Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Beneath a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Part
three Main Course. I run the kitchen doors try to
seal around me, but I force through feeling membrane tear
behind me. Marcus's new form gives Chase his feet, leaving
wet suction marks on the floor. The feeding tubes writhe
after us, like hungry serpents, you can't skip preparation. Catherine
Ravenscroft's voice echoes through halls that glisten with digestive fluids.
The meat must be properly tenderized, and slam into an
orderly whose uniform has fused with his flesh. His face
splits open like a blooming flower of medical grade steel
scalpels where teeth should be. I duck under his grasp,
feeling sharp edges graze my scalp. The corridor ahead opens
into what was once a group therapy room. Now it's
something else, something worse. Patients hang from sealing mounted meat hooks,
therapeutic ivs replaced with marinade lines that pump them full
of grandmother's gratitude. Solution. Their skin bubbles and splits as
they transform, faces stretched into permanent smiles of enforced thankfulness. Please,
one begs as I pass his jaw dislocating to accommodate
new teeth. Make it stop, the gratitude it burns. A
prep cook emerges from between the hanging patients, her hands
fused with various kitchen implements. Flesh peels back from her face,
revealing a stainless steel skullpath Time for tenderizing. She sings songs,
meat tender eyser, hands clacking together. I grab a fallen
IV pole and swing it like a bat. It connects
with her head, sending industrial grade teeth scattering across floor
tiles that ripple like taste buds. The next room nearly
stops my heart. It's an active processing station. Three patients
are strapped to prep tables, screaming as staff members, now
more kitchen equipment than human, systematically break down their resistance.
Feeding tubes force unknown substances down their throats, while mechanical
arms need their flesh like dough. The meat must be grateful,
the workers chant in unison. The meat must be tender,
The meat must be prepared. I back away, bile rising
in my throat, only to bump into something solid. Something
breathing found you. Marcus whispers his mouth, Now a circular
pit of surgical steel. Time to start your preparation. The
tool connects with Marcus's face, peeling back layers of transformed
flesh to reveal machinery beneath. He screams through a mouth
that's more disposal unit than human. Now spraying hot gravy
across my face. It burns where it touches, sending waves
of unwonted gratitude through my system. I'm thankful, I hear
myself say, before biting my tongue hard enough to break
the compulsion. Two orderlies charge their bodies, clanking with fused
medical equipment. I dive between them, feeling surgical implements graze
my back, tearing jacket and skin. Warm blood mixes with
their leaking marinade. The meat's getting away, ravenscroft shrieks catch
it before the juices run dry. I sprint down horror
house corridors, past rows of patients in their stages of preparation.
Some hang from hooks, marinating, Others lie on tables as
mechanical arms need their flesh. All of them smile with
too many teeth, whispering thank you, thank you, thank you.
Something grabs my ankle, a drain cover come alive, trying
to pull me down into the facility's digestive system. I
kick free, but stumble into a prep station where a cook,
now more machine than man, swings a blade hand at
my face. The blade connects, opening my cheek. Blood spatters
onto his apron, which absorbs it hungrily. His face splits
open in a metal smile, just a taste, he hisses,
just a little tenderizing. I grab a nearby tenderizing mallet
and cave in his steel skull. It sparks and sprays
more gravy, some getting in my mouth. Immediately I feel it,
the overwhelming urge to give thanks, to submit, to prepare,
thank no. I fight it, but the gratitude burns through
my veins. My muscles begin to soften, becoming tender red
for preparation. It's starting. Ravenscroft's voice echoes with triumph. The
family recipe never fails. I crashed through a door marked
emergency stairs and stumble down, my legs, growing weaker as
Grandmother's solution works through my system behind me. The sounds
of pursuit, clanking metal, whirring blades, hungry breathing. The basement
the original kitchen. Maybe there's a way out through the
old delivery entrance. Instead, I find the heart of the
facility's horror. The massive room throbs with artificial life tubes
and machinery pump fluids through transparent pipes, connecting to patients
in various stages of processing. Some are barely recognizable as
human anymore, their flesh transformed into something meant only for consumption.
And there in the center a massive preparation table. The
wood is stained dark with decades of use, symbol carved
deep into its surface, pulses with hungry light. Beautiful, isn't it.
Ravenscroft stands in the doorway, Marcus and the others crowding
behind her. Their transformed bodies cast strange shadows in the
pulsing light. Your grandmother understood that gratitude isn't just an emotion.
It's a physical change, a transformation of flesh and spirit.
She gestures at the processed patience. Tomorrow's feast requires properly
prepared meat, and you, Catherine, you're the prime cut. My
legs give out. As the gratitude solution spreads. My muscles
feel loose, tender, ready for preparation. The hunger builds inside,
not to eat, but to be eaten, to give thanks,
to serve. No. I grunt fighting the transformation, but I
feel my face trying to split into a grateful smile,
my teeth beginning to change. Ravenscroft approaches, surgical hands extended.
Don't fight it, Catherine, the family recipe cannot be denied.
It's time to take your place. She gestures at the
central table, where restraints writhe like hungry tongues. Time to
make you grateful, Time to make you tender, time to
make you thank. I feel the word bubbling up. Thank.
The preparation tools were to life around us. Tomorrow's feast awaits,
and I'm the main course. I drive my elbow back
into Marcus's midsection, feeling something squish and rupture. Hot liquid
sprays across my neck. Gravy not blood. He howls, the
sound reverberating through newly hollow organs, running again, past more
prep stations, past a room where their tender eyes, A
screaming patient with what looks like a medical grade meat
mallet past a window into a surgical suite where staff
are stuffing someone with dark matter that writhes and pulses.
A door marked Original Processing nineteen twenty two catches my eye.
It's sealed with heavy chains, but they're rusted weak. I
slam the IV pole against them until they snap Inside
my grandmother's true workspace awaits. The room is a nightmare
fusion of operating theater and industrial kitchen. Surgical tools merge
with cooking implements in ways that violate every medical oath
ever taken. Meat hooks hanging from sealing tracks are still
stained dark from their last use, and there mounted on
the wall. The processing tools each labeled in my grandmother's
handwriting Gratitude extractor for resistant patients, Thankfulness tenderizer breaks mental barriers,
Appreciation injector direct marination, Spirit separator removes inconvenient wind to live.
A shelf holds Mason jars filled with preserved specimens things
that might once have been human organs, now transformed by
decades of fermentation in grandmother's special brine. They pulse gently,
still somehow alive. A VHS tape sits next to an
ancient TVVCR combo. The label reads First Successful Processing nineteen
twenty two. My hands shake as I push it in
static clears to show grainy footage of this very room.
A patient strapped to the central table, and there's my
grandmother wearing a bloody apron, holding something that's both scalpel
and carving knife. Subject shows promising response to initial gratitude injection.
Her voice narrates clinically, muscle tissue becoming appropriately tender, mental
resistance almost fully broken. Beginning final preparation phase. A crash
behind me. The door splinters inward as Ravenscroft enters, flanked
by Marcus and two things that were once orderlies. Their
bodies have continued transforming flesh and medical equipment fused into
horrific new forms. Enjoying the family history lesson, Ravenscroft's face
splits vertically as she smiles. Your grandmother was a pioneer.
She understood that proper preparation requires specialized tools. She holds
up her hands, now surgical steel fused with bone. We've
improved the techniques, of course, modern methods are so much
more efficient. Stay back, I warn, Grabbing one of grandmother's
tools from the wall. It hums to life. In my grip,
recognizing family blood. Oh good, Ravenscroft purs, you're already choosing
your preparation implements. The family connection makes it so much
more tender. They advance, slowly, backing me against the central table.
Behind them. I see more transformed staff gathering in the hallway,
their body twisted into shapes that serve only appetite. The
feast is less than twenty four hours away, Ravenscroft says,
we really should begin your tender ezing. Marcus lunges first.
I swing Grandmother's tool, dark fluid spray. Something screams. The
preparation begins. The tool connects with Marcus's face, peeling back
layers of transformed flesh to reveal machinery beneath. He screams
through a mouth that's more disposal unit than human, now
spraying hot gravy across my face. It burns where it touches,
sending waves of unwonted gratitude through my system. I'm thankful,
I hear myself say, before biting my tongue hard enough
to break the compulsion. Two orderlies charge their bodies, clanking
with fused medical equipment. I dive between them. Feeling. Surgical
implements graze my back, tearing jacket and skin. Warm blood
mixes with their leaking marinade. The meat's getting away, ravenscroft
shrieks catch it before the juices run dry. I sprint
down horror house corridors, past rows of patients in various
stages of preparation. Some hang from hooks marinating. Others lie
on tables as mechanical arms need their flesh. All of
them smile with too many teeth, whispering thank you, thank you,
thank you. Something grabs my ankle, a drain cover come alive,
trying to pull me down into the facility's digestive system.
I kick free, but stumble into a prep station where
a cook, now more machine than man, swings a blade
hand at my face. The blade connects, opening my cheek.
Blood spatters onto his apron, which absorbs it hungrily. His
face splits open in a metal smile, just a taste,
he hisses, just a little tenderizing. I grab a nearby
tenderizing mallet and cave in his steel skull. It sparks
and sprays more gravy, some getting in my mouth. Immediately
I feel it. The overwhelming urge to give, thanks, to submit,
to prepare, thank no. I fight it, but the gratitude
burns through my veins. My muscles begin to soften, becoming tender,
ready for preparation. It's starting. Ravenscroft's voice echoes with triumph.
The family recipe never fails. I crash through a door
marked emergency stairs and stumble down, my legs, growing weaker
as Grandmother's solution works through my system. Behind me, the
sounds of pursuit clanking metal, whirring blades, hungry breathing. The
basement the original kitchen. Maybe there's a way out through
the old delivery entrance. Instead, I find the heart of
the facility's horror. The massive room throbs with artificial life
tubes and machinery pump fluids through transparent pipes, connecting to
patients in various stages of processing. Some are barely recognizable
as human anymore, their flesh transformed into something meant only
for consumption. And there in the center a massive preparation table.
The wood is stained dark with decades of use, Grandmother's
symbol carved deep into its surface, pulses with hungry light. Beautiful,
isn't it? Ravenscroft stands in the doorway, Marcus and the
others crowding behind her. Their transformed bodies cast strange shadows
in the pulsing light. Your grandmother understood that gratitude isn't
just an emotion. It's a physical change, a transformation of
flesh and spirit. She gestures at the processed patience. Tomorrow's
feast requires properly prepared meat, and you, Catherine, you're the
prime cut. My legs give out as the gratitude solution spreads.
My muscles feel loose, tender, ready for preparation. The hunger
builds inside, not to eat, but to be eaten, to
give thanks, to serve. No. I grunt, fighting the transformation,
but I feel my face trying to split it to
a grateful smile, my teeth beginning to change. Ravenscroft approaches,
surgical hands extended. Don't fight it, Catherine, the family recipe
cannot be denied. It's time to take your place. She
gestures at the central table, where restraints writhe like hungry tongues.
Time to make you grateful, Time to make you tender,
Time to make you thank. I feel the word bubbling up.
Thank the preparation tools were to life around us. Tomorrow's feast,
Awaits and I'm the main Course. 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.
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