The Hollow Feast

I never put much stock in the supernatural until the autumn of 2011, when my grandmother’s death brought us to a place I’d only heard whispered about in family lore. The funeral was supposed to be in Lisbon, but on the morning of our flight, my father received a call that changed everything: the ceremony would be held in Aldeia da Sarzeda, a remote mountain village in northern Portugal, nearly four hundred kilometers from the coast. I’d never been there, and my only knowledge of it came from fragmented stories my mother told—tales of a place where the old traditions never died, where the mountains themselves seemed to watch.

We arrived after a long, winding drive through fog-thick forests and crumbling stone walls. The village was a ghost of itself, with maybe a dozen occupied houses clinging to a hillside, their rooftops sagging under moss. The air was cold and smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke. We stayed in my great-uncle’s house, a two-story granite structure that had been in the family for generations. It was drafty, with low ceilings and narrow windows that let in little light, and every corner seemed to hold a shadow that moved when you weren’t looking.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in a narrow bed, listening to the wind moan through the cracks in the walls. At some point, I heard a sound from downstairs—a rhythmic scraping, like a chair being dragged across a stone floor. I assumed it was my father or uncle moving furniture, but when I crept to the top of the stairs, the house was silent. The scraping continued for a few more minutes, then stopped. I chalked it up to rats or the old house settling, and eventually dozed off.

The next day was the funeral. It was a somber affair, with villagers I’d never met paying their respects. Afterward, my great-uncle Joaquim, a wiry man with eyes like flint, insisted on showing me around the village. As we walked, he told me about the history of Aldeia da Sarzeda, how it had once been a thriving community but had dwindled over the decades. He spoke of a local legend that I found unsettling: on the night of the harvest full moon, the spirits of the dead would return to the village for a great feast, and anyone who witnessed it would be cursed.

I laughed it off, but that night, unable to sleep again, I decided to take a walk to clear my head. The moon was full and bright, casting silver light on the cobbled streets. I wandered past the church, its bell tower looming like a skeletal finger, and down a path that led to an old cemetery at the edge of the village. The gate was ajar, and inside, the graves were overgrown, many with broken tombstones. As I turned to leave, I saw a light flickering in a small chapel beyond the cemetery. Curious, I approached.

The chapel door was ajar, and inside, a single candle burned on the altar. The air was thick with the smell of incense and something else—something like rust. I stepped inside and saw that the floor was covered in a thin layer of dust, and in the center of the room, a long wooden table had been set with plates and goblets, as if for a feast. The plates were empty, but the goblets were filled with a dark, syrupy liquid. I felt a chill run down my spine and backed away, but as I did, I heard a noise behind me—a low, guttural hum, as if many voices were chanting in unison.

I turned and saw that the cemetery was no longer empty. Dozens of figures stood among the graves, their forms indistinct, like heat shimmering on a summer road. They were facing the chapel, and slowly, they began to walk toward it. I didn’t wait to see more. I sprinted back to the house, my heart pounding, and didn’t stop until I was locked in my room.

The next morning, I told my father what I’d seen. He exchanged a glance with my great-uncle, who shook his head. ‘You saw the feast,’ Joaquim said, his voice low. ‘Now you must leave before the third night, or you will join them.’

I didn’t understand, but I didn’t want to. My father, however, insisted we stay until the funeral rites were complete. That day, I avoided the cemetery and the chapel, staying close to the house. But as evening fell, I felt an inexplicable pull toward the hill behind the village. I tried to resist, but the urge was overwhelming, like a rope tugging at my chest.

I found myself walking up a narrow goat path, through a thicket of gnarled olive trees, until I reached a flat clearing where stood an ancient stone altar, covered in moss. The moon was rising, and I could see the entire village below, its lights flickering. The air was still, and I heard a sound—a faint clinking, like glasses toasting. I turned and saw that the altar was now set with a single place setting: a plate, a knife, a fork, and a goblet filled with that same dark liquid.

I felt a presence behind me, cold and heavy. I didn’t dare turn. A voice, dry as autumn leaves, whispered in my ear: ‘You have been invited.’ I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the clearing was empty. The setting sun had vanished, and the moon was high and full. I ran back to the house, but when I got there, the door was locked. I pounded on it, but no one answered. I looked through the window and saw my family sitting at the dinner table, but they were frozen, their eyes vacant, as if in a trance.

I knew then that something terrible was happening. I fled into the night, not knowing where to go, but I stumbled upon the chapel again. The door was open, and the feast table was now laden with food—roasted meats, bread, fruits, and wine. But the food was rotten, crawling with maggots, and the wine was thick and black. Seated around the table were the figures I’d seen in the cemetery, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow. They were eating, and as I watched, one of them turned to me and smiled, revealing teeth like broken glass.

I screamed and ran, but the village had become a maze. No matter which way I turned, I ended up back at the chapel. I was trapped. Finally, I collapsed at the foot of the altar, exhausted. And then, in the silence, I heard my grandmother’s voice—soft, familiar, and kind. ‘Eat, child,’ she said. ‘It is the only way to leave.’

I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. I lifted the goblet and drank. The liquid was cold and tasted of copper. The world spun, and I fell into darkness.

I woke up the next morning in my bed at the house, my clothes drenched in sweat. My father was shaking me, saying it was time to go. I looked at him, but his eyes were different—there was a glint of something alien in them, just for a moment. In the car, I glanced back at the village, but it was gone, replaced by an empty hillside, as if it had never existed.

I never spoke of what I saw, but I know one thing: I didn’t leave the village at all. I left something there, and every full moon, I feel it pulling me back, inviting me to the feast.