In a small, cozy kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air as Grandma stood near the counter, holding the phone to her ear. The kitchen was warm, both in temperature and in atmosphere, with its wooden cabinets and the gentle glow of autumn sunlight filtering through the window. Outside, the leaves had fallen, signaling that Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

Grandma’s voice was soft and filled with affection as she spoke to her granddaughter, a sweet young girl whose framed photo sat on the counter nearby.

“Oh, honey, I can’t wait until you’re old enough to help me in the kitchen next year,” Grandma said with a chuckle. “We’ll make all your favorite dishes together. I promise.”

The little voice on the other end of the line was filled with excitement. “Grandma, can you make something special this year? Something from Poland? Mommy says our family came from there a long time ago.”

A gentle smile spread across Grandma’s face. The request touched her heart. It had been years since she had thought about her own grandmother’s recipes, the ones that had been passed down through generations.

“I’d love to, sweetheart,” Grandma replied. “I’ll find something special, just for you.”

As they continued to talk, Grandma’s mind wandered back to those days when she was just a little girl, helping her own grandmother in the kitchen. The memory of kneading dough, stirring pots, and tasting the rich flavors of traditional Polish dishes filled her with a sense of nostalgia and warmth. Those were precious moments, and she wanted to pass them on to her granddaughter.

But there was one problem. Over the years, with so many moves and changes, she had lost her grandmother’s recipe book. It was a treasured heirloom, filled with the handwritten recipes of her ancestors, and it pained her that it was gone. Still, she was determined to find a way to bring a piece of their heritage to the Thanksgiving table this year.

“Don’t you worry,” Grandma said reassuringly. “I’ll find a recipe that reminds me of your great-great-grandma, and we’ll have something truly special for Thanksgiving.”

After saying their goodbyes, Grandma hung up the phone and sighed contentedly. She was determined to make this Thanksgiving memorable. Little did she know, her search for that special recipe would lead her down a path she could never have imagined.

The next morning, the sun peeked through the curtains as Grandma pulled on her warm coat and stepped out into the crisp Detroit air. The leaves crunched under her feet as she made her way to her car, determined to find the perfect recipe to honor her family’s Polish heritage. Her granddaughter’s request had ignited a spark within her, and she was filled with a sense of purpose as she began her search.

Grandma started her day at the local library. The familiar smell of old books and polished wood brought back memories of her childhood, but as she combed through the shelves in the cooking section, she couldn’t find anything that felt quite right. The modern cookbooks were filled with new twists on traditional dishes, but she was looking for something old, something that would connect her to her ancestors.

Undeterred, she decided to visit a few thrift shops and antique stores. The dusty shelves were filled with odds and ends from a bygone era—faded photographs, tarnished silverware, and stacks of worn books. Grandma carefully sifted through them, hoping to stumble upon a hidden gem. She found a few cookbooks that looked promising, but none of them contained the authentic Polish recipes she longed for.

As the day wore on, Grandma’s hope began to wane. She had visited several shops, each one yielding little more than the last. But just as she was about to give up, she remembered a popular crafting website she had used before. It had a section for rare and antique books, and she thought it might be her last hope.

That evening, Grandma sat down at her computer and browsed the site, her eyes scanning the listings for anything that might fit her needs. After a few minutes, she found it—a small, weathered cookbook titled Tradycyjne Polskie Potrawy (Traditional Polish Dishes). The cover was faded, and the pages looked yellowed with age, but something about it called to her. It was exactly what she had been searching for.

The price was reasonable, and the book was listed as being in stock with express shipping available. Grandma’s heart skipped a beat as she placed the order. It felt like fate. Within a few days, the book would arrive, and she could start preparing the special dish for her granddaughter.

With a satisfied sigh, Grandma closed her laptop. The thought of her granddaughter’s smiling face filled her with joy. This Thanksgiving was going to be one to remember, she was sure of it. As she went to bed that night, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. The search had been more difficult than she’d expected, but she had found exactly what she needed.

The next few days passed in a blur of excitement and preparation. Grandma busied herself with the usual Thanksgiving tasks—cleaning the house, shopping for groceries, and planning the menu. But always in the back of her mind was the anticipation of that old Polish cookbook.

Finally, the day arrived. Grandma returned home from her morning errands to find a small package sitting on her front porch, just as the website had promised. Her heart raced with excitement as she carefully brought the package inside, placed it on the kitchen table, and began to unwrap it.

The book was even more beautiful than she had imagined. The cover, though worn, held a certain charm, and as she flipped through the pages, the handwritten notes in Polish caught her eye. It was clear that this book had been well-loved by its previous owner. Grandma’s excitement grew as she realized she was holding a piece of history in her hands.

“This is perfect,” she whispered to herself, already envisioning the look on her granddaughter’s face when she told her about the special dish she would be making.

But as she continued to examine the book, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something about it was unusual. The writing was old, much older than anything she was familiar with. Some of the words were in a dialect she didn’t recognize, and there were strange symbols in the margins that she couldn’t quite decipher.

Still, Grandma brushed aside her unease. It was probably just the way things were written back then, she reasoned. Besides, what mattered most was the connection to her heritage, and this book was the key to that.

She had no idea that the key she had found would unlock something far more sinister than she could ever have imagined.

In the warmth of her kitchen, Grandma carefully placed the old Polish cookbook on the counter, its yellowed pages lying open to the stuffing recipe she had chosen. The kitchen was filled with the familiar scents of Thanksgiving—freshly chopped herbs, onions, and bread cubes ready to be transformed into something special. The autumn sunlight filtered through the window, casting a golden glow on the scene.

Grandma hummed softly to herself as she worked, her hands moving with practiced ease as she measured out the ingredients. The recipe was simple enough, but as she read through the directions, she noticed something peculiar. Scrawled in the margins of the page, in a faded script, were words in old Polish—words she didn’t fully understand.

She furrowed her brow, leaning in closer to the book. The writing seemed ancient, the kind of Polish that hadn’t been spoken for centuries. The note instructed her to speak the words aloud as she added the anise to the mixture. Grandma chuckled to herself, thinking it was a quirky tradition, perhaps something her ancestors had done for good luck.

“Why not?” she murmured, picking up the small jar of anise seeds. “It’s all part of the experience, I suppose.”

Carefully, she sprinkled the anise into the mixture, her voice barely above a whisper as she attempted to pronounce the strange words. The syllables felt foreign on her tongue, the sounds thick and rough, and she stumbled over the pronunciation.

As the last word left her lips, a chill made her shiver. The room seemed to grow a little dimmer, the corners of the kitchen darkening as if the shadows had deepened. She paused, glancing around, but everything appeared normal—just the familiar comfort of her kitchen.

Shrugging off the odd feeling, Grandma continued with her task, mixing the stuffing and preparing to bake it before placing it inside the turkey. But as she worked, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her, just out of sight. The sound of giggles echoed faintly through the room, so soft she could almost believe she had imagined it.

She frowned, glancing at the radio. Christmas music was playing softly, and she reasoned that perhaps it was part of a song. But still, the sound lingered in the air, unsettling her.

With the stuffing finally ready, she scooped it into a baking dish and slid it into the oven. The oven door creaked as she closed it, the sound unusually loud in the quiet kitchen. She set the timer and stepped back, rubbing her arms as the chill in the room seemed to intensify.

“Just my imagination,” Grandma muttered, though the unease gnawed at her.

As the hours passed and the turkey was stuffed, the strange noises continued. Giggles, sneezes, and even the faint sound of yawning echoed through the kitchen. Each time, Grandma would pause, her heart skipping a beat, but she always found a logical explanation. The house was old, after all, and old houses made noises—especially in the stillness of night.

But as she slipped the tinfoil over the turkey one last time before heading to bed, she didn’t notice the tiny hand that reached out from inside, tugging the foil ever so slightly. The kitchen was quiet now, the shadows deep, and the only sound was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.

The next morning, Grandma awoke early, her sleep interrupted by strange dreams she couldn’t quite remember. The house was still, the early light filtering through the curtains as she shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers whispering against the floor. She brewed herself a strong cup of coffee, needing the extra jolt to shake off the remnants of sleep.

As she sipped her coffee, the warmth slowly spreading through her, Grandma began to focus on the tasks ahead. It was Thanksgiving Day, and there was still much to be done before her family arrived. The turkey had been roasting all night, filling the house with the rich, savory aroma that always accompanied this special day.

Grandma need the oven to bake an apple pie, so she removed the turkey and placed it on some handknitted coasters on the dining room table. Then, she slipped back into the kitchen to continue chopping vegetables and baking. She’d return the dining room from time-to-time to make sure the turkey remained warm.

At noon, she went to get the turkey to heat it up just a touch …

But as she stepped into the dining room to check on the turkey, she froze. The scene before her made her heart skip a beat.

The tinfoil she had carefully placed over the turkey was no longer covering it. Instead, it lay crumpled on the floor beside the dining room table. For a moment, she simply stared, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. How could the foil have ended up there?

“Maybe I didn’t place it right,” she muttered, though doubt gnawed at her. She distinctly remembered securing it tightly the last time she checked on it.

She moved closer to the table, her eyes narrowing as she examined the turkey. Something about it seemed off—its shape wasn’t quite right. The skin looked… stretched, as if something inside was pushing against it.

Before she could investigate further, a sound reached her ears—a soft, scratching noise, followed by a faint giggle. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned towards the source of the sound, her eyes landing on the coat closet by the front door.

For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind racing. The giggle came again, this time accompanied by a rustling sound, like something small and quick moving behind the door.

Heart pounding, Grandma tightened her grip on the knife she had been using to chop vegetables earlier. She stepped cautiously towards the closet, her mind trying to rationalize what she had heard. Perhaps a mouse had gotten inside, or maybe it was just the old house settling in the morning chill.

But as she reached the closet door, she knew, deep down, that something was terribly wrong.

With a trembling hand, she reached out and slowly turned the doorknob. The door creaked open, revealing the darkness within. For a moment, she saw nothing but the shadows cast by the coats hanging inside.

Then, out of the gloom, a pair of large, round black eyes blinked up at her.

Grandma gasped, stumbling back in shock as three small figures emerged from the closet. They were no taller than a few apples stacked on top of each other, with skin so dark green it was nearly black. Their eyes were wide and unblinking, reflecting the dim light in the room, and their mouths twisted into unsettling grins that revealed sharp, crooked teeth.

Each of them had four fingers and toes, tipped with hooked nails, and their limbs were lanky and thin, almost too long for their bodies. On their shoulders, tufts of dark brown fur with white highlights poked out, giving them a wild, unkempt appearance. Despite their small size, they exuded a malevolent energy that made Grandma’s skin crawl.

For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. But the goblins didn’t give her time to react. With a high-pitched laugh, they lunged at her, their sharp nails scratching at her legs.

Grandma let out a scream, swinging the knife wildly as she tried to fend them off. She managed to slice through the air, grazing one of the goblins and sending it tumbling back with a squeal of pain. But the other two were quick, dodging her attacks and darting around her with terrifying speed.

As she backed away, she collided with the dining table, nearly knocking over the turkey. The goblins paused, their grins widening as they turned their attention to the centerpiece of the meal.

Before her eyes, the turkey began to twitch. The skin stretched further, splitting open with a sickening tear. Dozens of small, dark shapes began to pour out, tumbling onto the table and then onto the floor. They were more goblins, each identical to the three that had attacked her.

With a sense of rising horror, Grandma realized the stuffing she had so carefully prepared had been the goblins’ feast—and now they were here, in her house, ready to finish the meal.

The dining room erupted into chaos as the goblins swarmed her, their small bodies moving with terrifying speed. Grandma fought back with all her might, swinging the knife, kicking, and even hurling nearby objects at them. She managed to strike down a few, their bodies crumpling to the floor, but there were too many of them.

They overwhelmed her, their claws digging into her skin as they dragged her down. Her screams echoed through the house, mingling with the high-pitched laughter of the goblins. The last thing she saw before everything went dark was the twisted, grinning faces of the goblins surrounding her, their eyes gleaming with malevolent delight.

The house was eerily quiet now, the chaotic sounds of the struggle replaced by an unsettling stillness. The once warm and inviting dining room was now a scene of utter devastation. The table was overturned, chairs lay scattered across the floor, and the turkey, once the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving feast, was torn apart, with bits of stuffing and feathers strewn everywhere.

A small, dark pool of blood slowly spread across the floor, seeping from beneath the front door. The thick, metallic scent hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint remnants of roasting turkey and spices.

Outside, the sound of an SUV pulling into the driveway broke the silence. The vehicle came to a stop, and the engine was turned off. A moment later, the car door opened, and a young girl’s voice could be heard, full of excitement and anticipation.

“Grandma! We’re here!” the girl called out, her voice echoing in the cold air.

But inside, there was no response—only the continued spread of the dark, viscous pool on the floor, slowly creeping towards the hallway.

The girl bounded up the steps, her mother following closely behind, carrying a dish covered in foil. They reached the front door, the girl eagerly reaching up to knock, but before she could, the door slowly creaked open, as if on its own.

“Grandma?” the girl called again, stepping inside.

The first thing that hit them was the smell—a sharp, metallic tang mixed with the unmistakable aroma of a Thanksgiving meal gone terribly wrong. The girl’s smile faltered as she looked down and saw the blood on the floor, her eyes widening in confusion and fear.

“Mommy…” she began, her voice trembling.

But before her mother could respond, a faint giggle echoed through the house, high-pitched and eerie, coming from somewhere deep within the shadows. The girl froze, her small hand clutching her mother’s coat, as more giggles joined the first, the sound growing louder and more sinister with each passing second.

The mother stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the horrifying scene before her. The overturned furniture, the remnants of the turkey, the blood… and the open closet door, where the shadows seemed to pulse and move as if alive.

“Get back to the car, sweetie,” she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

But it was too late. The shadows began to shift, and from the darkness, small, dark figures started to emerge—goblins, their round black eyes gleaming with malevolent delight, their mouths twisted into cruel, hungry grins.

The mother gasped, pulling her daughter close as the goblins began to advance, their movements quick and jerky, like broken marionettes. They were coming for them, the same way they had come for Grandma.

“Run!” the mother screamed, shoving her daughter towards the door.

But the girl was frozen in place, her eyes locked on the goblins as they continued to pour out from the shadows, their laughter growing louder and more frenzied. The mother grabbed her, dragging her towards the door, her own heart racing with terror.

They burst out of the house and into the cold air, the mother slamming the door behind them. But even as they ran towards the SUV, the laughter followed them, echoing in the night, promising that this was far from over.

As they sped away, the house stood silent once more, the shadows within it deep and impenetrable. But inside, the goblins continued their feast, their sharp teeth tearing into the remains of their meal, their giggles filling the empty rooms.

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