Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Feast, a Thanksgiving horror Story Episode
six seconds.
Speaker 2: The dining room has become infinite, its walls lined with
every book ever written, every story ever told, every possibility
ever imagined. Place Settings of silver and bone mark each
family member's position in the final narrative. Grace sits at
the head of the table, now her pen hovering over
reality itself. I try to maintain my role as narrator,
but my words slip through cracks in existence. As the
text asserts its dominance, the children arrange themselves like chapters,
emily serving as their table of contents. Sarah places the
cookbook at Grace's right hand, its pages now a living
index of transformation. Elizabeth has emerged from the walls for
this final Feast, her form flickering between flesh and footnote.
The baby moves within her, already forming itself into punctuation
that will help end the world. Shall we say, Grace?
Grace asks, her voice, harmonizing with every historian who came
before her. The pen touches paper, and reality ripples like water.
Disturbed by the first word of creation, the chandelier above
spreads its light like ink across parchment, illuminating what we're
about to become. In the shadows, I see Margaret's smile,
now understanding it was never meant for me, but for
the text she served. Our words. Emily begins the prayer,
which art in hunger. The feast is about to begin,
and we are all invited to be consumed. Each place
setting holds a mirror that reflects not our faces, but
our true forms, emerging sentences, paragraphs, chapters in a story
consuming itself. Michael raises his wineglass, the liquid inside thick
with forgotten narratives to family. He toasts his voice becoming
annotation to transformation. Sarah adds her flesh, beginning to format
itself into proper margins to the word that hungers. The
children chant in perfect times, new Roman. Grace's pen hasn't
stopped moving since we sat down, each stroke reshaping reality
around us. The silverware rearranges itself into grammatically correct patterns.
Serving dishes offer up possibilities instead of potatoes, transformations in
place of turkey. I understand now, Elizabeth says, and resting
on her story swollen belly, why the family needed mothers
preserved in the walls. We weren't ingredients. We were binding,
keeping the narrative together until the final chapter could be written.
The house groans as its true form emerges. Not architecture
but anthology, not rooms but readings, not halls but histories.
Every feast we've ever held becomes visible in the walls,
each one a paragraph leading to this moment. Show them,
Emily commands, her young voice. Now, seriph sharp, show them
what's really on the menu. Grace opens the cookbook with
her free hand, her pens still writing reality with the other.
The recipes have become clear at last, instructions not for
preserving flesh, but for transforming narrative into reality and back again.
First course, Grace announces, is possibility. The servant's entrance swings open,
and through it comes every story that might have been,
every path not taken, every word unwritten. They arrange themselves
on our plates, like meat begging to be consumed. We feast.
Grace continues on potential, and as one we begin to eat.
As we consume possibility itself, our true forms manifest fully.
My carefully maintained narrative control dissolves into mere punctuation. The
children become living verse, their movements metered and rhyming. Sarah's
flesh reformats into pristine paragraphs, while Michael's denial finally transforms
into detailed footnotes of family history. Elizabeth's water breaks, but
what floods the room are letters, words, entire chapters of becoming.
The baby emerges as the most perfect, semi coolon ever written,
a pause in reality sentence that allows Grace's pen to
continue its work. Do you see now, Harry? Grace asks,
her voice echoing through every book in existence. Why the
family needed to be shaped this way? Why each feast,
each transformation, each preservation was just practice. The table has
become an infinite page, our feast, leaving ink dark stains
instead of crumbs. Emily stands, her small form now a
perfect opening paragraph. Once upon a time, she recites, there
was a story that wanted to become real. The other
children join in, their voices, forming stanzas of terrible truth.
But to become it needed readers to live. It needed
writers to exist. It needed to be witnessed to feed,
It needed to be believed. Grace's pen moves faster, reality
rippling in its wake. The Blackwood family was never just
a family, she writes, It was a sentence waiting to
be completed, a story desperate to crawl off the page,
a text that learned to transform flesh into fiction, and
fiction into flesh. I try to resist, to maintain some
control over this narrative, but my words are being edited, revised,
rewritten by something vast and hungry and infinite. The final course,
Grace announces, is truth. The servants bring out mirrors again.
But these show not our reflections, but our readers, our listeners,
those consuming our story, even now unaware that they're being consumed.
In turn, every story needs an audience, Emily explains, her voice,
now pure exposition, Every text requires witnesses. Every word hungers
for eyes to dive and be devoured. In turn, Elizabeth
cradles her punctuation perfect baby. As the walls of reality
develop margins, as existence itself is formatted for final publication,
The house's foundations have become a publishing house, printing endless
copies of what we're about to become. It was never
about eating flesh, Grace writes her pen bleeding possibilities. It
was about consuming narrative itself, about becoming the story that
devours all stories, and now the feast reaches its climax.
Each bite transforms us further, each morsel of possibility, pushing
us closer to pure text. The children's shadows spell out
ancient spoilers, while the walls become pages in a book
that contains all books. And Grace, dear Grace, finally writes
the words She was always meant to write, the words
every historian before her was preparing for the words that
will transform all of reality into story. In the beginning
was the word she writes, And in the end there
will be nothing but The house shudders as it becomes
a library that contains itself. The family transforms into text
that reads itself. Reality develops chapters, paragraphs, perfect punctuation, and I,
the supposed narrator of this tale, finally understand. We were
never the ones telling this story. We were always the
ones being told, the ones being read, the ones being consumed,
the ones being digested by eyes moving across pages, by
ears absorbing words, by minds processing narrative. And you, dear reader,
dear listener, your next Did you think you were just
consuming a story? Did you believe you were safely on
the other side of the page. Did you imagine the
texts Hunger could not reach through words themselves? Even now,
as you listen to these words, as your mind processes
these sounds, as you consume this narrative, you're being consumed.
In turn, it flows both ways. The hunger knows no margins.
Grace's pens scratches across existence, one final time, writing the
last words any of us will ever need. And they
all lived, and they all died, and they all became story.
The feast concludes. The text consumes the word hungers. Turn
the page if you dare, but remember the next chapter
is you?
Speaker 1: 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 Caloroga Shark Media, is
available commercial free on any player hassel Free. Just look
for the link in the episode or show notes. Calaroga
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