Speaker 1: Calorogu Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Feast, a Thanksgiving Horror Story, Episode
five Grace.
Speaker 2: I try to maintain control of this narrative, but Grace's
pen scratches through my thoughts like claws through paper. Her
words overlay mine her truth, bleeding into the spaces between
what I thought I knew. The archives have opened themselves
to her completely, now showing her things even I, the
family patriarch, was never meant to see. She sits in
the library, surrounded by records written in substances that still
pulse with preserved life. Centuries of witnesses speak through her hand,
their collected observations, forming patterns that make the house shiver
with recognition. Did you ever wonder? Grace asks, without looking up,
why the family needs historians, Harry, Why each generation requires
not just a mother to preserve, but a witness to record.
Elizabeth's voice drifts from the walls, already taking on that
peculiar harmonics of preserved mothers. Let her work father, She
sees more clearly, now sees what mother saw, what all
the mothers saw. The children have arranged themselves in concentric
circles around Grace's writing desk. Emily stands at the center,
her form flickering between ages, between states of being. The
words are hungry too, she says, in a voice that
contains multitudes. They've been waiting so long to be properly fed.
Grace's pen never stops moving, writing in scripts that pre
date the family itself. The first witness, she murmurs, wasn't
a blackwood at all. She was there before the colony,
before the first feast, before the hunger. She wrote the
original recipe, wrote it in ink that bound the family
to something older than appetite. The house groans as ancient
understanding surfaces in the east wing. Elizabeth's transformation accelerates, her essence,
spreading through walls that have become permeable as memory. The
baby moves within her, within the house, within time itself.
Sarah appears in the library doorway, Margaret's cookbook clutched to
her chest, the recipes. She why they're changing, as Grace writes,
becoming what they always should have been. Michael stands behind her,
his face showing generations of denial. Crumbling. Mother knew, he says,
She tried to tell me once before she became, about
the true power in our family, about who really hungers.
Grace's hands move across centuries of documentation, each touch revealing
layers of carefully orchestrated deception. The preserved essences of past
historians whisper through her, their collected knowledge, forming a truth.
I never suspected you thought the hunger belonged to the family,
Grace says, her voice, harmonizing with generations of witnesses that
the house fed on. Our transformations are preservations. But look closer, Harry,
look at what's really being consumed. The library walls become
transparent like the rest of the house, but now they
show different scenes, each feast, each transformation, each moment of becoming,
all seen through the historian's eyes, their pens, writing reality
into existence. The witnesses don't just record, Emily explains, her
small hand, tracing words that squirm beneath her touch. They shape,
they guide, They hunger. Elizabeth's voice ripples through the architecture.
I understand now, my love, why you had to investigate,
why you had to know the baby. It's not just
for the family, is it. Grace finally looks up, her eyes,
reflecting impossible knowledge every mother preserved, every child transformed, every
feast consumed, all of it documented in such specific ways,
written in inks that bind, in words that transform, in
truths that devour. The cookbook in Sarah's hands begins to
change its pages, rewriting themselves. As Grace's understanding grows. Mother's recipes.
Sarah gasps, They're not what we thought, the ingredients, the preparations.
We weren't the ones doing the consuming. No, Grace confirms,
power flowing through her pen, you weren't. Every historian added
their own words, their own subtle changes, generation after generation,
writing the family toward this moment, this completion. Michael stumbles
as realization hits him. The hunger we felt echoes, Grace says,
reflections of something older, something that feeds not on flesh
or essence, but on transformation itself, on the endless cycle
of becoming. The children's shadows dance across walls that showed
the truth behind every feast, every ritual, every preservation stood
a historian, writing, recording, shaping, consuming the words hunger. Emily Chance,
the archives devour, the records consume, and I, the proud
patriarch of the Blackwood Line, finally understand how blind I've been,
how blind we've all been. The true power was never
in our blood. It was in the ink that wrote
our story. The grandfather clock strikes in Margaret's voice, but
Grace's pens scratches out the sound, rewriting it into something older, truer.
The house shudders as centuries of careful documentation reach their culmination,
show them the collected voices of past historians whisper through
Grace's lips, show them what they've really been preserving all
these years. She opens a journal that bleeds memories, its
pages containing the true history of the blackwood Line. Before
the colony, she reads, before the first feast, there was
the word, the hungry word that needed vessels to consume,
to transform, to become. Elizabeth screams from within the walls
as understanding floods her transformed consciousness. The baby moves with
new purpose, now responding to Grace's revelation, we created you.
Grace continues, her voice, carrying the weight of every historian
before her created the hunger, the transformations, the need to preserve.
Every mother absorbed into the house, every child evolved, every
feast consumed, all of it, carefully documented, carefully shaped, carefully
fed to something far older than your family. The children's
shadows stretch into their true forms at last, not the
monstrous shapes I expected, but letters from an alphabet that
predates humanity. Emily smiles with teeth that form words of power.
The archives don't just record our history, she says. They
are our history, our present, our becoming. Sarah's cook book
erupts into text that crawls across her skin, revealing recipes
that were never about food, but about feeding the word
that hungers for transformation itself. Every generation, Grace writes, her
pen dripping possibilities brought us closer to this moment. Every
witness added their part to the text, every historian and
shape the family toward completion. And now the house groans
as its true nature emerges, not a living structure of
brick and bone, but a story made manifest, a text
that hungers, a narrative that devours. Michael reads the truth
crawling across the walls. We're not a family that transforms
into monsters. Where a story transforming into reality, and the
historians are the authors. Grace finishes, the ones who feed
the hungry word with endless cycles of becoming the ones
who shape chaos into consumption, possibility into preservation, humanity into
the east Wing ripples as Elizabeth's transformation reaches its apex.
But she's not becoming part of the house anymore. She's
becoming part of the text, the hungry, infinite text that
has been growing, feeding, consuming since the first historian wrote
the first word in ink that never dries Tomorrow, Grace
writes her pen, reshaping reality with each stroke. We feast
but not on flesh, not on essence, not even on
transformation itself. Emily's voice rings with textual truth. We feast
on story, on narrative, on the infinite possibilities of becoming.
The children arrange themselves into stanzas of ancient power. Sarah's
cookbook rewrites itself into chapters of consumption. Michael's flesh becomes
punctuation in a sentence that spans generations, and I, the
supposed patriarch of this supposed family, feel my carefully maintained
control dissolve into mere syntax. The word hungers Grace in
tones as past historians speak through her pen. The text
consumes the storied devours and we. Elizabeth's voice emerges from
walls that have become pages in an infinite book. We
are its chapters, my love, its paragraphs, its precious, preserved possibilities.
The house shifts again, but now I see it truly,
not architecture but annotation, not rooms but sentences, not halls,
but chapters in a story that feeds on its own,
endless becoming. Grace stands her pen held like a conductor's baton,
orchestrating the final transformation. Tomorrow, she declares, we complete the text,
We feed the word. We become the story that consumes
all stories. The children sing in fonts and seriphs, The
walls pulse with plots and subplots, the very air thickens
with narrative possibility, and I finally understand the true horror
of our inheritance. We are not monsters who feast. We
are not a family that transforms. We are words becoming flesh,
becoming words again. We are sentences that devour meaning itself.
We are punctuation in a story that hungers. And Grace,
dear clever Grace, is not just another historian. She is
the fine word, the ultimate period, the last stroke of
the pen that will transform all of reality into text. Tomorrow,
we become the story that consumes all stories, and not
even I, the supposed author of this narrative, can stop
what we're about to become. After all, every story needs
an ending, every text needs completion, every word Hungers.
Speaker 1: Ghost is a Caloroga Shark Media production written and hosted
by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis. Executive produces
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 Caloroga Shark Media, is
available commercial free on any player Hassle free. Just look
for the link in the episode or show notes. Calaruga
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