November 25, 2025

The map didn’t show it, and the GPS had a fit trying to name it, but the dirt path led right into a place called Barrow’s End. The sign was barely readable—slumped and scorched, only the word “End” still intact. Jasper and his girlfriend May were just looking for a scenic fall drive and maybe a creepy selfie or two. What they found was a town full of smiles. Waxen, motionless, bone-dry smiles.

Barrow’s End was a ghost town in every sense: boarded-up shops, collapsed barns, and dust where life used to bloom. But as dusk approached, it changed. Windows flickered with firelight. The scent of roasting meats and burnt cinnamon filled the air. Laughter—dry, stilted, wrong—rattled down the street like a breeze full of teeth.

“Did you hear that?” May whispered, phone poised for a TikTok.

Jasper didn’t answer. He was staring at the town square where a long table—somehow unrotted—stood piled with food. Turkey. Squash. Cornbread. All too perfect. All too still.

Then came the people. From the alleys. From the broken buildings. From the soil.

Dressed in century-old clothes, their faces pale and lined, they sat down and began their silent feast. Knives and forks moved in unison. Eyes never blinked. Lips never chewed.

A woman at the head of the table looked up at Jasper and May.

“Come. Join us. There’s always room for the living,” she said, voice like autumn wind scraping rusted metal.

May stepped back. Jasper didn’t move.

The woman frowned. The guests looked up. All of them. In perfect synchrony.

“You must eat,” they said together.

May grabbed Jasper’s hand and ran—but the path out of town twisted endlessly, a Möbius strip of cornfields and hollow-eyed scarecrows who never seemed to get further away.

They were last seen at sunset, chasing the echo of an exit that no longer existed. Some say you can still hear them, calling for help through brittle leaves. But no one who stops in Barrow’s End ever leaves hungry.

And every Thanksgiving eve, the table grows a little longer.