Thanksgiving Turkey Revenge

The last leaves clung to the trees, shaking loose as the wind howled across the countryside. I shivered, pulling the barn door shut with a groan of its rusted hinges, knowing what used to be a wonderful place. Hollow Creek was a far cry from my stomping grounds in New York. The silence felt oppressive, like the town was waiting for something.

None of us had expected what would be the start of our families Thanksgiving nightmare. 

The highlight of Hollow Creek’s Thanksgiving was the Turkey Turf Frenzy, a bizarre tradition where locals wrestled 300 live turkeys in a massive pen. The goal was simple: catch as many as you could in 30 minutes, shove them into crates, the winner would be crowned the Turkey Turf Townsman Champion. 

A pure golden feather crown would be awarded along with zero dollar processing fees. One free turkey meal every month. The rest would be delivered to families in need. 

The arena was chaos from the start. Hundreds of turkeys flapped and squawked, scattering as contestants sprinted after them. Feathers flew; people slipped in the mud. Chad and I watched from the edge of the pen, laughing nervously as his parents— the previous year’s champions—leapt into the fray.

The clock ticked down, and excitement surged. Chad’s parents were in the lead, each carrying a turkey toward their crates. Ten seconds to go.

And then it happened.

They collided head first with a sickening crack. The sound of their skulls hitting was a sound that is forever embedded in my memory banks, no matter how deep I try to bury it. 

They dropped where they stood, unmoving.

For a moment, the crowd fell silent. Then, one of the turkeys approached, pecking curiously at Chad’s father.

And then it didn’t stop.

More turkeys followed, pecking at the still bodies, pulling at flesh, and tearing through clothes. What began as hesitation became a frenzy. The turkeys were eating them.

It was as if they’d been waiting for this. Watching. Planning.

The thought hit me like ice in my veins: they knew. The turkeys knew.

The first scream came from the far side of the pen. A man tried to grab a bird, swinging it by the legs, but it overwhelmed him. It's beaks flashed, sharp and relentless.

“They’re… attacking!” someone yelled, but it was already too late.

The flock swarmed the contestants, their cries of victory turning to horror. Feathers and blood filled the air as the turkeys closed in on anything that moved.

“They’ve planned this,” Chad whispered, his voice trembling. “They’re tired of being the meal. They’re fighting back.”

I grabbed his arm. “We have to go!”

But Chad couldn’t stop staring at the arena. His parents were gone, their bodies nothing but tattered heaps beneath the birds. He shook his head, frozen in disbelief.

“Chad!” I screamed, snapping him out of his daze.

We ran as the chaos spread. Some spectators climbed the fence, only to be dragged down by the turkeys’ claws. Others trampled each other in their panic.

We made it to the truck and slammed the doors. I twisted the key in the ignition, my hands trembling. The headlights illuminated the arena one last time.

The turkeys had stopped chasing. They stood still now, their feathers matted with blood, their eyes gleaming with something I can only describe as triumph. They stared at us as we sped away, their heads cocked as if planning their next move.

Hollow Creek never hosted another Turkey Frenzy. The town buried the story, but the rumors grew.

Some say it was a curse. Others claim the turkeys had evolved, tired of centuries of slaughter, determined to reclaim Thanksgiving for themselves.

I came at my cousin Chad’s invitation. This was the worst Thanksgiving witnessing his parents’ tragic deaths. 

What I know is this: Thanksgiving was never celebrated there again.