Alice walked down the seemingly endless rows of frozen cases, in search of a turkey that would satisfy the holiday needs of her family. Alice was merely eight years old, but very mature for her age. She read at a tenth grade level and much preferred reading to playing childish games. Her mother had instructed her to find a proper turkey while she shopped for cosmetics. Alice quickly acquiesced. She loved the holidays, and was very fond of turkeys. She considered herself a connoisseur.
          As she walked past every row of turkeys, she became more and more aware of this particular grocery store’s shoddy selection. She was about to give up when she saw a turkey at the very far end of the aisle that she was currently on. It was a grand turkey, a majestic turkey, a powerful turkey. It was the biggest turkey she had ever seen before. Instead of having the usual “Butterball” or “Honeysuckle” labels on the turkey, it had, instead, a very large label that simply said “BIG TURKEY” in big, black, block letters. Alice knew this was the turkey she wanted. She approached the nearest employee.
          “If you aren’t too busy, kind sir, will you please take that ‘BIG TURKEY’ over there to my mother. She is currently in the cosmetics section. She’s the one with the pink lipstick. I would do it myself, you see, but I am merely a small girl and that particular turkey is far too large for me to carry.”
          “Oh,” said the employee, “are you referring to the ‘BIG TURKEY’?”
          “Well, that’s what I said, right?”
          “Don’t you know that turkey is haunted?!”
          Alice laughed heartily, as if there were a thousand drunken men playing a round of darts in her belly. “Oh, you dear, dear man. You amuse me. What is your name?”
          “Mario the Meat Man.”
          “Well, Mario. If you must know, I never took to much liking to haunted turkey stories. I’ve heard them all before. And the very fact that this turkey has such an urban legend surrounding it makes me want it even more.”
          “Fine, then,” said Mario. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

          Mario put some protective gloves on and got Alice the turkey. He followed her to her mother, who was trying on various lipsticks at her own leisure.
          “I got the turkey, mother. Isn’t it lovely?”
          “Oh, my dear,” said Alice’s mother. “It’s glorious. We shall leave this place at once, return home, and then cook a grand feast for ourselves.”
          “Grand,” said both Alice and her mother.

          Own the way home, Alice thought she would strike up a conversation about the myth surrounding their new turkey.
          “Mario the Meat Man said that this particular turkey is haunted, mother. What do you think of that?”
          “Well, I think that is preposterous, Alice. Everyone knows the only bird that allows itself to be possessed by the spirit of another dead bird is the emu. Everyone knows that, dear.”
          “I suppose you’re right, mother.”

          Alice and her mother arrived home ready to cook the greatest Thanksgiving feast either of them had ever had before.
          “Should we invite Aunt Caroline or Uncle Mortimer?” inquired Alice.
          “No,” said her mother, “they always bring that awful green bean casserole.”
          “Ah, yes. How about Grandma and Grandpa.”
          “No, you know how I detest old people, Alice”
          “Ah, yes. How about . . . ”
          “I have an idea,” interrupted Alice’s mother. “Let’s just have Thanksgiving dinner by ourselves this year. Just the two of us.”
          They both looked at each other for a moment. “Grand.”

          Alice’s mother placed the turkey in the oven while Alice watched.
          “How long do you think it will take, mother?”
          “Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t take more than half an hour, tops.”
          “Fine, then. I suppose I’ll go upstairs a build a fort out of my books again. Care to join me, mother?”
          “I’d love to, darling.”
          “Grand.”

          As Alice and her mother assembled two large walls out of Alice’s huge collection of books, things were beginning to go very wrong down in the kitchen. After only a few minutes, the turkey began to expand at a great rate. The oven would soon no longer be able to hold this great bird. The oven door blew open with force. Alice and her mother ran downstairs, quite calmly, to see what was the matter. As they walked through the two wooden doors, they saw something they had never seen before. A half cooked turkey, nine feet in height, and at least four feet in width, standing on its hind legs. It looked very angry.
          “I am the spirit of Sitting Bull! I was one of the Indian tribe leaders that attended the first Thanksgiving held by those terrible Pilgrims.”
          “Really?” asked Alice. “Why is your spirit residing in a turkey, off all things?
          “Geez, I don’t know. I guess I just love irony.”
          “Ahh . . . I see.”
          “What,” pleaded Alice’s mother, “do you want us to do for you, sir?”
          “All I really want is to have a nice dinner, with two nice people, and not be killed when we’re done. Not like last time.”

          Alice, her mother, and the haunted turkey sat down at the dinner table. Alice served the turkey some stuffing and her mother served him some cranberry sauce.

          “Oh, this is divine,” said the turkey. “This is what I’ve always dreamt of.”
          “We do have one problem, however,” stated Alice. “You were to be our turkey. Our main course to the feast.”
          “How about this,” laughed the turkey. With a hard jerk, he tore off his left wing and threw it on the centerpiece, causing a myriad of potpourri to fly everywhere.
          “Didn’t that hurt?!”
          “No . . . I’m just a spirit. The turkey can’t feel anything. He’s dead, ya know.”
          “Grand.”

          After they finished their meal, the turkey grew limp and fell on the floor. The window above the sink opened and the curtains blew in. The haunted turkey was haunted no longer.

© 2000 by Andrew Morgan