguerite was standing in the middle of the kitchen, her back to us. She was hunched over something on the counter. As we watched, she turned around, and her mouth was smeared with black, sticky stuff. In her hand, she held a jar, and inside the jar was a small, dark shape. It was moving. It looked like a tiny, human-shaped thing, but wriggling. She put the jar to her lips and drank.

I couldn’t help but gasp. She dropped the jar, and it shattered, and the black thing scurried across the floor and disappeared into a crack. Marguerite turned to us, and her eyes were no longer milky—they were black, like pools of oil. She took a step forward, and her mouth opened too wide, showing rows of teeth that were too sharp. ‘You’re just in time,’ she said, her voice a raspy hiss. ‘The feast is ready.’

We turned and ran, but the front door wouldn’t open. It was as if it was sealed. We ran to the back, but the windows were dark and barred. We were trapped. Danny grabbed a kitchen knife, and I picked up a broken chair leg. We stood back to back in the living room, facing her as she advanced slowly, her black dress trailing on the floor.

Then, from the hallway, Eli appeared. He was holding a small, leather-bound book, and he was chanting something under his breath. Great-Aunt Marguerite stopped, her head snapping around to face him. ‘You would betray me, boy?’ she hissed. Eli shook his head, and he opened the book. A pale light rose from the pages, and the air grew cold. He spoke a word I didn’t recognize, and Marguerite’s body began to convulse. She let out a terrible shriek, and then she collapsed into a pile of black dust, like the seeds on the windowsill.

Eli closed the book and looked at us. His eyes were clear now, and he looked tired. ‘She was cursed,’ he said. ‘She made a bargain with something, and it fed on her family. I was the only one left who could stop her.’ He handed me a small, silver charm—a crescent moon with a tiny star. ‘Take this. It will keep you safe.’

We left that house that night, and we never spoke of it again. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I still hear the scratching, and I see those black seeds on the windowsill. And I remember the taste of the air in that house—like rot and sugar. I don’t know if Eli truly stopped her, or if she’s just sleeping. But I always carry that silver charm, and I never go back to Michigan. Because I know that hunger like that never truly dies.