Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Beneath a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Part
five dessert Sarah's processed body writhes as my grandmother's anti
transformation serum hits her system, The meat tender risers that
replaced her hands begin to separate from flesh. The process
is gruesome as the original transformation. Her garbage disposal throat
grinds one final time before spitting out. Steel components mixed
with blood kill me. She manages through reforming vocal cords,
but there's no time for mercy. More processed patients pour
through the vent, hybrid bodies clanking with industrial kitchen equipment.
I grab another syringe and one of grandmother's surgical tools,
a wicked fusion of scalpel and carving knife fresh meat.
They howl through mechanical throats prepare for processing. The first
one reaches me, chest cavity split open to reveal rotating blades.
I dodge its grasp and drive the knife up under
its ribcage. Feeling machinery crack, the serum plunges into its neck.
Its scream shifts from digital to human as steel begins
tearing free from flesh behind me. Sarah's body finally stops convulsing.
What's left is barely recognizable as human. The reversal process
is almost as horrible as the original transformation processing team.
Approaching the facilities, speakers blair maximum preparation Protocol activated. The
walls start to move, tiles peeling back to reveal industrial
meat processing equipment. The whole building sh as it switches
into full production mode. You're contaminating the ingredients. Ravenscroft's voice
echoes through hidden speakers, activating emergency tenderizing procedures. The processed
patience attack as one. Their body's more kitchen equipment than
human time. To show them what Grandmother's tools can really do,
I slash through the first wave of processed patients, Grandmother's blade,
cutting through the seams where flesh meets steel. Their bodies
spark and spray marinade as they fall. The serum works
through my system like liquid violence, every injection making me stronger,
more resistant. A former nurse, her arms replaced with mechanical
wisks spinning at killing speed, backs me against a cabinet.
I grab a nearby meat hook and drive it through
her chest. Mounted food processor. She screams in binary as
I pump serum into her neck. Her body convulses as
steel tears for free from muscle. Clean up in sect seven.
Ravenscroft's voice crackles. Dispose of contaminated ingredients. The disposal unit.
That's where they take the failed preparations. I fight my
way into the corridor, now transformed into an industrial scale
processing channel. Conveyor belts line the floors, carrying partially processed
patients toward the kitchen. Their bodies twitch as mechanical arms
inject them with gratitude solution, flesh bubbling as they transform.
A prep cook emerges from an alcove, his torso completely
replaced with an industrial oven. The door swings open, revealing
charred horrors still cooking inside. Fresh meat needs roasting. He
gurgles through a thermometer throat. I dive under his grasp,
slashing at gas lines. He explodes in a spray of
steel and thankful flesh. The blast throws me through double
doors into what was once the cafeteria. Now it's Raven's
Scroft's personal tasting room. The tables are wrong, made from
processed patient parts, still moving, still aware. Mechanical arms descend
from the ceiling, carrying samples of transformed flesh. In the center,
a massive preparation station pulses with artificial life, and there
displayed on the walls like trophies failed preparations. Former patients
and staff fused with kitchen equipment in ways that went wrong.
Their bodies twist in eternal agony as they beg to
be finished. Please, one moans through a face that's half cheese.
Greater complete the processing, make us grateful. A door at
the far end bears Ravenscroft's name, but between me and it,
a horror show of kitchen staff approaches, their bodies permanently
fused with their stations, moving on mechanical legs grafted from
industrial equipment. The head chef's skull has split open to
revere of food processor brain. His soux chefs follow arms,
ending in collections of cutting implements that whir and slice
the air, prepare the contaminated meat. They chant in unison.
I grip grandmother's blade tighter, counting my remaining serum doses
time to do some prep work of my own. The
head chef moves first, his food processor brain whirring as
he charges. I roll under his bladed arms and drive
Grandmother's knife into his power supply. He sprays a mixture
of gravy and hydraulic fluid across the walls as he
falls tenderize the resistant meat. The Soux chefs advance their
nightmare of culinary engineering. One has a chest cavity converted
into a deep fryer bubbling with something that smells like
altered bone marrow. I grab a fallen prep table and
swing it like a shield. Their blades spark against steel
as I fight through the kitchen line. Each injection of
serum makes me stronger, more precise, more deadly. The feast
requires fresh ingredients. The deep fryer chef opens his chest,
spraying boiling liquid. I dodge, but some hits my arm.
The flesh instantly begins to tender eye. No choice, I
stab another syringe into the wound before the transformation can spread.
The pain is excruciating as my muscles fight back against
the process. Behind me, The failed preparations continue their twisted chorus,
finish us, complete us, make us grateful. A mechanical arm
drops from the ceiling, nearly impaling me with a massive
meat fork. The facility sell fights to stop me. Now
more kitchen staff emerged from side doors, their bodies transformed
in increasingly horrific ways. One has become a mobile bread mixer,
torso split open to reveal spinning hooks meant for kneading flesh.
Another moves on legs crafted from meat grinders, leaving a
trail of processed tissue in her wake. You're ruining the recipe.
They advance as one mechanical nightmare. The meat must be
properly prepared. I find myself backed against Ravenscroft's door. Through
the window, I see movement inside her office, something huge,
something that was never human. The bread mixer chef lunges.
I drive Grandmother's blade into her mixing bowl chest, feeling
machinery shatter. The serum takes hold, and her scream becomes
human again as steel tears free from flesh. Enough, Ravenscroft's
voice booms through hidden speakers. The door behind me opens
on its own time to shoh, show you the final course.
Inside her office, what's left of Ravenscroft awaits Her transformation
is complete, body fused with an industrial kitchen's worth of
processing equipment. Multiple mechanical arms end in various bladed implements.
Her chest has become a massive oven that burns with
unnatural blue flame. Beautiful, isn't it. Her face splits horizontally
vertically diagonally, becoming a flower of surgical steel and food
processing equipment. This is what true preparation looks like, what
you're fighting against. The kitchen staff back away as she
approaches on legs crafted from meat grinders and industrial mixers.
Feeding tubes writhe from her shoulders like hungry tentacles. The
feast begins at dawn, she says, through multiple garbage disposal throats,
and you, Catherine, you're the main ingredient. My grip grandmother's blade,
Counting the remaining seeras doses in my pocket, The anti
transformation compound burns through my veins like righteous fire. Ravenscroft's
mechanical arms extend blades, whirring. The oven in her chest
burns hotter, hungry for fresh meat. Time to finish your preparation.
Dawn approaches, the feast awaits, and only one of us
is walking out of this kitchen. The final course is
about to be served. Ghost is a Caloroga 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.
This show, along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media,
is available commercial free on any player hassle free. Just
look for the link in the episode or show notes.
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