Thanksgiving dinner, and the turkey is sparkling with the blood of rapture owls. The electric carving knife hovers above it, quivering, singing its hushed song of longing, its serpentine cord writhing rhythmically. The stuffing rustles in anticipation; the cranberry sauce, lovingly pressed into a can shape by calloused pilgrim hands, pulsates tensely. The song pauses, and when the knife descends, space itself parts before it. The turkey is no more.

In the next room, the family is suspended, lifelike, over the various pieces of furniture. Their faces are grim masks of jocularity pasted onto their rigid mannequin forms. Their eyes are off center; not by much, but it's enough. Looking at them all gathered together, the effect is slow to build but overpowering once established. The room spins. Your gaze reaches out for the only fixed point, Uncle Grady's left eye. It seems warm, moist, friendly, like a damp yet cheery island of pleasure in a stormy sea of rotation. It invites you in.

Once inside, the autoclave takes your coat and guides to you the room you are to be installed in. The senior technician wipes you down, removes your clothes, and settles you in. It's going to be a long trip. When you arrive, the whole family is there, waiting for you before serving Thanksgiving dinner.

Thanksgiving dinner, and the turkey is sparkling with the blood of rapture owls...