Full Body Chills - Strange Cravings

Episode Date: October 18, 2022

A story of a loved one who made a rare change in diet.Strange Cravings Written by Ryan C. MajorYou 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 Anthony Koons and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of a loved one who made a rare change in diet. So, gather round and listen. Close. and listen close. A few months ago, my wife started to have some strange cravings. At first, it wasn't anything too far out of the ordinary.

I've never been a fantastic cook, but I've always loved to grill in the backyard. For the first decade and a half of our marriage, I clearly remember Nicole always ate her steaks well done. I had gone to the butcher early one day back in the summer and picked up three beef fillets. The weather had been beautiful. I wanted to get out and enjoy it. Grilling was an excellent excuse to soak up the last rays of sun on a warm evening, and Nicole enjoyed the break from cooking. The steaks had been seasoned and reached room temperature as I stood in front of the grill. Nicole had stepped out onto the patio and walked up next to me. I saw her put her index finger into the red liquid on the plate and swirl a circular pattern through it. William Stewart, how did you know I was craving steaks?' "'Sometimes a husband just knows,' I responded with a smile. "'There's a well-done fillet in your future, madame.'

She giggled and continued to run her finger through the red runoff on the plate. "'How about rare today?' "'Rare? That's not really your style, is it?' "'You always tell me steak with the best flavor still has some pink in the middle. I tossed the steaks on the grill and listened to the rhythmic sizzling. Rare may be a bit much for you. Why don't we try medium? She kissed my neck and slipped her arms around my waist. Rare.

I nodded in agreement. Nicole removed her arms from my waist and swirled her finger around the red liquid on the plate again before picking it up and heading inside. My eyes drifted to her as she passed through the kitchen door. Through the window, I could see her slide the plate into the sink. The reflection on the window made it difficult to see, but I could have sworn I saw her put the bloody fingertip in her mouth. That evening, all of us sat at the table outside. Our daughter, Brooklyn, had returned home from a visit with her grandparents, just in time for dinner. She and I discussed all the little adventures she had been on during her

visit, but Nicole didn't participate very much. She was fixated on the steak. Usually, she ate slowly, mouth closed as she chewed, and dotted at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Not that night. Nicole didn't as much cut the steak as rip it apart. Ragged shreds of beef nearly dangled from her mouth as she chewed loudly and openly. Brooklyn didn't seem to notice as she recounted her visit to me, but I couldn't help but listen to the wet gnashing of teeth as Nicole consumed the steak. Brooklyn was still telling me about all the fun she had as I saw Nicole soak up all the red runoff from her steak on a dinner roll and eat it greedily.

Rare or blue steak became the norm for Nicole after that. A few weeks later, I arrived home from the office. She was hard at work in the kitchen preparing dinner. I had purchased a few steaks the previous evening and had planned to cook them myself, but Nicole had texted me during the day to tell me that she had planned to cook them herself. At the time, I recall thinking it would be nice to have a little break after work, and I had agreed. I wish I hadn't. Generally, when she cooked dinner, I could smell the aroma of delicious food before I came through the garage door.

Tonight, that telltale aroma was absent. Even as I walked into the kitchen from the garage, there was nothing. I wasn't upset when I thought she hadn't cooked, but I thought it was odd. As I rounded the corner from the door, to my surprise, Nicole was working diligently at the counter. Three white dinner plates sat on the kitchen island. Something pink, about the shape of a hockey puck and twice as tall was in the center of each dish. A yellow oval sat on top of the pink discs, covered in flecks of green. Welcome home. I made us something new to try tonight.

She gestured toward the plates on the counter. I smiled wearily. What is it? It looks... interesting. Steak tartare. I chopped the steaks you bought, seasoned them, topped them with a raw egg. A little European flair for the evening. I still remember how enthusiastic she looked. Isn't that raw, Nicole? May not be a great idea for Brooklyn. I'm not sure those cuts were grated to eat without cooking them.

The excitement melted off her face. Then cook something for the two of you. I busted my ass in the kitchen trying to bring a little bit of class to this family and this is the thanks I get. I tried to apologize but Nicole just held her hand up to silence me. She scooped up the plates and pushed the raw piles of beef onto one dish before taking it outside and eating it on the patio. Taken aback by the hostility, I made a few sandwiches and called Brooklyn down for dinner. Nicole didn't speak to me for the rest of the night. Over the coming weeks, Nicole stopped giving me the cold shoulder and things mostly returned to normal. When she cooked dinner, it was a commonplace dish again, nothing raw or out of the ordinary. It was a relief that there was no recurrence of that tartare incident.

I did notice that Nicole would barely pick at the food she cooked. Even when she did take a bite, her lips would curl into a sneer as though the flavor of the food was making her sick. She rarely ate more than a fourth of her plate. It became common for raw cuts of meat or ground beef to vanish from the refrigerator. The first time I noticed it, a tray of ribeye steaks that I had been seasoning in the fridge was missing. When I asked Nicole what happened, she told me that Roscoe, our golden retriever, had knocked the tray onto the floor and eaten them. While it wasn't entirely impossible, I had never known Roscoe to attempt to snatch food like that. He always enjoyed a life full of table

scraps but had waited patiently for them, never so much as a wine to beg for a bite. The next week, three pounds of ground beef vanished. Nicole acted as though she had never seen it when I asked her what happened. I even went as far as to show her the grocery pickup order on my phone, but she insisted that they must have forgotten to place it in the bag. I knew she was wrong. It had been there. I put the damn groceries away and still recall putting it in the meat drawer at the bottom of the fridge. Later the next day, I was tossing a bag of garbage into the pickup bin when I saw a single styrofoam meat tray at the bottom.

There wasn't a single drop of blood left on it. A few days later, Roscoe vanished. He was seven years old and not once had he ever left the confines of our yard. We lived in the country and our lot was large enough for him to run freely, but he never left our line of sight. The farthest he had gone was to the wood line behind the house, but that was it. Nicole said that she had let him go out to use the bathroom, but before she could stop him, he had run to the road and disappeared. We drove around for hours calling his name, but we never saw him. Brooklyn had gone with me and sobbed loudly as we called for him.

Nicole stayed home, unconcerned. While cutting up a fallen tree in the backyard a week after Roscoe had vanished, I could smell the sickly sweet scent of decay. Turning the chainsaw off and stepping into the underbrush, I tried to find the source. Flies buzzed loudly a hundred feet ahead, and when I reached the spot, the stench was overwhelming. I pulled back the overgrowth and found a pile of bones and a hairy pelt matted with blood. It appeared all the meat was gone.

Reaching down, picking up a stick, I prodded the pile of rot to try and identify what kind of animal it had been. As a wet pile of skin and bones sloughed to the side, my heart dropped. Roscoe's brass name tag and collar sat at the bottom of the remains. That evening, I confronted Nicole. I found Roscoe. That's sad. She replied flatly. Nicole sat in a large armchair in our bedroom with the lights off. This had become her routine. She rarely left the bedroom now and always sat in the dark. Why is it sad?

Brooklyn will be sad her dog is dead. Do you want to tell her? I never said he was dead, Nicole. How did you know? She didn't respond. Answer the question. I hadn't told you yet. He's been gone a week. If he was alive, you would have sounded happier. Leave me alone. My head hurts. I left the room and slammed the door. There was no way to prove she had done something to Roscoe, but my stomach turned with the thought. Nicole had been so sweet and gentle our entire lives, but I knew she had killed him.

Worse was the fact that Roscoe's body was nothing but bones and pelt. All of the meat was gone. I buried Roscoe in the tree line and never talked to Brooklyn about it. The month after, while I was driving home from work, my cell phone began to ring. I didn't recognize the number, so I sent it to voicemail. A few moments later, my phone chirped to alert me that a new message was in my inbox. I put the phone to my ear and listened to a gleeful voice. Hey there, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart. This is Selma at the Humane Society. Just calling to check in and see how the new cats are doing. I hope they are well.

Don't forget to bring them in for their checkup next Monday. Thank you for fostering them. The shelter appreciates it so much. Bye! The message ended. We hadn't fostered any cats. I punched the callback button on my cell phone and listened to the ringtone. Humane Society, Selma speaking. The same chipper voice from the voicemail poured through the phone.

Hi, Selma. This is William Stewart. You left a message about us fostering some cats. I'm afraid you've made a mistake. Um, hang on. I could hear her typing feverishly on a keyboard. Nope. It says here that last week, Nicole Stewart signed the two of you up for our fostering program. Nicole took custody of three cats while they await their forever homes. Is everything okay?

I ended the call. When I arrived at the house, I immediately walked to the tree line. As I drew closer to the spot where I had found Roscoe's remains. The smell of rot filled the air again. The swarm of flies was visible in the distance as well. I bounded through the vegetation until I reached the place where I had found our dog. A pile of rotting pelts and tiny bones lay on the ground. Flies and maggots worked their way in and out of the folds of skin. There wasn't a single scrap of meat to be found. Knowing Bricklin wouldn't have been home from school yet, I stormed into the house to confront Nicole. It had been my fault I turned such a blind eye to this, but I'd had

enough. Whatever was wrong with her, we had to get her help. I searched the entire house, but Nicole was nowhere to be found. Call after call to her cell phone went unanswered. She didn't return any of my text messages. After a call to her work, her family, and our friends, no one had reported seeing her. She never came back to the house. Brooklyn asked me where she had gone, but I told her truthfully that I didn't know. After an initial call to the police that night, they told me that Nicole was an adult and had the right to leave. Unless I had a reason to believe something bad had happened to her, I would have to wait to file a missing person's report. It only took a day after calling the police for them to call me back. Detective O'Hara, the officer that contacted me, asked if he could come to the house and ask me a few questions about my wife. I agreed. We sat on the back porch in the midday sun as the detective scribbled away in his pocket-sized notebook.

He was a middle-aged man with a vanishing hairline, protruding stomach, and hard eyes. So, when was the last time you saw Nicole? He asked without looking up. Two days ago. I called you guys that night, but whoever answered told me I couldn't file a report unless I suspected something bad had happened to her. Have you found something? Yes and no. We do want to move forward with the missing persons report on your wife. My heart began to beat quickly. Do you have any reason to suspect that someone would have wanted to hurt her?

Does she have any connections with anyone in the area that may be in danger? I don't think so. Do you think she's been hurt? What happened? Why are you willing to take the report now? Detective O'Hara closed his notebook and slid it into his shirt pocket. He rubbed his eyes with the tip of his fingers before fishing a cigarette out of a pack in his other pocket. The flame of his lighter danced on the tip of the cigarette.

We found some remains in the woods a few miles from your house. We think they're the remains of two adults of undetermined age and sex. It'll be on the evening news tonight. Big press conference. I don't know if any of the remains belong to your wife, of undetermined age and sex. It'll be on the evening news tonight. Big press conference. I don't know if any of the remains belong to your wife, but her disappearance lines up with the discovery of the bodies. Can I go to the morgue and try and identify her?

Warm tears have started gathering in my eyes. No, sir. There isn't enough left of the bodies to identify. We'll have to do dental match identification on the remains. You said her disappearance lines up with when the bodies were found. How could they be so decomposed in two days that you need to do a dental match? O'Hara crushed the smoldering cigarette below his heel and lit another. They aren't decomposed.

Someone cut all the muscle and tissue off the bodies. Nicole is still missing. Her dentist was able to provide x-rays to the police. None of the recovered bodies have matched with her. The police keep telling me they will find her.

But I know they won't. My wife started to have some strange cravings, and I am fairly certain that it has gotten worse. Full Body Chills is an Audiochuck production. This episode was written by Ryan C. Major and read by Anthony Coons. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original and full on our website. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?

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