Speaker 1: Being a freeland chef has its perks, no fixed kitchen,
no screaming head chef breathing down your neck, But it
also means taking strange gigs from stranger clients. This one
came in last minute, A private dinner for one high
paying cash only hosted at a crumbling mansion just outside
of town, a place people didn't talk about much, accepting whispers.
Speaker 2: I should have said no, but RHNT was due and
I was out of options.
Speaker 1: Before I left, I rolled a fat joint with a
new strain my plug. Caleb dropped off, called my wife
didn't cook. Why is it called that, I asked. He
just grinned.
Speaker 2: It's what you smoked when someone should have made dinner
but didn't.
Speaker 1: It smelled like fruity cereal and regret. I took two hits.
Regret followed. The mansion was than time victorian boone, with
rotting elegance vine swallowing the porch like nature wanted it forgotten.
I knocked once the door creaked open on its own.
Inside stood the Hopes, tall gunk skin pale like melted wax,
dressed in a black velvet robe with deep red stitching that.
Speaker 2: Looked too fluid.
Speaker 1: Welcome, chef, he said, his voice syrup thick and full
of decay.
Speaker 3: Dinner must be perfect.
Speaker 1: It's for her, right, Who's her, he smiled, revealing teeth
too long.
Speaker 3: My wife, she didn't cook.
Speaker 1: My buzz deepened. The walls of the mansion seemed to breathe,
exhaling long forgotten spices.
Speaker 2: I could hear whispers.
Speaker 1: In the wallpaper.
Speaker 3: Kitchens that way.
Speaker 1: He said, motioning to a long corridor where the lights
flickered like they were gasping. The kitchen looked untouched for decades,
yet somehow, all spotless brass fixtures, a cast iron stove
that hums softly like it remembered warmth. The pantry was massive.
I opened it and felt cold. Air rushed out like
I cracked the crypt. Inside were ingredients that shouldn't exist.
Blood oranges that actually bled herves that moved slightly when
I looked away. Mushrooms with gills that opened and closed
like they were breathing. I started propping despite everything. The
hie made it feel like I was watching myself work
from outside my body.
Speaker 2: The knife glided through the meat that paused. The skillet
hissed like a voice warning me in another language. I cooked.
Speaker 1: I cooked like someone else was moving my hands. Once
the plate was finished, a strange rose with violet glaze,
sighs that smelled like childhood and nightmares.
Speaker 2: I plaited it.
Speaker 1: Onto bone, white porcelain. The host appeared beside me, silent,
she's waiting. He led me through the halls to a
dining room frozen in time, cobwebbed chandeliers, a long table.
Speaker 2: Set for two.
Speaker 1: At the far end sat her, or what was left,
a skeletal woman in a wedding dress stitched together with
lace and wire. A cracked porcelain mask hid her face,
but her eyes, glowing green um blinking, pierced through me.
The host pulled out her chair.
Speaker 3: My wife didn't cook, but you did.
Speaker 2: He placed the plate before her.
Speaker 1: She lifted her hands, crooked, rattling. She began to eat.
Speaker 2: Each bite echoed like thumber. Each tree made the walls goa.
Speaker 3: The host turned to me, Now it's your turn.
Speaker 1: He placed the second plate in front of me, an
exact replica of what I'd made. I didn't want to
eat it, but my limbs weren't mine.
Speaker 2: The forbes rose to my mouth.
Speaker 1: The meat tasted like smoke and forgotten memories.
Speaker 2: The glaze was brief and.
Speaker 1: Syrup for I felt my insides shift, my skin tightened,
my bones creaked across the table.
Speaker 2: The bride tilted her head.
Speaker 1: I saw something behind the mask.
Speaker 2: Teeth too many.
Speaker 3: She likes your cooking, the hole said, she'd liked you
to stay.
Speaker 1: I woke up the next night standing in the pantry,
knife in hand, cooking, still cooking. The mansion is quiet
until dusk, when the host crawls down again.
Speaker 3: She's hungry.
Speaker 1: Every night I cook, every night she eats, and every
night I forget a little more of myself. The joint
I smoked, still burning in the fireplace, somehow, still whispering.
My wife didn't cook. Now neither did I.
Speaker 2: I served.
Speaker 1: At first, I thought it was just the strain blessing
of my perception, dragging out the high into some never
ending nightmare loop. But after the third night, maybe the
fourth night, I realized the truth was much worse. The
mansion wasn't letting me sober up time inside it felt swollen, slow,
like thick honey dripping down cracked wallpaper. My mind stayed
haze suspended, and the same first hit from my wife
didn't cook. The smoke wasn't in my lungs anymore. It
was in the air, in the walls, in the wood
of the cutting boards, whispering through the spice rack.
Speaker 2: The pantry never emptied.
Speaker 1: Every time I reached for me there it was fresh, warm, pulsing.
Every time I picked herbs, they quivered under my fingers,
as if excited to be chosen.
Speaker 2: And the mushrooms, some of them, whispered my name.
Speaker 3: Now.
Speaker 1: The host visited only in the evenings, gliding down the
stairs like he was poured from a bottle.
Speaker 2: He didn't blink, or maybe I just never caught it.
Speaker 3: She's calm, he.
Speaker 1: Repeated, night after night, tapping his long nails on the
pantry door like a polite threat. But the bride, the
skeletal woman in the mummified wedding dress, she didn't always
stay in the dining room.
Speaker 2: Some nights I.
Speaker 1: Would hear her wandering, dragging her nails down the hall,
snapping her jaw, humming something sharp and broken, like a
lullaby sung backwards.
Speaker 2: And on the.
Speaker 1: Seventh night, I think it was the seventh, my knife
slipped as I diced the cluster of violet bulbs. Blood
welled up in my fingers, except it wasn't red. It
was the same violet glaze I had made that first night, slow, shimmering,
sugary sweet. Stared horrified as the cut sealed itself, my
skin knitting into place like dough being need. The host appeared.
Speaker 2: Then behind me, You're coming along beautifully.
Speaker 1: He said, admiring my hands the way a collector admires
a rare artifact.
Speaker 3: Another week or so and the kitchen will accept you food.
Speaker 1: The kitchen, he leaned close.
Speaker 2: His breath smelled like cold cellar and old smoke.
Speaker 3: Oh yes, you felt it, haven't you. The stove warming
when you approach, the knives gliding your hands, the pantry
choosing ingredients for you.
Speaker 2: I had.
Speaker 1: But the worst part was I didn't hate it, not entirely.
Something inside me, something that used to be me, enjoyed
the rhythm, the slicing, the sizzling, the creation. It felt
good to serve, even when my stomach twisted with fear.
That night, when I brought dinner to the bride, she
didn't sit at the table.
Speaker 2: She stood behind me. Her breath tickled the back of
my neck. Cold and dry, I winter air creeping under
a door, A skeletal.
Speaker 1: Hand, light as cobs fled, but heavy with contention, rested
on my shoulder.
Speaker 2: You smell right, she hissed.
Speaker 1: He nearly dropped the plate. The host tuttled gently.
Speaker 3: Not yet, my both.
Speaker 2: He's still marinating, marinating.
Speaker 1: I wasn't cooking for them, I was seasoning myself. My
eyes burned as realization sunk in, but I didn't cry, not.
Speaker 2: Water tears anyway. Mix of oil and broth.
Speaker 1: Leaked down my cheeks when it hit the floor. The
bride leaned forward the porcelain mask practice, she whispered.
Speaker 3: Soon.
Speaker 1: I tried to run that night, I truly did.
Speaker 2: I made it to the front.
Speaker 1: Door, hand shaking as I twisted the knob, it turned
opened for a moment, cold.
Speaker 2: Night wind hit my face and I.
Speaker 1: Smelled freedom, grass, pavement, and small, the real world. Then
the joint on the mantle flickered. A final puff of
smoke curled outwards, forming a hand, long, gripping, insistent. It
stroked the door shut with a soft click. My vision blurred.
The mansion exhaled all around me, and I went back
to the kitchen. Now days blurrened to each other like
melted wax.
Speaker 2: I don't sleep, I don't eat. The bride does.
Speaker 1: The host botches, and the kitchen teaches. The mushrooms call
me by a new name now. The herbs hum when
I approach the walls balse like they're waiting for dinner
to be ready tonight. When I look at my hands,
they aren't hands anymore.
Speaker 2: The skin is tougher, textured.
Speaker 1: My fingertips glisten like lightly buttered flesh. My veins swirls
with sauces I've never made before.
Speaker 2: The host came in, smiling.
Speaker 3: She washed you out the cable, smiling, he said warmly,
a special occasion.
Speaker 2: What what's the occasion? She tilted his head.
Speaker 3: It's your final course.
Speaker 1: Behind him, the bride gavid, an awful, childlike sound.
Speaker 2: I can't run anymore. I can barely think anymore.
Speaker 1: All I know is the stove is heating up behind me,
humming my knee. The pantry door rattles like something inside
his good to meet me, and the joint, still burning, whispers.
Speaker 2: Louder than ever.
Speaker 1: My wife didn't cook, but you will for the rest
of your life.
Speaker 2: How the long that is.
Speaker 1: Thanks for listening to High and Scared. If you enjoyed
tonight's trip, don't forget to rate the podcast and hit follow.
Speaker 2: Your support keeps these nightmares alive and growing.
Speaker 1: A special shout out to the breeder behind Tonight's inspiring strain,
My Wife Didn't Cook by Angry Fruit Genetics. The strain
itself is real, but the effects you heard in this
story definitely aren't. Those horrors live only here. If you
want to get your hands on the real strain or
explore more of his work, you can find the breeder
on Instagram at Angry Underscore Fruit Underscore Genetics.
Speaker 2: Check out his page and see the twisted.
Speaker 1: Beauties that sparked Tonight's terror. Until next time, stay lifted,
stay lurking, and remember, on high and scared. The high
is always the horror