Speaker 1: Calorogus Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to ghost Scary Stories.
This episode is titled Feast, a Thanksgiving Horror Story. Episode three,
Family Recipe.
Speaker 2: Dawn seeps into blackwood house like blood through gauze staining
the kitchen walls. A sickly rose. I find Sarah already
at work, her movements fluid and strange as she pages
through mother's true cookbook. The leather binding ripples beneath her fingers,
responding to her touch like living skin. The recipes sing, Daddy,
she whispers, not turning to look at me. I can
hear mother's voice in the ingredients, grandmother's voice, all of them,
going back to that first winter. Her fingers trace words
written in ink that still glistens wet after centuries. Did
you know that hunger has a lineage? The kitchen has
changed overnight, The wall's pulse with subtle rhythm. Copper pipes
exposed like veins between strips of peeling wallpaper. Emily and
her cousins sit at the preparation table, arranging herbs and
spices in patterns that hurt the eye. Their small hands
move in perfect synchronization. Special ingredients. Grandpa, Emily says, holding
up a jar of what might be rosemary, might be
fingers for the preservation, like Grandma showed us in our dreams.
A scream from upstairs interrupts Elizabeth's labour progresses. Grace's footsteps
thunder down the hall, but the house has other plans.
Doors shift, corridors lengthen, and I hear her growing more
lost with each time. The east wing calls, preparing its
nursery of teeth and shadows. Sarah hums as she works
an old lullaby in a key that makes the children's
eyes glaze black. Listen to mother's notes, she says, reading
from margin stained with substances best not named. The family
hunger must be fed, but flesh alone provides no sustenance.
It is the essence we require, the vital spark, preserved
through our special methods. The cookbook falls open to a
page marked with a ribbon that writhes calculations and diagrams,
annotations in a dozen different hands, all explaining the proper
way to preserve a blackwood Mother's love, to keep her
nourishing presence vital through the generations. I understand now. Sarah continues,
her smile, stretching too wide. Why the house needs Mother's
Why Elizabeth's baby comes so soon? Why we Michael staggers
into the kitchen, eyes fever bright, Margaret's preserves staining his lips. Crimson,
the hunger has taken him fully. Now, no more fighting
what flows in his veins the cellar, he says, voice raw,
I remember now, I remember helping mother with the preserving,
How she taught me to keep them fresh, keep them aware.
He runs his tongue over teeth that have grown sharper overnight.
The ingredients have to know what they're becoming. That's what
gives the recipes their power. Sarah nods, still reading. The
essence must be willingly given. She recites a mother's sacrifice,
a father's guidance, the children's hunger. All must align with
the old ways. She looks up at me, eyes like
polished obsidian. Is that why you let Grace investigate Daddy?
Because the truth has to be discovered, not told above us?
Elizabeth screams again. The house shudders in response, walls rippling
like a swallowing throat. The children's shadows crawl up the walls,
stretching into shapes that echo our true nature. Show them
the special pages aunt, Sarah, Emily says, the ones written
in Grandma's red ink. Sarah turns to the center of
the book, where Margaret detailed her final recipe, the one
that transformed her from mere flesh into something eternal. The
pages pulse with their own heartbeat. To preserve a mother's love,
Sarah reads, first, she must understand what she feeds the family.
Hunger reaches back to that first winter when the settlers
of Blackwood Colony faced starvation when they discovered that certain
sacrifices properly prepared, could transform mere survival into transcendence. The
kitchen windows darken, though it's barely noon. The children begin
their preparation, chant voices harmonizing in that ancient tongue that
speak of hunger and becoming. Feed the house, Feed the line,
keep the essence pure and fine. Mother's love in blood
and brine, preserved until the end of time. Grace bursts in,
breathless from running down ever shifting corridors the nursery. She gasps,
I found it in the east wing. The walls. The
walls are living. Michael finishes, like mother is living, like
all the Blackwood mothers live on. He smiles, showing too
many teeth. Did you think those preservation jars in the
cellar only held food? Sister in law understanding dawns in
Grace's eyes as she looks at the cookbook, at the
children at the writhing walls. Elizabeth, she whispers, the baby
you're going to. Every Blackwood child needs their mother's nurturing presence,
Sarah says, turning back to her preparations, Elizabeth will understand,
just as Margaret did, just as all our mothers have.
The house hungers, the family hungers. And love. She lifts
a cleaver that seems to drink in the light. Love
is the sweetest preservation of all. The children rise in unison,
moving to their assigned stations. Emily begins arranging various jars,
some old, some new, all containing substances that move of
their own accord. Her cousins lay out silver that gleams
with untarnished hunger. Mother's recipes are very specific. Sarah continues
her movements, becoming more fluid, less human. The temperatures, the timing,
the way the essence must be drawn out and preserved.
The flesh is just the vessel. It's the love we harvest,
the love we keep, the love we consume. I watch
my family work, my control over the situation, slipping like
flesh from bone. Margaret's portrait on the kitchen wall watches too,
her smileidening impossibly as her painted eyes track Grace's mounting horror.
Another scream from above, followed by a sound no human
throat should make. The baby comes soon. Elizabeth's transformation begins,
and in the heart of our living house, surrounded by
recipes written in blood and bound in skin, the Blackwood
family prepares for another generation of mother's love. Grace backs away,
finally understanding what joining our family truly means, but the
house has sealed. All exits. The kitchen thrums with ancient
power as Sarah begins the preservation preparations, just as Margaret
taught her in dreams we all shared but never discussed.
After all, Thanksgiving dinner won't prepare itself, and every recipe
requires fresh ingredients and a mother's love. Well, that's the
sweetest preservation of all. The grandfather clock in the hall
strikes an impossible hour as Elizabeth's final scream echoes through
the house. The sound transforms midway, becoming something ancient and hungry,
a mother's first recognition of what she must become. Grace
breaks free from our kitchen vigil, running toward the sound.
None of us move to stop her. Some truths must
be witnessed first hand. Sarah continues her preparations, humming that
old lullaby as she arranges jars of preserved essence in
order of vintage. Some date back to that first winter,
some are more recent. Do you remember watching mother work daddy?
Sarah asks, her movements, becoming more like Margaret's with each
passing moment, how she would sing to the preserves, keep
them coherent, aware the essence stays fresher that way from upstairs,
Grace's horrified gasp tells me she's reached Elizabeth's room. The
east wing has shifted again, placing the nursery where it
needs to be, directly above the kitchen, where the pipes
can carry the essence down to the preservation chambers. My God,
Grace's voice drifts down. Elizabeth. Your skin, your face, She's beautiful,
isn't she, Emily says, straightening her little apron, Almost ready
like Grandma was. Michael moves to the cellar door, unlocking
it with a key of bone and memory. The preservation
jars are ready, Sarah, like mother showed us. The children
line up by the door, their shadows now completely detached,
dancing on the walls in shapes that speak of hunger
and heritage. The house creaks around us, not settling but swallowing. Grace.
Please Elizabeth's voice, but different, now fuller, hungrier, don't fight it.
I understand now what we are, what I have to become.
The baby needs nourishment. I ascend the stairs, drawn by
sounds of transformation. In Elizabeth's room, I find grace pressed
against a wall that pulses like a heart. My daughter
sits in a rocking chair that moves on its own,
her body changing to match her new understanding. The baby
moves beneath her skin in ways that defy anatomy. Dad,
Elizabeth says, her smile now identical to Margaret's. I remember
everything now, what mother did, what all the mothers do.
The house it needs us, the family needs us. No,
Grace pleads, this isn't real, This can't be real. But
the cookbook's pages flutter below, Sarah's voice rising as she
reads the final recipe, the one that will preserve Elizabeth's
essence forever in the fabric of our home, the one
that will keep her love fresh, nurturing, eternal. The mother's
transformation must be embraced. Sarah reads her voice, harmonizing with
the children's chant, her essence distributed through the house's vessels,
her love preserved in special vintages, her awareness spread through
every wall and beam and floorboard. Elizabeth rises, her movement
liquid impossible, her fingers elongate, her smile widens, Her eyes
reflect generations of maternal sacrifice. The baby's coming, Grace our baby,
and it will need its mother's love, all of it forever.
The house shudders in anticipation. In the kitchen below, Sarah
begins the final preparations. Michael unseals preservation jars that haven't
been opened since Margaret's transformation. The children's shadows dance and twist,
celebrating the coming feast. Grace makes one last attempt to
reach her wife, but Elizabeth is already changing, becoming part
of something larger, older, hungry. The walls pulse around her,
welcoming another mother into their eternal embrace. Don't worry, dear Elizabeth, says,
her voice now harmonizing with Margaret's, With all the Blackwood
mothers who came before. You'll understand soon. After all, her
smile splits too wide, showing teeth meant for more than
eating your family now too, The grandfather clock strikes again,
marking time in a way that has nothing to do
with hours. The house's hunger rises, the children's chant reaches
fever pitch, and in the kitchen, Sarah opens the cookbook
to one final pulsing page. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving at Blackwood House,
and Mother's love will be the sweetest dish we serve, fresh, preserved, eternal.
After all, as Margaret always said, the family that feasts
together stays together forever.
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
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along with hundreds of others from Caloroga Shark Media, is
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