Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Hello and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories and the Hunger.
This is episode three the recipe.
Speaker 1: The power went out at three a m. On November
twenty third. The sudden silence woke me. No more humming
of heaters, no more electrical buzz, just the wind and
something else. Footsteps above us on the roof. Emma grabbed
my hand. In the dark, Mom, the footsteps moved slowly,
deliberately from one end of the cabin to the other,
then scratching, long, deliberate scratches directly above our heads. It
knows which room we're in, Emma whispered. The scratching stopped.
Then from outside our window a voice, low, gravelly, like
wind through a collapsed throat. One more day, one more day.
We didn't sleep again. By morning, the cabin was freezing.
Uncle Pete had the fireplace roaring, and everyone huddled in
the living room. The snow was now seven feet deep,
still falling. The world outside had disappeared into white nothing,
generators frozen. Pete announced, we have the fireplaces and the
gas stoves. That's it. We need to leave. David said,
for the hundredth time, I'll dig out my car with what?
Pete laughed bitterly. You're going to dig through seven feet
of snow in a blizzard. It's twenty below zero out there.
Then we call for help with what phone? What cell signal?
Pete held up his dead phone. We're alone out here.
That's when we noticed Marcus was missing. He was here
an hour ago, Dana said, looking around, Marcus, Marcus. We
searched the cabin, every room, every closet. Nothing. Then Aunt
Patricia screamed from the kitchen. We found her standing at
the cellar door. It was open from below the sound
of chopping, rhythmic, wet Marcus. Pete called down, son, you okay?
The chopping stopped, Come on down. Marcus's voice drifted up,
but it was wrong, too, cheerful. I'm making dinner. Pete
started down the stairs. Dvid grabbed his arm. Don't something's
wrong with him. You saw what Sarah said about last night.
He's my nephew. A laugh from below, not Marcus's laugh, older, hungrier.
The family must eat, the voice said, The family must feast.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Everything must be perfect. The chopping resumed.
Pete looked at me, the journal, Did you read all
of it? I nodded, Was there anything about how to
stop it? There were recipes, Emma said, suddenly at the
back I saw them when m'am was reading. We retrieved
the journal from our room. The final pages weren't diary entries,
but instructions recipes, but not for food. Recipe for keeping
the hunger at bay. The first one read, mix blood
of the family, willing given with rendered fat of deer,
burn in iron pot at threshold, repeat nightly from first
snow to last. Recipe for the chosen. Read another, The
one who feeds the hunger must fast for three days,
must be marked with the old words. Must go willingly,
or the hunger takes all. But the one that made
my blood freeze. Recipe for the final feast. When the
hunger grows too great, when animal flesh fails, when the
scratches reach the roof, Take the youngest who carries the blood.
Prepare as Thomas was prepared. Feed the family, feed the hunger,
feed the cycle, the youngest who carries the blood. Patricia whispered.
She looked at Emma. We all did. Emma was seventeen,
the youngest of the Brennan Slash Chappelle line. No, I
said immediately, Absolutely not, Sarah, Pete started, No, we're not
discussing this. We're not nineteenth century cannibals. We're calling the
police as soon as the storm breaks. What if it
doesn't break, Patricia asked, what if the storm doesn't break
until it's fed? From below, Marcus's voice sang, Thanksgiving Day
is coming, the feast is drawing near. The family must
be fed or all will disappear. David stood, I'm going
down there, don't, I started, but he was already descending.
We heard his footsteps on the cellar stairs. A pause.
Then Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Marcus, what are you no
running footsteps? David burst back up, face, white, vomit on
his shirt. He's butchering something someone. Oh God, I think
I think it's frozen. But it's human shaped, and he's
from below. Marcus called up, cheerfully. The meat needs to
be prepared properly. Josiah taught me in my dreams. He
taught me salt and smoke, blood and prayer. The old
ways are the best ways. Pete slammed the cellar door,
locked it. We leave him down there. We can't, just
Dana started, He's not Marcus anymore, Pete said, the wendigoers
using him, preparing him. When someone is chosen, it inhabits them,
uses them to prepare the feast. I looked at the
journal again. Another recipe caught my eye. To break the choosing,
the chosen one may pass the hunger to another who
shares the blood, but the transfer must be spoken thrice,
sealed in blood and accepted willingly. Emma read over my shoulder,
so someone else could take my place. No one is
taking anyone's place, I said, firmly. But even as I
said it, I saw the others looking at each other,
calculating who would be willing, who could they convince. That
afternoon we tried to establish some normalcy. Patricia cooked lunch,
canned soup, nothing from the cellar, while Pete tended the fires.
But we could all hear Marcus down below, chopping, singing,
occasionally laughing. Around three pm, Dana cracked. We should give it, Emma,
she said, bluntly. She's the youngest, The journal says. I
slapped her hard. Say that again, and I'll throw you
outside myself. Sarah, be reasonable, Patricia said, If we don't
give it what it wants, we all die. Then we
all die, I said, easy for you to say. David muttered,
you've had a life. Emma's just starting hers. But the
rest of us have children who aren't here. I pointed out,
why is that, David, Why didn't you bring your kids?
He looked away. You knew, you all knew something was wrong,
but you came anyway. Why Pete answered quietly, because it
called us in dreams, all of us said. If we
didn't come, it would visit our homes, our children's homes.
The bloodline can't escape. We either face it together or
it hunts us separately. As the sun set, though we
couldn't see it through the blizzard, things got worse. The
scratching started again, but now it wasn't just above, It
was all around, every wall, every window, circling, searching. Then
Marcus started screaming in the cellar, not pain, frustration. It's
not right. The meat isn't right. It's too old, too frozen,
too long dead. Pete looked at me. He found something
in the cave, something that's been preserved. But it's not
fresh enough fresh, Dana said, staring at Emma. It needs fresh.
I stood between them and my daughter. Anyone who touches her,
goes through me. That's when the lights flickered, which was impossible.
The power was out, but the lights, oil, lamps, candles,
even the fire all flickered in unison. And in that
flicker we saw him, Thomas, seven feet tall, thin as
a skeleton, fingers that touched the floor, eyes like frozen milk,
standing in the corner, smiling with too many teeth. The
lights steadied. He was gone, but on the wall where
he'd stood, new scratches. One more day. Choose or be chosen.
Emma grabbed my arm. Ma'am, I found something else in
the journal.
Speaker 2: Look.
Speaker 1: She showed me a page i'd missed, not a recipe,
a note, different handwriting. This is Mary Brennan, wife of Josiah.
I write this in secret. My husband thinks he saved us,
He thinks he is hero, but I know truth. Thomas
didn't die from infection. Josiah killed him, killed his own
brother to save rest of us. But before Thomas died,
he cursed us, said we would know his hunger, said
we would become the monsters. And he was right. We
are changed, we are wrong, We are the wendigo. Now,
all of us waiting to wake The hunger isn't outside,
It's in our blood, passing down, growing stronger. One day
one of us will become what Thomas became. We'll complete
the transformation. Unless the writing stopped, the page was torn.
Unless what Emma asked from the cellar, Marcus's voice sing,
song and horrible. Unless you feed the original hunger, Unless
you give Thomas what he wanted, his family, his blood,
his revenge. Then he laughed and laughed and laughed until
another voice joined him, deeper, older Thomas's voice. Tomorrow. Both
voices said in unison, the feast begins with or without
your permission. The youngest will feed me, or you all will.
The cellar door burst open, not broken, just open despite
the lock. Marcus walked up, but his movements were wrong,
too fluid, like something was wearing him badly. His fingers
had grown another three inches. His eyes were completely white,
blood covered his apron. I've prepared the appetizers, he said, pleasantly.
Would you like to see behind him in the cellar doorway,
shadows moved, many shadows, all the victims from the cave,
all the missing family members standing waiting, hungry. The family
must eat, they said in unison. The family must feast,
The family must grow. Marcus walked to the kitchen. We
heard the oven door open, heard him humming, smelled meat cooking, rich, savory,
impossible to ignore despite our terror. My stomach growled, Emma's too.
We were all hungry, so hungry had we eaten today? Yesterday?
I couldn't remember. Don't eat anything he prepares, I warned,
no matter how hungry you get. But even as I
said it, I could feel it, the hunger capital h
growing in my belly, in my bones, in my blood,
the Brennan blood, the Chapel blood, the cursed blood. We
had less than twenty four hours until Thanksgiving, and I
was beginning to understand that we weren't trying to stop
the Wendigo. We were trying to stop ourselves from becoming it.
Marcus's voice drifted from the kitchen, Dinner's almost ready, Come
and eat, Come and feast, Come and be family. The
smell was intoxicating. My mouth watered. Emma's eyes were glazing, ma'am,
she whispered, I'm so hungry. Outside, Thomas scratched at the walls. Inside,
Marcus cooked with inhuman precision, and caught between them. We
fought the hunger that was our inheritance, our curse, and
quite possibly our nature. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and one way
or another, the family would feast.
Speaker 2: Ghost Scary Stories is a production of Calaoga Shark Media.
Some elements of AI may have been used in this production,
but it was written, edited, mixed, and produced by Real
Live People. Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott