Table of slaughter

 Table for the Slaughter

Every year, my family celebrated Christmas at home. But last year, my dad decided to change things up. He booked us a table at a new restaurant called “The Holly Hearth.” It had just opened in a secluded area outside of town, and everyone was raving about their “unforgettable Christmas Eve dinner.”

We arrived just after sunset. The building looked like something out of a snow globe—quaint and picturesque, with twinkling lights and wreaths on every window. Inside, the smell of roasted meat and spiced cider filled the air, and a warm fire crackled in the stone hearth.

A hostess dressed as Mrs. Claus greeted us with a wide smile. “Welcome to The Holly Hearth,” she said. “We’re so glad you chose to spend your holiday with us.”

Her teeth seemed too perfect, too sharp, but I chalked it up to my imagination.

The dining room was cozy, with just a few other families seated around long, festively decorated tables. A group of servers dressed as elves brought out steaming plates of food, their movements precise and coordinated. The whole place had an eerie sense of perfection, like it had been staged for a Christmas card.

We were seated near the fire, and the “elves” quickly served us complimentary cider. It was warm and sweet, but there was an odd metallic aftertaste I couldn’t place. My little brother, Timmy, didn’t seem to notice. He was already on his second glass.

“They really went all out, huh?” Dad said, looking around.

Mom nodded, but she seemed distracted, her eyes lingering on the servers. “Doesn’t something feel… off?” she whispered to me.

Before I could answer, the lights dimmed, and the hostess reappeared. This time, she carried a small silver bell.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, her voice melodic but cold. “Thank you for joining us tonight. Before we begin the main course, we have a little tradition here at The Holly Hearth. A toast to the season!”

The other families raised their glasses, so we did too, though something about the moment made my skin crawl.

“To joy,” the hostess said.

“To giving,” the diners echoed.

“To the feast,” she finished, her smile widening.

As we drank, I noticed something strange. The families at the other tables looked… dazed. Their movements were sluggish, their eyes unfocused. Even Timmy, who was usually full of energy, seemed to sag in his chair.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, nudging him. He didn’t respond.

I turned to Mom, but before I could speak, the hostess clapped her hands. The servers moved in unison, locking the doors and pulling heavy curtains over the windows.

“What’s going on?” Dad asked, standing up.

The hostess smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re the guests of honor.”

The room fell silent, except for the sound of the fire crackling. The other families weren’t moving anymore. They sat slumped in their chairs, their faces slack, their glasses still clutched in their hands.

And then the smell hit me. Not the warm, savory aroma of roasted meat, but something sharp and metallic—blood.

The elves began clearing the tables, but not the dishes. They dragged the families from their chairs, their lifeless bodies leaving smears of red across the polished wood floors.

“Oh my God!” Mom screamed, grabbing Timmy. “We have to get out of here!”

Dad charged at one of the servers, but the elf moved with inhuman speed, knocking him to the ground with a single blow.

“You don’t understand,” the hostess said, her voice calm. “This isn’t just a restaurant. It’s a tradition. A sacrifice.”

“What are you talking about?” I shouted, my voice shaking.

“The Holly Hearth is special,” she said. “Every Christmas, we prepare a feast for those who deserve it most. And tonight, you are the feast.”

The servers advanced, their smiles now sharp and menacing. Their elf costumes were smeared with blood, and their eyes gleamed with hunger.

We fought. We tried to run. But the cider had done something to us. My legs felt like lead, my head spinning as the room blurred around me.

The last thing I saw was Timmy being dragged toward the kitchen, his small voice crying out for help.

I woke up to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses.

I was on a silver platter, surrounded by garnishes of holly and rosemary. My hands and feet were bound, my skin coated in a sticky glaze. The other families were laid out on long tables, their eyes wide and glassy.

The diners were back, but they weren’t human anymore. Their faces were elongated, their teeth sharp and glistening. They dug into the feast with wild abandon, their claws tearing into the meat.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard the hostess’s voice.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, her laugh echoing through the room. “And to all, a good bite.”