Full Body Chills - Destinations

Episode Date: October 13, 2022

A story about the passengers aboard a plane with an unknown destination.DestinationsWritten by Claudia NeavesYou can read the original story and view the episode art at fullbodychillspodcast.com. Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hi, listeners. I'm Marlee Martinez, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story about the passengers aboard a plane with an unknown destination. So gather round and listen. Close. and listen close. Let this be a warning to whomever come beyond me. Let my hasty ink spot scratch save someone's idiot son or daughter.

It's already too late for me. I should have trusted my instincts. I should have screamed, let them drag me, kicking, biting, spitting off that plane. This warning I scrawl in secret on the corner of my complimentary napkin, shoulders hunched as if that gesture might hide me. I know they are watching. The perspiration dripping down my nose, tears blurring my vision, fingers trembling so that the pen clacks an erratic heartbeat rhythm on the tray table. They already have me.

Let them watch. I could say it started simple enough. It didn't. Stepping into the cabin, I felt the air suck straight out of my lungs, as if the pressure hadn't been properly adjusted and we were already in the air. The stewardess's smile was fake and slimy. She curled her long, red fingernails around my carry-on bag like she might yank it from my hands. I'll hang on to it, thanks. I spoke with a shaky laugh. The stewardess laughed too, mechanical and forced. Suit yourself, darling.

It sounded like a challenge. I fumbled for my ticket, suddenly forgetting my seat number. I had requested an aisle seat. That I remembered. How strange. How strange to have such a distinct memory of that request. I had always preferred the window, after all. I could rest my head on the plasticky, rounded walls

and pass out for a few moments of uneasy, plain sleep. Atlanta to New York should afford me a few hours of sleep, restful or not. No, we were in New York, heading to Atlanta then. A few hours, regardless. Funny, I thought, still fumbling for the ticket. I had never been to New York. Ma'am, I think I lost my ticket and I don't remember my seat number. Her smile stretched her mouth thin.

She tapped one white French-tipped fingernail to her nose, as if to say, I know, and ushered me with a wide gesture to the seat to my right. Right here, darling. Yes, here. This was the only thing of which I was sure. That this was my aisle window seat, and I belonged here. Gratefully, I sank into the cushioned seat and gave the stewardess a strained smile. She squeezed my shoulder with those cheap pink stick-on nails and continued down the aisle,

taking carry-on bags from patrons and flashing her alien smile. First time? For the first time I acknowledged the man to my right. He was tall, his legs folded in, occupying much of the cramped space, and yet he looked quite comfortable. His eyes were blue and his hair was dark. He

looked like someone I could have easily been in love with, and it occurred to me that we may have been at one point. There was that easy grin, those full lips that made me blush and a familiarity bubbled up inside me. I had known him for years. Yes, that is something of which I was absolutely sure. I fly all the time, I assured the stranger with a nervous laugh. But never this airline. The question made me pause. Working so many years in New York, I had flown hundreds of times.

American Delta, Spirit, even Lufthansa on a number of occasions. I couldn't remember the name of this particular company, so I gave a small shake of the head. He smiled, settling back into his seat and popping in an earbud. Oh, you'll like this one. Make sure you try the chocolate cake after dinner. A stewardess, different from before,

commanded our attention for a few short moments for her safety brief before the captain cackled over the speaker. The static was overpowering. You could only catch a few phrases. I should have written them down as soon as I heard them. Even now, my cognition sharpened with fear, and I could only half recall the snatches of words I heard over the speaker. Do Detroit eat turbulence like Detroit tonight's dessert? A spectacular spiced chocolate cake? Detroit? No. I sprung to my feet, searching for the stewardess' eyes through the throng of passengers.

No, ma'am, please. I'm flying to San Francisco. Please, I think I'm on the wrong plane. Her eyes glazed over me like I wasn't there. This is the plane for you. My seat partner spoke calmly, producing my ticket from his carry-on and pointing out the details. Don't worry, darling. You're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Hours passed in the minutes between takeoff and the top of climb. Don't forget to ask your flight attendant about our famous spectacular spiced chocolate cake, came the captain's voice over the speaker a few more times. I thought we might have trays for dinner, a rolling cart of beverages, even a bag of peanuts would have curbed my hunger. But when nothing came, I caved and ordered the flight's special. One famous and spectacular spiced chocolate cake. The man beside me smiled, a twin crocodile to the stewardess who had ushered me to my seat. Make that two.

Two slices of cake, one on each tray. And I was immediately hit with the aroma of chocolate. One bite and I was giddy, intoxicated with spice, ginger, nutmeg, even coffee. Rich and dark and spectacular. I looked at my seat partner, my dearest friend, and I licked chocolate frosting off my fingers. God, isn't this good? The tiredness overtook me.

Two, three blinks and I was out. Embarrassed to find my head bob onto his shoulder, he was warm and soft and smelled like drowsy dark chocolate. I slept. It could have only been minutes, but it felt like hours. My throat was sticky, sore, dry like I hadn't had water for days. I'm so sorry. I looked to the soft shoulder I had fallen asleep on, but it was just the smooth, rounded plastic of the airplane walls. I sat up straight. Breaths started to grow ragged like the pressure in the cabin was closing in around me. I craned my neck, searching for the stewardess or my strange friend, but there was no one.

Not a single soul in a single seat. My heart was beating wildly in my chest. Then came the captain's voice again, marred by static. Folks, we're beginning our descent into Houston. Flight attendants, please... I clawed at the seatbelt, ignoring the light. Houston? Houston was wrong.

That much I was certain. Even I was beginning to admit that my certainty was depreciating in value. But Houston felt wrong. An empty plane felt wrong. The uneaten slices of chocolate cake abandoned on trays felt downright sinister. I struggled to breathe but ran to the front of the aisle and with my shoulder budged open the cockpit door. Please, sir, I have to get off this plane. And there he was.

Blue eyes, dark hair, quite the picture of ease with his feet on the complicated dash, his pilot's cap tipped back on his head. He smiled, crocodile teeth falling out of his mouth, skittering onto the floor. I should have screamed then. Instead, I squared my shoulders, narrowed my gaze, and looked right at him in those strangely friendly eyes. I have to get off this plane. Then jump! The door was open, wind rumbling, papers flying all around us in a pan panic tornado as the plane plummeted toward the earth. She's going to jump! The other passengers aboard the ship were in a panic.

We were standing on the dock, whipped by the salty air of the sea. I was on the ledge then, dressed, soaked, face stained with grime and tears. The ocean churned beneath me, and I thought it might swallow me whole. Help me. No one heard me. The words were drowned by the sound of the sea, the waves crashing against the boat and the siren song of the captain captain's voice luring people from the dock back inside the dining room. Back inside to safety in the promise of spectacularly spiced chocolate cake.

It occurred to me then that I had been on this ship for quite a long time. And so I dove. The icy water hit me like a wall. I didn't even have time to scream. Is that when I should have screamed? No time. No time. The water was already filling my lungs, carrying me further into the waves. Dark, dark, nearly bruise black. I closed my eyes. Let the lack of oxygen slam me into submission. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. The cart rattled past, laden with plastic cups, bottles of juice and water and peanuts. The stewardess let her eyes pass over my tear-stained cheeks and disheveled hair before rattling past herself. I would have liked a bottle of water.

My throat was raw as if I had been screaming. The man beside me stirred in his sleep. His tray was in the upright position, tucked safely, and his arms were folded comfortably over his chest. My own tray was down, my collection of ink-smudged napkins taking up most of the space, a few even fluttering to the floor. And there, perched on a paper plate, lay a confection that made me pause. An intact and completely untouched slice of chocolate cake. Do you get it now?

I didn't have to look up to see who he was, but the draw to meet his blue sky eyes overpowered me. I drank in the captain's appearance, both familiar and strange, and it parched my arid throat and tongue. The image of him oscillated between my visual fields, one moment sitting comfortably at my side and next leaning by the door that led to the cockpit. He made me look between both delusions, pivoting my head like I was watching a tennis match.

Yes, I lied. It was the cake. It was drugged. Or it was the plane, or maybe it was him. Something keeping me here. He shook his head. One of the versions of him clamped a hand on my shoulder, and I found that I liked the weight of him there. I tried to smile, but I was so tired.

I was worried that if I tried too hard, my teeth would pop out of my head, little crocodile pearls bouncing about the cabin. You don't get it. He might have sounded melancholy for me. He kept walking, making his rounds through the aircraft, squeezing shoulders and offering encouragement. The plane landed. There was no stomach flip of descent, no bump bump bump as the wheels touched down onto the asphalt. I didn't remember crumpling up my blotched napkins or discarding the piece of cake, but it didn't seem to matter as I settled into a state of calm. The weight of my seatmate's hand was warm and pleasant, lulling me into the comfort of my plush seat.

I felt only the buds of anxiety, nervous, to take off. I was going to Shanghai, my very first time. I saw a girl bored. She could have been my age, maybe younger. I saw the way she clutched her bags close to her chest, like unease was starting to bloom inside her. I saw the kind stewardess with the pretty fingernail show her to her chest, like unease was starting to bloom inside her. I saw the kind stewardess with the pretty fingernail show her to her seat, close to mine. I saw her eyes dart from passenger to

passenger like she didn't trust us. Here. The captain was sitting beside her, a comforting hand on her knee. I thought to myself how kind of him it was to offer his reassurance. You're exactly where you're supposed to be. His voice was a refrain. Maybe I had heard this song before. He looked at me, his blues on mine. I offered the girl a smile. I watched her recoil, but I didn't know why.

You'll like this, airline. Suddenly it struck me that the words were not my own. I tried to break the captain's gaze, but he held steady. I nodded, and the curse bubbled out of my lips. Ancient and weird, an awkward champagne toast among us weary travelers. Make sure you try the chocolate cake. Full Body Chills is an Audiochuck production. This episode was written by Claudia Neves and read by Marlene Martinez.

This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. So what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?