14 Nov Yams of the Damned

📅 Published on November 14, 2024

“Yams of the Damned”

Written by Henry Hallmark
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 8 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

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Thanksgiving. My least favorite time of year, a holiday dedicated to the ancient art of overeating in the name of familial “bonding.” But this year, for the second time in a row, I was the poor sap hosting, and let me tell you, I was in no way prepared. I’d been guilted into this by my mother, who played the “you’re the only one with a house big enough” card, and my sister, who insisted that my apartment just had “such a cozy vibe.” Right, because being in violation of multiple fire codes simply by having more than two people in it at once was “cozy.”

So there I was, “cozily” preparing for a full-fledged feast, stressing over every detail. To say I’d cut some corners is an understatement. My turkey was still half-frozen, I’d forgotten to buy cranberries, and the centerpiece of my meal—a heaping bowl of mashed yams—was a “steal” I’d gotten from a guy selling them out of an unmarked truck near the highway.

Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Who buys Thanksgiving produce from a sketchy roadside setup? But the prices were ridiculous. Besides, he looked… well, trustworthy is too strong a word. He looked like he could’ve been trustworthy, in an alternate universe.

The yams were… off. They had this slightly odd, faint glow and were a bit plumper than yams I’d seen before, but I figured maybe they were organic or something. I mean, who was I to question Mother Nature’s idea of what a yam should look like? They were going to be mashed anyway—no one would even know.

As the clock ticked closer to showtime, I feverishly surveyed the table. The yams were sitting in a massive bowl, front and center, radiating… let’s call it an “earthy” glow. But it was fine. Totally fine. I had this under control.

* * * * * *

My family arrived a few minutes later, shuffling in like a bizarre parade of characters from a holiday sitcom. My Aunt Martha, first on the scene, immediately eyed the yams with suspicion. She wasted no time complaining about my lack of culinary prowess. “Oh, yams,” she said in a tone that sounded like she was trying not to gag. “Very… rustic.”

“Just wait until you taste them!” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “They’ll knock you dead.”

In retrospect, I should’ve caught the irony in that statement. But, you know, hindsight’s 20/20.

Uncle Joe, wearing his usual grimace, plopped down at the table with a groan. “Well, I hope this is better than last year’s fiasco.” He was referring to my previous attempt at a store-bought Thanksgiving, which he had not let me forget. He had grumbled about every last bite of that meal, and I fully expected him to continue the tradition this year.

Begrudgingly, everyone filed in and took their seats, the energy in the room somewhere between “ill-conceived family reunion” and “hostage situation.”

With a forced smile, I overenthusiastically gestured to the food. “Bon appétit! Dig in, everyone!”

There were some protests, a few forks stabbing at the turkey, and finally, the moment of truth—my beloved yams. Aunt Martha was the first to scoop a heaping spoonful onto her plate, shooting me a look that said she was only doing it to be polite. She took a cautious bite and then froze, her eyes going wide.

“Is… is everything okay?” I asked, putting on my most innocent face, even though I knew something weird was happening.

Aunt Martha’s eyes glazed over. “Delicious…” she mumbled, her voice distant, like she was slipping into a trance.

“Delicious?” I repeated, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice. Aunt Martha thought something I made was… good?

But then, Cousin Dave took a bite. He stopped mid-chew, his head tilting at a bizarre angle. I watched, horrified, as his eyes grew glassy, too, just like Aunt Martha’s, and he started drooling all over his plate.

“Uh, Dave? You okay there, buddy?”

He didn’t respond. Neither did Uncle Joe, who had ingested a giant forkful of the yams and was now staring blankly at the wall, mouth agape. Slowly, each of my family members started doing the same thing: chewing, staring, and drooling.

I backed away from the table, trying to process what I was seeing. Aunt Martha’s head jerked back toward me, her eyes fixed, unblinking, as she stood up. Then, one by one, the others rose from their seats, too, still chewing, still staring straight ahead.

“What… what’s happening?” I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

Aunt Martha took a step toward me, arms reaching out. She had that same glazed-over, hungry look on her face. And suddenly, it hit me like a fruitcake passed down through generations. My family wasn’t just craving dinner anymore—they were craving me.

I stumbled backward, knocking over furniture, as I realized I was the main course on the menu. As they closed in on me, I muttered to myself, “Well, this Thanksgiving sure took a hard left turn into Nightmare Boulevard.”

And with that, I bolted into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind me, barricading myself with a chair and praying I could somehow survive the yams of the damned.

* * * * * *

I pressed my back against the kitchen door, breathing heavily. From the other side, I could hear the low, collective groaning of my newly zombified family—yambies, if you will, craving more than just a second helping. Their footsteps shuffled closer, scratching against the door as I desperately looked around the kitchen for something—anything—that could be used as a weapon.

“Where is Aunt Martha’s green bean casserole when I need it?” I cried, bemoaning my lack of projectile and melee weaponry. If that side dish could survive four hours in the oven without taking any visible damage, surely it was powerful enough to take down a couple of flesh-eating relatives.

Out of other options, I grabbed my rolling pin off the counter and brandished it like a medieval knight holding Excalibur, feeling both heroic and wildly out of my depth. Through the crack in the door, I could see the slack-jawed members of my family pressing in, their eyes vacant, each of them moving in that all-too-familiar zombie shuffle. I didn’t know for certain if they were craving brains—I wasn’t exactly well-endowed in that department—but I’d be damned if I was going to let them crack me open, just to hear them complain that even that part of dinner was terrible.

Just then, my phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up and saw that my friend, Lisa, was calling. I hit “accept” so fast that I nearly flung the phone across the room.

“Lisa!” I whispered frantically. “Thanksgiving is a complete disaster! My family… they’ve turned into yambies!”

“Yambies?” She chuckled. “Like… yam zombies?”

“Yes, yam zombies! Please, you’ve got help me! They made the mistake of eating the food I prepared, and now they’re acting like the mindless undead… craving something, and I don’t think it’s leftovers!”

Lisa snorted, clearly not taking it seriously. “Riiiiight. Are you sure this isn’t just, like, your usual family dysfunction dialed up to eleven? How much has Joe had to drink?”

“Lisa, I’m serious! Aunt Martha just growled at me, and I’m pretty sure my cousin Dave was gnawing on the dining table. This isn’t normal! They’re trying to eat me!” I hissed, clutching the rolling pin tighter as the door buckled under the weight of Uncle Joe’s girth.

She laughed. “Well, this sounds like one Thanksgiving I wouldn’t want to miss!” she said sarcastically. “Good luck with the yambies, you weirdo.” Then she hung up, clearly convinced I was pranking her.

I stared at my phone in disbelief, then looked back at the door, which was now rattling with increasing intensity. It seemed I was on my own—just me, the rolling pin, and my precariously loose grip on my sanity.

Before you could say “World War Z,” the door shuddered once more and gave way, and in they came, their glassy eyes fixed on me, arms outstretched. Aunt Martha’s eyes gleamed with something I could only describe as… hunger. Her mouth twisted into a froth-covered smile, and she let out a low growl.

“Get stuffed, Aunt Martha!” I yelled, swinging the rolling pin at her with all my might. The sound was a satisfying thunk as it connected with her forehead, and she stumbled back, more out of surprise than pain, apparently.

Cousin Dave lunged toward me, his mouth hanging open in a gruesome sneer. I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding his grasp, and swung the rolling pin again, catching him on the shoulder.

“Make like a wishbone and give me a break!” I shouted, landing another blow on his arm.

But they were relentless, grunting and stumbling forward like the world’s most determined army of reanimated corpses. In my panic, I grabbed the nearest food item I could find—a whole turkey leg—and flung it at them. It struck Uncle Joe in the face with a splat, but instead of stopping, he licked his lips and bit into it without breaking stride.

“You’re supposed to eat that, not me!” I screamed, backpedaling toward the dining room table as they cornered me.

I needed to think fast. I scanned the room, my eyes landing on the leftover gravy from our doomed meal. In a flash of inspiration, I grabbed the gravy boat and poured it all over the floor, hoping they’d slip on it.

Unbelievably, it worked. Aunt Martha was the first to stumble, sliding across the gravy-soaked tiles and crashing into the refrigerator. Cousin Dave followed, his feet skidding out from under him as he landed facedown in the goopy mess. Uncle Joe wobbled, nearly catching himself, before ultimately slipping and taking out the dining room chairs in the process.

I used their momentary distraction to dive for the remaining bowl of mashed yams on the counter. My not-so-sweet potatoes were clearly the source of this horror show. If I could get rid of them, maybe I could break whatever hellish spell was turning my family into extras from The Walking Dead.

I turned and ran with the bowl in my hands, dodging Aunt Martha’s outstretched digits as she struggled to pull herself upright. Behind me, my family staggered, rising from the gravy trap and continuing their painfully slow pursuit.

* * * * * *

Out in the living room, I could see the fireplace roaring. “Perfect!” I quipped. “I never thought I’d be so excited about burning dinner!”

With a deep breath, I took one last look at my family and held the bowl over the fire. Aunt Martha’s eyes widened in horror, and a guttural sound escaped her throat—a mixture of anguish and rage. The whole family lurched forward, as if something deep within them knew their lifeline was about to be snuffed out.

“Well, yams,” I said, raising the bowl, “I know we just met, but this relationship isn’t working out. It’s time to say goodbye.” With that, I dumped the entire bowl of monster mash into the flames.

The yams hissed as they hit the fire, and a plume of thick, gray smoke billowed up from the hearth. In an instant, my family froze mid-step, their eyes rolling back as they let out one final, protracted groan. And just like that, they collapsed, one after the other, into a pile of unconscious bodies on the floor, snoring as though they’d just overdosed on tryptophan.

I sank down, clutching the rolling pin, surrounded by the carnage that was once my dining room. My family members lay sprawled around me, blissfully unaware of the absolute nightmare they’d just put me through.

As I sat there in the wreckage, wiping mashed yams off my face, I opined, “Next year, Aunt Martha’s hosting Thanksgiving.”

I got up, exhausted, and reached for a broom. Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and my stomach sank. Who could possibly be visiting at this hour?

Slowly, I shuffled over and opened the door. Standing outside, wearing the same toothy grin, was the mysterious produce salesman from the roadside, his eyes glinting with a strange light. I was too exhausted to care how he’d found me—but not too tired to notice that, in his arms, he held another basket full of otherworldly, glowing yams.

“Hey there, friend!” he said with that same unsettling cheerfulness. “I thought I’d check in and see if you needed more yams for Christmas! I’ve got a holiday discount that’s to die for! These bad boys are guaranteed to make your next get-together extra memorable! What do you say?”

Behind me, in the kitchen, Aunt Martha groggily rose to her feet, complained about her splitting headache, and distracted me by asking where I kept the “damned Tylenol.” Beside her, Uncle Joe was cursing up a storm, demanding to know why he had gravy in his underpants. I sighed. All of a sudden, abandoning my family to spend the rest of the night at a strip club didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

I returned my gaze to the salesman, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, as politely as possible, “I’ve had enough excitement for one year, thanks,” and slammed the door in his face.