They Must Return

"Give back, to receive." Michelle Liew

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The streets around Mrs Evelyn Crenshaw’s home were an idyllic picture of fall- streets scattered with maple leaves, lawns with pumpkin husks strewn by their sides, and the beginnings of wintry Frost building up on the windows of cars.

“Another seasonal opportunity for these punks. They must’ve hit this home,” thought Detective Clara Vance. She was referring to the spate of petty crimes that were washing over the town.

The seasoned detective had seen it all before - that mix of desperation and mischief, which bloomed like the annoying frost that burst through the cracks of floors. Around her, houses came to life with pumpkins, wreaths and lights. This house, however, was plain and colorless unlike the others. It was unnervingly quiet; its windows were a little too dark for this otherwise festive neighbourhood. She braced herself for yet another complaint.

Something seemed a little different about this one, however.

The Crenshaws had a reputation in the small town of Pettysville - for being petty, no less. The townsfolk didn’t exactly praise the family for its generosity. Homeless folks at the fringes of the town didn’t exactly flock around their home in search of a meal. They knew one would be a long time coming.

The detective observed the frost on the banister of the patio, her mind strangely fixated on what seemed to be the usual Thanksgiving melee. The icicles were edgier than usual; their sharpness cut a little into the metal as if it had a mind of its own.

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Mrs. Crenshaw opened the door, dressed in full Thanksgiving regalia. Her high-pitched voice rang in Clara’s ears. “Just like the police to arrive after the fact. Cheating us poor taxpayers.”

Clara held up her hands in surrender, trying to calm the distraught woman. “Alright, ma’am, I’m here to make good on your taxes. What can I do for you?”

The wind howled outside and frost quickly built up on the window pane. “My turkey’s gone,” said a distraught Mrs. Crenshaw. My relatives will be here in a couple of hours, and i need that bird to fly out of the oven with crisp wings.” She gestured to the kitchen, where the smell of roasted meat once lingered.

Clara nodded. She looked around the home, noticing a trail of footprints leading from the kitchen to the patio, down the driveway and into the woods - but they seemed odd. Slightly lifted.

The wind howled louder and the frost now caked the windows, nearly sealing them shut.

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The hardwired detective set about the unenviable task of uncovering the case of the missing turkey, minus the festive gusto. Looking for a lost bird in icy temperatures wasn’t exactly the way she had planned to spend Thanksgiving afternoon.

She followed the footprints into the dense woods. The forest was colder and darker than usual; trees whispered to each other in hushed tones. The footprints themselves seemed to come to life; they seemed to direct her deeper into the forest. The air swelled with a chill that permeated the air, leaving Clara with a nervous uncanniness that she didn’t quite know how to pinpoint.

The frost around her seemed to do a dance, forming unusual patterns on the tree bark. Then her nose got its first, comforting whiff in a while - the pleasant scent of roast meat, its lingering aroma pulling her further down the path.

She came to a clearing, and discovered the source of the familiar, Thanksgiving aroma. An eerie thanksgiving vibe caused some pause -again, this wasn’t the way to spend the holidays. Feathers drifted along the ground - there were herbs scattered around an almost cultish, makeshift altar, with a stump and axe in the middle of it. Elongated shadows crept around its edge, causing a shiver deeper than the cold.

As Clara took in her more-than-usual surroundings, the wind swirled, turning the leaves, picking up speed. It came to life with a haunting voice: “They take from all.” It grew louder at the thought: “THEY TAKE FROM ALL.” Her breath caught in her throat, as the wind pressed hard on her skin.

Was it just the chill causing sonorous mind tricks or was something else at play?

She saw again the footprints at the corner of her eye, but they were different - they had moved. Clara wasn’t typically a believer in the supernatural, but she couldn’t deny this - someone, or something unseen had been responsible for the missing bird, perhaps someone put off by the Crenshaw’s lack of generosity.

She heard the voice again. “The Crenshaws take from all. I take back.” Then, repeated :”The Crenshaws take from all. I take back.”

Clara froze, nearly giving in to her fear. But she steadied herself, her wheeling detective mind continuing to race.

But she didn’t remain steady for long. She fell, tumbling over a branch. And as she did, the scene before her changed - the woods, now no more, had turned into the home of the Crenshaws.

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Clara never thought that part of her job would be to negotiate with a spirit, but here she was, her role newly minted. As the autumn leaves swirled around her in a frenzied dance, she faced the altar.

“Whoever you are, I understand your anger. You want justice. You don’t want selfishness.” The leaves stopped momentarily.

“What if….I could convince them to prepare a little more this Thanksgiving for you, and for the town?”

The wind died down further. Then the voice: “Give back.”

Clara nodded.

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She took a slow breath, the crisp autumn air filling her lungs. The branches of the surrounding trees hung low, as if weighted by something old, unforgiven.

“Give back…”the voice echoed again, now colder, as if coming from beneath her feet.

Then, abruptly, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit. The turkey. The odd altar. This entity, who remained unknown. But it was clearly someone who knew the family. Finally, she spoke.

“I understand,” Clara said softly. “They’ve not been the most generous of people. They’ve taken more than their fair share, and kept much to themselves. But let’s help them change. Understand that Thanksgiving is about sharing blessings. About showing how grateful we are, by giving.”

The wind picked up, this time a cool, calmer breeze. “You’ll make them see?”

“I will. But the next time we meet, will you tell me who you are?” But the wind had died again, leaving behind a comforting calm.

Clara put her hands in her pockets and headed in the direction of the Crenshaws, prepared to tell them that they had to prepare their missing turkey again - and more. More for those who linger in the woods.