Speaker 1: Hey guys, it's Ejay here at Fast Food Horror. When
I started this sorry, when we started this project, we
did so without a plan for the future. It was
very much a passion project, a way to scratch a
creative itch and most importantly to tell stories. But we
did so without a plan. We have gone through season
one and now through season two, and now we have
begun season three. To make things more predictable for you
and easier for Eyegorne. Going forward, will be releasing shows
on a monthly basis on the fourth Sunday of every month.
June began season three and we will conclude with season
three at the end of May. So thank you so
much for joining us every single month, and we hope
you enjoy this latest offering that we bring you. I
Gore hit the music.
Speaker 2: Welcome listeners to Fast Food Horror. In this episode, we
find someone in one of the most scariest predicaments ever
and the only way to survive is by having a
plan and not to panic. This story is titled Don't Panic,
written by E. J.
Speaker 1: Miller. Slowly you come back to consciousness and the headache
you awake with is excruciating. A pounding pulse right in
the center of your head. It's hard to even concentrate,
to focus on anything. You don't even want to open
your eyes. The very act you fear might make it worse.
The pain comes in waves, constant and consistent, pounding waves,
beating the shore of every nerve in your head. It's
like when a child throws a stone in a pond.
There is the center, the impact where it hits the water,
and then the waves of which spread in circles, reaching
every corner. Except the child keeps throwing stones again and
again in the same spot, hurls the stones, ripples keep spreading.
You don't remember hitting your head, so you're not injured.
Is it a What did the physician call it? You
search your brain for the word. It hides in the
darkness of your memory. What was it? Ah, It comes
to you now, A migraine. Yes, that's the word. You think.
Maybe you could summon the staff to bring you a
Coca cola or a spot of snuff that might take
it away. But you're not at home, are you. This
doesn't feel like your bed. This isn't your bed chamber either.
The bed too stiff, the pillow not quite right, The
room itself is too stuffy, except for the odd cool
draft you can feel coming across the middle of your face.
The smells and the aromas are unfamiliar, earthy and damp.
You search your memory. The answer is there, you can
feel it. What's the most recent thing you can remember?
You remember evening twilight, really, watching out the window from
your bed, the street life, the carriages making their way
from the theater. You remember watching the lamplighters busy at work.
Why were you in bed and not at the theater
with the rest? Ah? Yes, you had not felt well,
not felt well at all, and you had stumbled the
day prior a fall. Really, and oh dear, you fell
again at home. The staff had taken you to your
chambers for you to rest. You were so weak, no energy,
just a malaise and lethargy. Then what happened after your nephew,
Thomas took you to the physician. Thomas he was worried.
Humph worried is probably too strong a word. That weasel,
that vulture had been doing circles around you for the
last few years, just waiting for you to give up
your mortal coil. The physician brought you into his home office.
You remember being carried in and laid on a couch.
Your memory gets a little foggy at that point. There
were a lot of murmurs and whispers and corners of
the room, tears and stifled sotobs. You remember drifting in
and out of sleep, no consciousness, finding it hard to
stay lucid. Before, before, and then it dawns on you.
You try to open your eyes. You can't. Your lids
won't open, They won't obey. You bring your hands to
your face and feel a substance across your eyelashes, a
waxy like film. They think, they think you died. That
no account quack of a physician, which means you raise
your hands pushing away from your face, and they stuck
as they reach the hard ceiling above you. You're in
a coffin. You fight back the panic. You have a plan,
so much money and time spent buying the best, the
absolute best, just for this exact scenario, every man's greatest fear.
You bring your hands back to your face and gently
rub the morticians wax from your eyelids. Then you slowly
open your eyes. Darkness. You let your eyes adjust, You
allow your eyes focus, letting your eyes search and take
in whatever amount of light there may be, there not
complete darkness, no reason yet the panic. Do not panic.
You have a plan. The window installed in the safety
coffin's lid is letting in just enough light from the
full moon to give you some illumination. The air tubes
are serving their purpose, letting in just enough air so
you can breathe as long as you do not panic,
do not start hyperventilating, and in this situation it is
best not to think of such things. Just the plan.
You look through the small window just above you, six
feet under the ground, and yet a full view of
a small part of the night sky. The coffin has
been built large enough so you can move just a bit.
You can roll from side to side. You feel with
your hands for the string. The string that is attached
to the bell at the side of your tombstone. The
bell that should it ring will alert the assigned person
that you, in fact were, are not yet dead and
have been mistakenly buried alive. The string that should have
been attached to your hand, but clearly an oversight had
taken and it was not attached to your person. You
reach with your left hand, slowly feeling around along the lid,
and then down the wall, searching the same area at
least twice so you don't miss it. It's not there, well,
if it's not on your left, it must be on
your right. You slowly search with your right, exploring the
lid and then the side of the coffin. Ah, there
it is. You grasp it firmly in your right hand
and give it a a good firm tug. Too firm
a tug. You feel the string as it snaps and
goes limp in your hand. Don't panic, Do not panic.
You have a plan. Clearly the bell had at least
rung once. Whoever was assigned to this shift of watching
your grave should have at least heard it. Just wait
and watch. That person will soon look in the window
down at you and see you are very much alive.
Any second now, any second now, you stare through the
window up at the small night sky, waiting for a
face to fill the frame that never materializes. Do not panic.
Do not panic. Maybe they didn't hear the bell. Maybe
there was a slight breeze and they mistook the bell
ringing as an accident of nature. Do not panic. Don't panic.
Maybe they heard the bell ring and they went for
help to dig you out. Yes, that's it, that's what
it has to be. You plan for this. You wait,
and you wait, and then remember the speaking tube. Maybe
they didn't run off for help. Maybe there is a
breeze and they discounted the bell ringing for an act
of the wind, and they waited to hear the bell
ring again, and when it didn't, they thought it was
only the wind. You try to call out, but your
mouth is parched, your throat so dry it's hard to
make a sound. You try to work up some saliva
to make it easier to speak, but it all comes
out as a moan, a dry crackling of a call
that echoes throughout the coffin. You only hope it's loud
enough to carry up the tube to whomever is standing
watch over your grave, trying to fight back the panic
as you again call out, again and again and again,
but the panic rises in your chest. Your breathing now
becomes more erratic. There's no one there. How can this be?
You had a plan. There's no one, is there? Your
breathing becomes more rapid, panic taking over. The plan was
to make sure that for two days after you were buried,
there was someone always in the graveyard, sitting by your grave?
How can this be? You plan for this? Your vision
begins to get foggy, breathing too rapid, it's hard to
stay conscious as you continue to call out your losing consciousness,
panics hand taking a firm grasp of you now, heart
beat accelerating. There's no one there. There's no one up there.
All the planning and thought put into this exact circumstances
all for nothing, you exclaim in your head as your
vision goes dark. You have but one final thought, how
could you ever think anyone would want to stand watch
in a graveyard at night, to be alone amongst the dead?
What living person would be in a graveyard at this
house hour? Ah, you are, at least for now,