Speaker 1: A Caloroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Beneath a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Part four,
Side dish. The preparation table's restraints snap at empty air
as I roll away my partially tenderized muscles. Screaming in protest,
I swing Grandmother's tool again, catching one of the transformed
orderlies in his exposed machinery. He sprays a mixture of
gravy and oil across the basement walls. The meat is resistant.
Ravenscroft hisses through her vertical mouth, activates secondary tenderizing protocols.
Facility responds, sealing mounted processing equipment whirs to life extending
blade tipped feeding tubes and mechanical arms equipped with meat
tender eyses. The basement's industrial freezer doors burst open as
more kitchen staff emerge, their bodies twisted into horrific fusions
of cooking implements and medical equipment. My legs barely hold me.
The gratitude solution burns through my system, trying to make
me tender, compliant, ready for processing. I feel my face
trying to split into a thankful smile, but I bite
down hard using pain to focus. Over Here, a whispered
voice from behind a dumbwaiter. A hand beckons human, not
yet transformed. Quickly, I dive for the dumbwaiter as mechanical
arms slam into the floor where I stood. The small
door closes behind me, just as Ravenscroft's blade fingers scrape
the metal move. The voice belongs to a woman in patient,
scrubs her face, scarred but human. She pulls me through
maintenance tunnels that smell of old grease and dried blood.
The cold storage only place they can't process us properly.
We emerge into the old morgue. A dozen patients huddle
inside the walk in freezer, shivering but alive, still human.
Their eyes show terror, but not the maniacal gratitude of
the processed ones. Temperature slows the transformation, my rescuer explains.
She introduces herself as doctor Sarah Webb, former staff psychiatrist.
When I discovered what they were doing to patients, I
tried to stop it, but the facility, it has ways
of dealing with resistance. She pulls up her sleeve, revealing
flesh that's partially transformed into stainless steel. They force fed
me their gratitude solution, but I got away before full processing.
The cold helps, but it's temporary. We're all turning slow,
and tomorrow the feast. I finish my own muscle spasm,
trying to become tender, ready for serving. A scream echoes
through the Morgue's ancient ventilation system. They're processing another patient.
We have to stop this, I say. Sarah nods grimly.
Your grandmother tried, you know, in nineteen twenty two. That's
why the first feast failed. She pulls out an old
VHS tape from a hidden compartment. The real story of
what happened in nineteen twenty two waits within and somewhere
in this facility, a way to end it if we
survive what comes next. The Morgue's ancient TV flickers to life.
The footage shows my grandmother, but not the monster I imagined.
She looks terrified, recording in secret. The gratitude therapy worked
too well, She whispers to the camera. The patients they're
not just becoming grateful, they're becoming ingredients. The facility is
changing them, processing them, and now it's processing the staff too.
I have to stop. The video cuts to chaos. Screaming patients,
transforming staff. My grandmother running through corridors that pulse with
hungry life, carrying something a syringe filled with blue liquid
anti transformation serum. Sarah explains she developed it too late,
the facility had already become too powerful, but she hid
back up doses somewhere in the building, insurance in case
this happened again. A crash from above. They've found us
processing team approaching. Someone whispers they've got the new equipment
through gaps in the freezer door. I see them staff members.
I wish I could unsee their bodies horrifically modified into
mobile processing units. Chest cavities replaced with ovens, arms ending
in bladed wisks that spin and slice. Heads split open
to reveal built in meat grinders. Last time they caught
one of us, Sarah says, rolling up her sleeve to
show cross hatched scars like grill marks. They did a
taste test. The freezer door buckles as something huge slams
against it through the window. I see what used to
be Marcus. His body has transformed into a nightmare of
kitchen equipment and medical machinery. His chest cavity gapes open,
showing rotating blades meant for processing resistant meat. Found you,
He gurgles through a garbage disposal throat. Time for prep work.
The door won't hold much longer. Sarah pulls me toward
a dumbwaiter at the back of the freezer. Emergency escape
route leads to the old storage tunnels, but someone has
to hold them off. She pulls out a metal rod
that might once have been used for hanging cuts of meat.
I'm already partially processed. Buy you some time find the serum, Sarah.
Just go and Catherine, if you find me on the
serving table tomorrow, don't eat the side dish. The freezer
door explodes inward. Sarah charges the processing team with a
war cry that turns into a gurgle. As blade hands
and mechanical arms grab her. I hear meat tender eyeses
striking flesh as I dive into the dumb waiter prep
the resistant meat. Ravenscroft's voice echoes down the shaft after
me maximum tenderizing protocol. Sarah's screams follow me down into darkness,
not screams of pain, but worse, screams of growing gratitude.
As they process her into compliance, the dumbwaiter opens into
maintenance tunnels that smell of old meat and fresh blood.
My muscles spasm again. The transformation spreading part of me
wants to turn back, to present myself for processing, to
become properly grateful. But somewhere in this facility, my grandmother's
serum waits, and Sarah's screams of enforced thankfulness echo in
my ears, a reminder of what happens to resistant meat.
The maintenance tunnels twist like intestines. Beneath the facility, I
crawl through spaces that pulse with artificial life, trying to
ignore the sounds of processing from above. The gratitude solution
works deeper into my system. Every few minutes, I have
to bite my tongue to stop myself from thanking the
facility for my upcoming preparation. A familiar smell cuts through
the rot and blood grandmother's perfume. Following it leads me
to a hidden door marked e chen private storage. Inside
a secret lab, emergency lights still work, illuminating walls covered
in grandmother's warnings. The facility feeds Gratitude is a virus.
Stop the feast. Medical cabinets line the walls. Filled with
labeled specimens showing the progression of gratitude transformation. The final
jar contains what's left of her first process patient, a
mass of thankful flesh and stainless steel that still twitches.
Come on, I mutter, searching frantically, where's that There? A
small refrigerator marked emergency protocol inside a rack of syringes
filled with blue liquid, the anti transformation serum. As I
reach for them, something wet drops onto my hand. I
look up into Sarah's processed face, smiling down through a
ceiling vent with metallic teeth. Found you, she says, her voice,
Now all garbage disposal. So grateful you led us to
this place. The vent cover bursts open. Sarah drops into
the lab, her body horrifically transformed meat. Tender eyses have
replaced her hands. Her chest has split open to reveal
a small prep station, complete with rotating blades. The processing
was beautiful, she gurgles through her new throat. Let me
share it with you, she lunges. I die for the syringes,
feeling her tender eyser hands graze my back, My partially
processed muscles scream as I roll away, grabbing a syringe.
No more resistance, Sarah says, advancing time to be grateful.
More processed patients pour through the vent. The room fills
with the clicking of blade hands and whirring of mechanical limbs.
Their bodies have been transformed into horrific cooking equipment, still
bearing traces of who they once were. The feast requires
fresh ingredients, they chant in unison. All meat must be processed.
I grip the ringe as they close in. My own
muscles try to submit to become tender. The gratitude burns
through my veins. Sarah reaches for me with tenderiser hands.
Just a little preparation. Thanks, I say, but I'm on
a special diet. The syringe plunges into my thigh. Blue
liquid burns through my system like ice. Fighting the gratitude solution,
Sarah's hands close around my throat as the serum takes effect.
Above us, the facility screams, it knows what I've found.
Processing team to containment level. Ravenscroft's voice blares through hidden speakers.
Preserve the prime ingredient. The processed patients lunges one blade
hands extended. My muscles begin to firm up, fighting the
tenderizing effects. The serum works through my system like liquid rebellion.
Time to show them what resistance really means. Time to
fight back, Time to spoil their perfect feast. But first
I need to process some side dishes of my own.
Sarah's mechanical smile falters as I grab one of grandmother's
surgical tools. The processed patients advance. Their body's more kitchen
equipment than human. Tomorrow's feast just got a new chef,
and I'm about to do some prep work of my own.
Let them taste what resistance really means. 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.
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