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Speaker 3: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Beneath a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Part two.
First Course. The basement door won't budge. Ravenscroft has vanished,
leaving me alone in this pulsing darkness. The ancient ovens
glow brighter, casting shadows that move like hungry things. Grandmother's
symbol seems to writhe on the preparation table, carved deeper
than metal should allow. A sound behind me, wet organic movement.
The special storage door creaks wider, Doctor Chen, a voice
that might be Marcus, might be something wearing his voice.
Did you find the feeding logs? Did you see what
they're doing to us? I back away from the door,
my shoes sticking slightly to floor tiles that feel more
like tongue than ceramic. The basement kitchen is changing, institutional walls,
peeling back to reveal older surfaces that glisten like the
inside of a throat. Something moves in the darkness of storage.
Not Marcus, not anymore, your grandmother, it says in his voice,
stretched thin and hungry, she knew how to make us grateful,
how to prepare us properly. Check the archives, Catherine, see
what real gratitude looks like. A filing cabinet extrudes from
the wall like a growing tooth, draws opening to reveal
folders marked gratitude Therapy Progress nineteen twenty two. Inside photographs
spill out, still wet with chemicals that smell like gravy.
The first image Thanksgiving Dinner nineteen twenty two. Patients seated
around a long table, their faces transforming mid bite. The
next photo shows what they became, what true gratitude does
to human flesh. And there at the head of the
table stands my grandmother, her smile exactly like ravenscrofts. We're
all connected, the thing in storage whispers, all part of
the same meal, the same recipe. The ovens pulse faster now,
their light revealing sealing mounted medical equipment that's more Butcher's
shop than hospital. Ancient feeding tubes dangle like hungry tentacles,
dripping fluids that sizzle when they hit the floor. A
scream from above cuts through my rising panic. Not Marcus,
this time another patient discovering what gratitude really means. In
this place, I have to find the truth, have to
understand what my grandmother started before we all become part
of tomorrow's feast. I force myself up the basement stairs,
each steps swishing beneath my feet. The modern kitchen has
transformed during my absence. Stainless steel surfaces now ripple like
silver skin, and the industrial refrigerators emit sounds that might
be humming, might be chewing. The prep cooks don't look
up as I pass. Their rhythmic chopping sounds wrong, too wet,
and I notice their knife hands have merged with their blades.
One turn slightly, revealing an apron that might be cloth,
might be his actual flesh. Archives, I mutter to myself,
need to find the archives. The corridors twist as I search, walls,
flexing like a sophageal tissue. I pass therapy rooms where
patients rock and chant, grateful for the feeding, grateful for
the changing, grateful for the feast within the feast. The
archive room finds me, rather than the other way around.
A door labeled historical records suddenly appears in what was
previously blank wall, its handle warm and slightly pulsing beneath
my touch. Inside filing cabinets stretch into darkness. Motion sensor
lights flicker on, revealing more photographs from nineteen twenty two.
Now I see the progression patients before the feast, during
after their transformations, documented in meticulous detail. A leather bound
journal catches my eye. The cover feels wrong. Moving inside
my grandmother's handwriting flows across pages that seem to bleed.
Gratitude is transfiguration through enforced thankfulness. We prepare the flesh
for its ultimate purpose. The patients resist at first, but
proper preparation techniques ensure complete submission to the process. Her
clinical notes detail the preparation methods, gratitude immersion, therapy, thankfulness injections, appreciation,
force feeding, gratitude organ enhancement. The final pages contain photographs
of the results. I slam them journals shut, but not
before those images burn themselves into my mind, the way
those patients looked after the feast, after they'd been made
properly grateful. A noise behind me, shuffling movement. I turned
to find Marcus, or what's left of him. His uniform
has become part of his skin, and his mouth, dear God,
his mouth. Did you find what you needed his words
bubble through too many rows of teeth? Did you see
what your grandmother achieved? What Ravenscroft is finishing? Marcus? What
happened to you? Gratitude happened? I'm so thankful, Catherine so hungry?
His smile splits his face horizontally. But you should see
what's happening in the kitchen now. They're preparing the first course.
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Speaker 3: Marcus leads me back toward the kitchen, his movements jerky
and wrong, like a marionette being pulled by intestinal strings.
The walls pulse in time with his footsteps, and I
notice how his feet leave slight indentations in the floor,
Not footprints, but feeding marks. Your grandmother's recipe book turned
up during renovations, he says, voice gurgling through reformed vocal cords,
behind a wall that wasn't quite a wall. The pages
they taught doctor Ravenscroft, everything about preparation, about gratitude, about hunger.
The kitchen doors swing open on their own. The scene
inside stops my heart. Prep cooks have fully merged with
their stations, their bodies part of the kitchen itself. Patients
sit at preparation tables writhing as feeding tubes pump them
full of gratitude. Their flesh ripples with each injection, faces
stretching into expressions of a turnal thankfulness. And there in
the center of it all stands Dr Ravenscroft. She's changed too,
her lab coat now clearly part of her body, her
hands ending in surgical implements that slice and dice with
mechanical precision. She turns to me, her face split into
quadrants of smiling teeth. Catherine perfect timing. We're just starting
the marinade process. She gestures to a patient strapped to
a kitchen island, skin bubbling as something soaks in your
grandmother's original recipe. The secret ingredient is appreciation. A leather
bound book sits next to her, its cover made from
something that still moves, my grandmother's actual recipe book. It
falls open and I see pages written in substances I
don't want to identify. To prepare a proper feast of gratitude, first,
tenderize the flesh with enforced thankfulness, then marinade in pure appreciation.
Finally stuff with concentrated gratefulness, until splitting the patient on
the table demonstrates each step, their body transforming as the
recipe takes hold. Their screams sound increasingly grateful. You see, Catherine,
Ravenscroft explains surgical fingers clicking together. Modern psychiatry treats trauma
as something to overcome. Your grandmother understood its true purpose.
Trauma tenderises, breaks down emotional walls, prepares the mind and
body for incorporation. Marcus's hand clamps on my shoulder, his
fingers now long enough to wrap around.
Speaker 2: Twice.
Speaker 3: I had to call you, had to share this gift,
had to prepare you. The renovations didn't just uncover your
grandmother's work, Ravenscroft continues, They woke something up, something that's
been hungry since nineteen twenty two, something that needs a
proper feast to fully manifest. The kitchen walls ripple, revealing
the inn institutional green tiles beneath now obviously organic matter.
The whole facility seems to breathe around us, digesting today's
preparations while hungering for tomorrow's main course. Your grandmother nearly succeeded,
Ravenscroft says, but she lacked one crucial ingredient. Her face
splits wider family. True gratitude requires blood relation. Tomorrow's feast
needs a chin to complete the circle. The recipe book
flips to its final page, revealing a family tree drawn
in shifting crimson. My grandmother's name pulses at its root,
and at the very bottom, my own name rights itself
in fresh, wet strokes. The preparations are nearly complete, Ravenscroft announces.
The gratitude has properly tenderized most patients, and now that
you're here, Catherine Marcus's grip tightens as more staff emerged
from the shadows, their bodies twisted by thankfulness into shapes
that serve only appetite. Feeding tubes descend from above, quivering
with hunger. Time for your family's recipe, Ravenscroft says, time
to make you grateful. The kitchen doors seal themselves, becoming
membrane rather than metal. The oven's pulse faster, and the
walls begin to actively digest. Tomorrow's feast requires proper preparation,
and I realize too late that I'm not here to investigate.
I'm here to be served. Another ingredient in my grandmother's recipe,
Another course in an endless feast of gratitude. Ghost is
a Calorogus Shark Media production written and hosted by Alexander
Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive producers Mark Francis
and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may have been
created with the assistance of AI.
Speaker 5: This show, along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media,
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Speaker 3: Just look for the link in the episode or show
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