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Speaker 1: Hey guys, it's Ejay here at Fast Food Horror. When

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I started this sorry, when we started this project, we

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did so without a plan for the future. It was

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very much a passion project, a way to scratch a

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creative itch and most importantly to tell stories. But we

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did so without a plan. We have gone through season

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one and now through season two, and now we have

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begun season three. To make things more predictable for you

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and easier for Eyegorne. Going forward, will be releasing shows

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on a monthly basis on the fourth Sunday of every month.

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June began season three and we will conclude with season

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three at the end of May. So thank you so

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much for joining us every single month, and we hope

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you enjoy this latest offering that we bring you. I

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Gore hit the music.

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Speaker 2: Welcome listeners to Fast Food Horror. In this episode, we

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find someone in one of the most scariest predicaments ever

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and the only way to survive is by having a

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plan and not to panic. This story is titled Don't Panic,

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written by E. J.

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Speaker 1: Miller. Slowly you come back to consciousness and the headache

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you awake with is excruciating. A pounding pulse right in

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the center of your head. It's hard to even concentrate,

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to focus on anything. You don't even want to open

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your eyes. The very act you fear might make it worse.

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The pain comes in waves, constant and consistent, pounding waves,

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beating the shore of every nerve in your head. It's

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like when a child throws a stone in a pond.

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There is the center, the impact where it hits the water,

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and then the waves of which spread in circles, reaching

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every corner. Except the child keeps throwing stones again and

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again in the same spot, hurls the stones, ripples keep spreading.

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You don't remember hitting your head, so you're not injured.

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Is it a What did the physician call it? You

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search your brain for the word. It hides in the

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darkness of your memory. What was it? Ah, It comes

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to you now, A migraine. Yes, that's the word. You think.

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Maybe you could summon the staff to bring you a

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Coca cola or a spot of snuff that might take

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it away. But you're not at home, are you. This

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doesn't feel like your bed. This isn't your bed chamber either.

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The bed too stiff, the pillow not quite right, The

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room itself is too stuffy, except for the odd cool

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draft you can feel coming across the middle of your face.

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The smells and the aromas are unfamiliar, earthy and damp.

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You search your memory. The answer is there, you can

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feel it. What's the most recent thing you can remember?

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You remember evening twilight, really, watching out the window from

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your bed, the street life, the carriages making their way

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from the theater. You remember watching the lamplighters busy at work.

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Why were you in bed and not at the theater

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with the rest? Ah? Yes, you had not felt well,

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not felt well at all, and you had stumbled the

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day prior a fall. Really, and oh dear, you fell

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again at home. The staff had taken you to your

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chambers for you to rest. You were so weak, no energy,

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just a malaise and lethargy. Then what happened after your nephew,

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Thomas took you to the physician. Thomas he was worried.

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Humph worried is probably too strong a word. That weasel,

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that vulture had been doing circles around you for the

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last few years, just waiting for you to give up

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your mortal coil. The physician brought you into his home office.

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You remember being carried in and laid on a couch.

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Your memory gets a little foggy at that point. There

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were a lot of murmurs and whispers and corners of

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the room, tears and stifled sotobs. You remember drifting in

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and out of sleep, no consciousness, finding it hard to

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stay lucid. Before, before, and then it dawns on you.

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You try to open your eyes. You can't. Your lids

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won't open, They won't obey. You bring your hands to

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your face and feel a substance across your eyelashes, a

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waxy like film. They think, they think you died. That

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no account quack of a physician, which means you raise

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your hands pushing away from your face, and they stuck

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as they reach the hard ceiling above you. You're in

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a coffin. You fight back the panic. You have a plan,

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so much money and time spent buying the best, the

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absolute best, just for this exact scenario, every man's greatest fear.

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You bring your hands back to your face and gently

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rub the morticians wax from your eyelids. Then you slowly

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open your eyes. Darkness. You let your eyes adjust, You

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allow your eyes focus, letting your eyes search and take

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in whatever amount of light there may be, there not

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complete darkness, no reason yet the panic. Do not panic.

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You have a plan. The window installed in the safety

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coffin's lid is letting in just enough light from the

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full moon to give you some illumination. The air tubes

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are serving their purpose, letting in just enough air so

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you can breathe as long as you do not panic,

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do not start hyperventilating, and in this situation it is

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best not to think of such things. Just the plan.

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You look through the small window just above you, six

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feet under the ground, and yet a full view of

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a small part of the night sky. The coffin has

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been built large enough so you can move just a bit.

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You can roll from side to side. You feel with

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your hands for the string. The string that is attached

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to the bell at the side of your tombstone. The

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bell that should it ring will alert the assigned person

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that you, in fact were, are not yet dead and

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have been mistakenly buried alive. The string that should have

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been attached to your hand, but clearly an oversight had

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taken and it was not attached to your person. You

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reach with your left hand, slowly feeling around along the lid,

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and then down the wall, searching the same area at

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least twice so you don't miss it. It's not there, well,

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if it's not on your left, it must be on

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your right. You slowly search with your right, exploring the

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lid and then the side of the coffin. Ah, there

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it is. You grasp it firmly in your right hand

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and give it a a good firm tug. Too firm

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a tug. You feel the string as it snaps and

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goes limp in your hand. Don't panic, Do not panic.

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You have a plan. Clearly the bell had at least

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rung once. Whoever was assigned to this shift of watching

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your grave should have at least heard it. Just wait

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and watch. That person will soon look in the window

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down at you and see you are very much alive.

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Any second now, any second now, you stare through the

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window up at the small night sky, waiting for a

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face to fill the frame that never materializes. Do not panic.

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Do not panic. Maybe they didn't hear the bell. Maybe

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there was a slight breeze and they mistook the bell

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ringing as an accident of nature. Do not panic. Don't panic.

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Maybe they heard the bell ring and they went for

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help to dig you out. Yes, that's it, that's what

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it has to be. You plan for this. You wait,

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and you wait, and then remember the speaking tube. Maybe

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they didn't run off for help. Maybe there is a

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breeze and they discounted the bell ringing for an act

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of the wind, and they waited to hear the bell

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ring again, and when it didn't, they thought it was

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only the wind. You try to call out, but your

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mouth is parched, your throat so dry it's hard to

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make a sound. You try to work up some saliva

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to make it easier to speak, but it all comes

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out as a moan, a dry crackling of a call

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that echoes throughout the coffin. You only hope it's loud

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enough to carry up the tube to whomever is standing

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watch over your grave, trying to fight back the panic

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as you again call out, again and again and again,

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but the panic rises in your chest. Your breathing now

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becomes more erratic. There's no one there. How can this be?

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You had a plan. There's no one, is there? Your

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breathing becomes more rapid, panic taking over. The plan was

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to make sure that for two days after you were buried,

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there was someone always in the graveyard, sitting by your grave?

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How can this be? You plan for this? Your vision

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begins to get foggy, breathing too rapid, it's hard to

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stay conscious as you continue to call out your losing consciousness,

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panics hand taking a firm grasp of you now, heart

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beat accelerating. There's no one there. There's no one up there.

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All the planning and thought put into this exact circumstances

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all for nothing, you exclaim in your head as your

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vision goes dark. You have but one final thought, how

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could you ever think anyone would want to stand watch

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in a graveyard at night, to be alone amongst the dead?

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What living person would be in a graveyard at this

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house hour? Ah, you are, at least for now,