🦃 An Unusual Thanksgiving

A Witch Haven Bay Thanksgiving Gothic Tale

By Christine Esser, writing as Tina Esser

The Fog Harbor Hotel looked more abandoned than rented that Thanksgiving afternoon. The old hotel sat at the end of Breaker Street; its once-grand neon sign flickering just enough to suggest it wasn’t ready to die yet.

A small film crew had taken over the lobby — five people, three cameras, and exactly zero working outlets. They’d come to Witch Haven Bay to film a documentary about the 1948 Winter Festival Fire and the rumors of a musician’s ghost still drifting through the harbor.

But right now, they weren’t thinking about ghosts.
They were thinking about dinner.

Specifically, how the only diner in town — Sadie’s — had run out of Thanksgiving plates before they called.

“You should’ve ordered yesterday,” Sadie had scolded over the phone. “We’re a town, not a miracle factory!”

So now the crew was huddled around a coffee table, staring at their meager feast: a few bruised apples, stale crackers, and a package of beef jerky.

“We’re not gonna starve,” muttered the director, Liza. “We can find some food. ”

“Maybe,” said Jonah, the cameraman, who had just gotten back from a scouting errand. “I found a pastry shop still open.”

He set down two ornate boxes from Mirelda Caul’s Honeythorn Pies, decorated in glittery twine.

The crew perked up.

“Bless you,” Liza whispered. “You’re a genius.”

Jonah grimaced. “Promise me you’ll still think that after you try them.”

They opened the boxes.

Inside were delicate tarts swirling with shimmering blue sugar, glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Is… food supposed to do that?” asked the sound tech.

“Shut up and pass me one,” Liza said.

Each crew member took a tart.

Jonah aimed a camera at them out of habit. “Okay. On three. One… two… three.”

They bit in.

The pastries tasted like honey, sea-salt caramel, and something floral and strangely musical. The room seemed to brighten. The chandelier flickered.

And then—

The pastries began to hum.

Softly at first.

Then louder.

Then louder, harmonizing with each other.

“Is that—”
“—a chord progression?”
“—in A minor?”
“—please tell me I’m not hallucinating—”

“No, you’re definitely hearing that,” said Jonah, moving the camera closer. “I’m getting all of this.”

The pastries vibrated.

One of them levitated three inches off the plate.

Another split open, revealing a swirl of blue mist that rose like a genie trying to find its legs.

The crew screamed.
Quietly — they were professionals, after all — but unmistakably.

“Okay,” Liza gasped. “So, we’re either drugged or we’re about to win a documentary award.”

Before the pastries could begin speaking (which, given Mirelda’s magic, they absolutely would have)… the lobby door banged open.

Sadie stormed in, cheeks flushed, carrying two enormous foil pans.

“Jonah told me what you people were trying to eat!” she barked. “So, I cooked my backup turkey. Move your gear.”

The crew parted like grateful disciples.

Sadie set down:

• a full roasted turkey
• mashed potatoes
• gravy
• stuffing
• cranberry sauce
• two pumpkin pies
• and a note that read: “DON’T EAT THE HONEYTHORN BLUE SUGAR. —Sadie.”

Everyone cheered.

Sadie eyed the humming pastries.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You did NOT.”

Jonah held up the camera. “Should we stop filming?”

Sadie snorted. “Kid, film everything. They’ll likely want that film as evidence when the city’s Paranormal Practitioner Board calls.”

The pastries suddenly dropped silent, as if they realized they’d just incriminated themselves.

But before the crew could box them up for disposal, a faint, mournful three-note trumpet phrase drifted in through the cracked window — soft, nostalgic, unmistakably from another time.

The crew fell still.

“What was that?” whispered Liza.

Sadie didn’t blink. “Just our local ghost. Don’t mind him — he gets sentimental on holidays.”

A swirl of fog pressed against the window, then faded, as if someone had tipped a hat and walked away.

The crew exchanged looks.

Jonah whispered, “We are absolutely coming back here.”

---

Future Trouble for Mirelda

The next day, the crew posted the footage of the humming Honeythorn pastries to their behind-the-scenes YouTube channel.

Within hours, it went viral.

Within days, it became:

• a meme
• a trending audio
• And Exhibit A in the upcoming case that the city would bring against Mirelda Caul for “reckless infusion of unstable magical sugar into the food supply.”

Somewhere in town, Mirelda sneezed violently.

Sadie felt oddly satisfied.

And in Witch Haven Bay, the fog lifted just long enough for a ghostly trumpet to play one warm, wistful chord of Thanksgiving approval.

Happy holidays!

………………………………………………………

If this short story made you smile, you might also enjoy the Thanksgiving story in Pumpkin Pie Poltergeist, book 3 in the Witch Haven Bay series, usually available for $0.99 (#free on Thanksgiving) at Barnes & Noble, Apple, Kobo, Tolino, and more online bookstores: https://books2read.com/u/3RZ70G