Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media. Hello, and welcome to Ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Beneath a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Part
one Appetizer. The Raven's Croft Wellness Center looms against the
November sky like a curse carved in stone. Even renovated,
it can't shake its identity as the old sanatorium. Through
my windshield, I watch turkey vultures circle its towers, black
shapes cutting through early snowfall. My phone buzzes again, another
frantic message from Marcus. Doctor chen, Please hurry the walls
they're starting to sweat. And the sound from the kitchen,
Oh god, the sounds. I've known Marcus Porter for six years,
through the worst of his PTSD therapy. He doesn't frighten easily.
Yet here he is chief counselor at a prestigious new facility,
sending me messages that sound like a man unraveling. The
security gate recognizes my credentials. Marcus must have cleared me.
As I pull into the visitor's lot, I notice the
building's windows appear to be pulsing, just a trick of
the light through snow, surely the same way that rhythmic
gurgling from the drainage pipes must be the old heating system.
The lobby aims for modern therapeutic comfort, all clean lines
and neutral tones. But beneath the renovation's fresh face, I
sense the old hospital watching waiting. A young receptionist looks
up as I enter, her smile too wide for her
pale face. Doctor Catherine Chen, thank you for coming on
such short notice, especially right before Thanksgiving, mister porter is
She glances nervously at the ceiling, which seems to ripple
in response. Indisposed, But Dr Ravenscroft will see you. I
hadn't expected to meet the facility's director so soon. Diana
Ravenscroft made waves in psychiatric circles with her experimental trauma
therapy methods. Some called them revolutionary, others disturbing. The receptionist
leads me down a corridor that feels longer than it
should be. The walls are lined with historical photographs the
sanatorium through the decades. I pause at one from nineteen
twenty two, showing staff and patients arranged around a Thanksgiving table,
something about their expressions. Fascinating photograph, isn't it. I turned
to find Diana Ravenscroft studying me. She's younger than I expected,
with sharp features and eyes that seem to dissect whatever
they observe. Our building's history is quite remarkable, she continues,
especially that particular Thanksgiving. They called it the Gratitude Therapy feast,
meant to cure patients through enforced thankfulness. Of course, modern
methods are more, she smiles, showing too many teeth refined.
A scream echoes from somewhere below, quickly muffled. Dr Ravenscroft's
expression doesn't change. Break through session, she explains, Shall we
discuss your former patient while we walk? The kitchen staff
is preparing tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner, first one since the renovation.
We're reviving certain traditional elements. Dr Ravenscroft leads me through
corridors that seem to breathe. The wall's subtle movements make
me nauseous, but she appears not to notice. We pass
treatment rooms where patients sit in circles, rocking in perfect synchronization.
Their whispered mantras sound like prayers. Mister Porter has been
concerned about some of our more intensive therapies, Ravenscroft says,
pausing at a heavy wooden door, marked kitchen staff only
particularly our preparation for tomorrow's feast. But gratitude requires sacrifice.
The door swings open on its own. The kitchen is
industrial sized, modernized, but something feels wrong. The stainless steel
surfaces reflect our faces at impossible angles. Steam rises from
enormous pots, carrying sense that make my stomach clench. Not unpleasant,
but somehow primordial. Ancient doctor chen Marcus emerges from behind
a massive freezer unit. Six years of therapy helped him
overcome his water traumer, but now his hands shake worse
than ever. Thank God, you have to see what's in
the base, mister porter, Ravenscroft interrupts smoothly. Perhaps you should
check on the patients in East Wing. Their appetites are growing.
Marcus looks at me desperately. The original kitchen, he whispers,
from nineteen twenty two. It's still down there, still hungry.
Before I can respond, and Orderly appears and guides Marcus away.
His footsteps echo wrongly, as if stepping on something soft
and wet instead of tile. You'll have to forgive him.
Ravenscroft says. The holiday season is difficult for trauma patients.
So many family memories, so much unresolved gratitude. A sound
comes from one of the large pots, not bubbling, but
something more organic, more deliberate. A ladle stirs by itself,
creating patterns in the liquid that remind me of the
symbols carved into asylum walls by desperate inmates. Would you
like to see our therapy rooms? Ravenscroft asks, We're trying
something new, immersive traumass where patients confront their fears physically.
The architecture assists, as if in response, The kitchen walls flex.
The industrial facade seemed to peel back for a moment,
revealing older surfaces beneath institutional green tile stained with substances
that move like mercury. What exactly are you doing here?
I demand? Ravenscroft's smile widens further. Healing, Doctor Chen, true healing,
your grandmother understood back in nineteen twenty two, before they
stopped her research. The room spins my grandmother, Oh yes,
doctor Elizabeth Chen. She designed the original gratitude therapy protocol,
such innovative work with food as a conduit for psychological transformation.
The feast was meant to be her masterpiece. My head
throbs as buried memory's surface. Grandmother's stories about the hospital
whispered like warnings, the old recipe box in our attic
that sometimes scratched from within the way She would trace
the scars on her arms every Thanksgiving, smiling strangely as
she fed the family. A crash from deep below makes
the floor tremble. Ravenscroft glances down, her smile tightening. The
old foundations are settling. Those aren't foundation sounds, I say,
And Marcus isn't having a breakdown. What's in the basement?
Would you like to see her eyes gleam? Your grandmother's
original kitchen is still intact. We've been restoring it for
tomorrow's feast. Before I can respond, a patient bursts into
the kitchen. Her hospital gown is stained with gravy that
moves like living mercury. The gratitude, she gibbers, it's growing
in my stomach. I can feel it. Feeding orderlies appear
to restrain her, but not before I see her mouth
stretched impossibly wide, teeth multiplying as I watch, the smell
of sage and copper fills the air. Early emergence, Ravenscroft says, calmly.
Some patients respond more quickly to the treatment. Their gratitude
becomes hungry. A door I hadn't noticed before swings open,
revealing stairs descending into darkness. Steam rises from below, carrying
sense that trigger memories. I never knew I had grandmother's
special Thanksgiving gravy, the one that made the family so
grateful they wept blood. Your grandmother understood that gratitude isn't
just an emotion. Ravenscroft continues as we descend. It's an entity.
It needs to be fed, nurtured, groan. The feast of
nineteen twenty two wasn't a failure, doctor Chen, It was
merely premature. The basement kitchen emerges from the darkness. Industrial
steel gives way to aged tile and rusted implements that
hang like torture devices. Ancient ovens glow with inner light
that pulses like heartbeats. The walls here don't just sweat,
they salivate, and there scratch deep into the central preparation table.
I see it grandmother's symbol, the one that decorated her
recipe cards, that marked her special serving plates that she
carved into her own flesh. That final Thanksgiving before they
took her away. Marcus found the feeding logs. I realize
the true records of what happened in nineteen twenty two,
Ravenscroft nods. And tomorrow we recreate the feast property prepared.
This time, your grandmother's work will finally be completed. She
gestures to a door marked special storage. Would you like
to see what real gratitude looks like, doctor Chen, what
it becomes when properly cultivated. The door creaks open on
its own. Inside, something moves in the darkness, something that
whispers with my grandmother's voice about appetites and appreciation and
the true cost of giving thanks the patience. I whisper.
You're not treating their trauma, You're preparing them. Trauma is
such a limited word, Ravenscroft says. We prefer to think
of it as tenderizing. Her hand closes around my arm,
her fingers elongating, nails sharpening. Your grandmother would be so
grateful to have you here, Catherine, to have you take
your proper place in the feast. The basement door slams
shut above us, the oven's pulse faster, hungrier, and from
the storage room shapes emerge that show me exactly what
happened to the patients from that photograph in nineteen twenty two,
what true gratitude does to human flesh. This isn't just
a psychiatric facility. It's a preparation case. And tomorrow's Thanksgiving
feast has been decades in the making. I hear Marcus
screaming somewhere in the darkness, his voice mixing with the
sounds of ancient medical implements coming to life. Grandmother's symbol
burns in my mind as centuries of repressed memory's surface.
The feast is coming, Gratitude grows, and we're all on
the menu. 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 Calarogu 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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