Full Body Chills - The Bacchanalia

Episode Date: October 29, 2023

A story of revelry and a vineyard of vice. Written by Michele Chu. You 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 Brought to you by FX's American Horror Stories. Four Episode Huluween Event Streaming October 26th. Only on Hulu.

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 Sharon Hader, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of revelry and a vineyard of vice. So, gather round and listen. Close. Listen close. The cabin was a bit dull.

I mean, it was beautiful, really, in an average Victorian kind of way, and certainly nicer than our crappy studio in the Queens. But for a place called the Revelry B&B, I was expecting something a little more... Oh, I don't know, glitz and glamour, maybe? Looks like I was off by a few decades. But I guess that's what you get when your boyfriend insists upon, quote, surprising you. Well, this was definitely a surprise. An old home tucked away in the Catskill Mountains during a snowstorm, no less, and with no Wi-Fi and a whole lot of nothing to do. And that doesn't even begin to

describe our bedroom. Everything in our room is green, from the pale green dimity curtains to the forest green oriental rug. It's like something straight out of Dr. Seuss. The owners have even gone one step further by carving delicate ivy vines into the wooden bedposts and adding those fake silk plants you get off of Amazon. The effect is overwhelming. Anthony, my boyfriend, left a while ago to sort some things out with the front desk. Apparently, this place doesn't take credit card. Of course not. But he says he'll sort it

out. So I did as he asked and brought up all our luggage on my own and waited in the jolly green giant's bedroom for him to return. I thought about exploring the place, but then Anthony's FOMO wouldn't have it. The minute I did anything without him, he went nuts. So I've just been going through drawers and a stack of books trying to kill some time. And it was when I opened a copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses that a stack of papers fell to the floor. At first, I thought I'd broken it. I mean, these books look a hundred years old, so I'm not surprised if the binding has gone. But when I reached down, I realized all of the pages were still intact. What fell out of the book were letters. The parchment was yellowed and covered in stains and the handwriting was

faded, barely legible, not to mention all the misspellings. But a few words caught my eye, and curiosity took over from there. The writer never wrote her full name, but judging by the language, I'd guess these were written in the late 1800s. However, that's not the weird part. It's the stuff she describes about the cabin that... Well, let me just read these all together. January 27th. Dearest Penelope, I apologize for sending only one letter to your three, but I dare say you'll be glad to know that we've arrived safely at the revelry bed and breakfast. When the snowstorm first began, I truly believed Jason would demand we hold off on the next leg of our journey for yet another day. I am so happy he allowed us to push forward,

because this is the most beautiful place. I'll do my best to describe it to you, as well as if you stood next to me now, although I'm afraid I can't possibly do it the justice it deserves. The revelry bed and breakfast is nestled inside of the forest, surrounded on all sides by tall evergreens. It is a lovely three-story-tall colonial house, with a white wooden facade and columns framing the entryway. I can well imagine sitting under the covered porch when the weather is better, with the snow falling over it and all the lamps lit from inside. It looks very picturesque, like something out of a storybook. The owner's wife came out to greet us as Jason struggled with our luggage.

Her name is Agave. What a funny name. And she was so sweet and welcoming. I forgot all my worries about our long trip here. From the descriptions I've heard of her, I expected a grandmotherly creature puttering around the place, ready to drone on about the war of 1812 at the drop of a hat. But she looks 60 at most. She has dark hair streaked with grey and the loveliest eyes, the colour of a wine-dark sea. As soon as she saw us, she began beaming and spread her arms wide in a gesture of welcome.

My husband and I are so glad you've safely arrived. You have had a long journey to reach us. Enter freely and partake in our hospitality. Eat and drink your fill. She has a strange accent I can't quite identify, but speaks English more or less fluently. I do wonder how she and her husband managed to run everything here. Although this house isn't very large, it seems a tremendous amount of work for only two people. We very gladly went inside as the cold really was becoming unbearable at that point. Everything inside is so ornate and luxurious, from the thick Persian rugs to the intricately carved wooden panels set into the furniture. The staircase leading up to the guest rooms must be the grandest one I've ever seen.

Next to the staircase is a door that is very ornate, made of burnished wood and engraved with unfamiliar symbols and bulls chasing one another through a forest. I would have liked to stop and study it, but Jason rushed me onwards. Agave brought us inside a well-lit room, off to the side where the table had been spread for supper. She had prepared oysters on the half shell, ribs of prime beef, turkey with chestnut dressing, quail toast, boiled sweet potatoes, and stewed tomatoes. She had also set out a huge spread of different fruits, apples, pomegranates, figs, etc., And a dusty bottle of white wine on the sideboard.

The wine was unlike any other I've drank before. Exquisitely balanced with marked notes of apple and honey. Jason didn't approve of my helping myself to another glass. But I couldn't help it. Everything tasted so divine that I lingered on every bite, trying to make it last as long as possible. When we had finished supper, we staggered past the mysterious door and up the stairs into our bedroom. Jason fell asleep at once, but I couldn't sleep until I had dashed a few lines off to you.

Oh, how I wish you were here with us, Penelope. I never want to leave this place. As you know, my father didn't approve of our marriage. He believes we rushed into it. Everyone in our town does, except for you, my dearest friend. But Jason takes such good care of me. He worries constantly about my nerves, which he firmly believes has been permanently damaged by too much stress and over-education in my formative years. He's always so careful to enforce periods of rest, and it took all my persuasive powers to convince him to even allow me on this trip. It's an inexpressible relief to be away from the prying eyes and scornful judgment of our neighbors. Tell me, how is your recovery going? And tell me too, what news there is, for we've a hard time getting any.

Is it true what they say about Wake Island? You're grateful and loving, Ariadne. January 28th. The End the sky outside still bright with snow, one of the blankets from our bed draped around me, my teeth chattering with cold. The fire in our room has gone out, but I must tell you, I must tell someone about what happened in my dream, or I'll start screaming and never stop.

I feel half mad already. I dreamt that I opened the door beside the staircase, the one that has those bulls and odd symbols engraved on it, and it opened onto a vast vineyard, which was rich with a pleasant earthy smell. Everywhere I looked I saw huge clusters of dark purple grapes, each of them at least three inches across, hanging from the vines above or next to me. A tall man appeared in the row of grapes directly next to mine and began walking towards me. No matter how hard I tried to look at his face, it remained obscured in shadow, even though the sun shone brightly on everything else. I somehow knew, though, that he saw me, and he understood.

Oh, he understood everything about me, everything that made me... me. My hopes, my dreams, and my fears. And he planned on taking them all away. He would erase every single part of me until I no longer had a voice to scream with. At the same time, the sight of him made me so happy that I could hardly think or breathe. I don't quite know how to describe it, only that it was a wild, frenzied joy rose within me, higher and higher, as he approached closer and closer and it blotted out everything else in the world like a dark cloud blotting out

the Sun when he stood only a foot away from me he took my hand and lifted it to his mouth and forgive me Penelope but I must write on. And he bit down on it. He devoured my hand, gulping down every scrap of meat until there was nothing left of it but the bones. And then he sucked the finger bones clean, one by one, before cracking them open to swallow the marrow, all while I remained helpless and unable to move. It was painless, of course it was painless, it was a dream, but I have never experienced one so disturbing. The mingled joy and terror I felt, the sight of the blood gushing down my hand and pulling at my feet, even the repulsive slurping noises he made as he consumed it. And it didn't end there.

After he finished with my hand, he came even closer. His thumb rose into the air and arrowed straight towards my right eye, looming larger and larger and larger, until I heard a wet pop, and that side of my vision went dark. He pried it loose from my eye socket and devoured it. When he began reaching for my other eye, that was when I finally became able to move and speak again, and I immediately turned around and ran as fast as my feet would carry me in the opposite direction, all the while knowing it was hopeless and that he had already found me. And I woke up. I must not have screamed aloud, for Jason still slumbered peacefully next to me,

undisturbed. But the dream felt so real that I had to leave our bed and come to the window seat where I am now and look at what little I can make out of my reflection, ghostly and barely there. Reading over what I've written so far, I'm half tempted to crumple this letter up and swallow it, to destroy these words I've so carelessly spilled over the page. Yet it helps somehow to see the words in my handwriting, shaky as it may be, the black letters on the starkly white paper. I feel purged, cleansed now that I have written this down. Perhaps I shall find sleep tonight after all. Yours as ever and always, Ariadne. January 29th. Dearest Penelope, a thousand apologies for alarming you by writing such a nonsensical letter. If I could but get a hold

of it again, I'd tear it up into a hundred pieces and throw them all out of the window for the wind to take, so that it could bury my letter under the snow until the ink has run and the paper has disintegrated. That is what it deserves. It was merely a dream born of silly fancies, one laughable to the extreme. If you can, forget what I've written and put it out of your mind. I certainly have. I'm only a little tired at the moment. Today's breakfast was as delicious as last night's supper. Sago, hashed cold meat, jellied veal, buttered toast with hash, and rice and meat croquettes. We met one of the other two couples staying here, Alexander and Sophia. Alexander was very reserved and imperturbable, but Sophia and I amused ourselves by prattling on about all manner of silly things. Even though it was mid-morning at that point,

the wind outside kept howling and screaming outside like a jilted lover, raking its fingers against the windows and snatching at handfuls of snow. It felt very much like we were cut off from the rest of the world, all alone except for each other. It was a strange, lonely feeling. Jason and I set off for the library after breakfast and soon found it. It is a beautifully appointed room with a vaulted ceiling and bookcases surrounding us on all sides. A wooden platform, perhaps five feet across, wraps around the entire room so that you may get to the books at the very top, and a ladder has been set next to it. There are leather armchairs arranged around the fireplace

and dainty side tables next to them. I do believe this may be my favourite room in the entire house. Though, the ornate door beside the staircase continues to dwell in my mind. There's something awfully mysterious about it, and I can't help feeling curious. We spent some time conversing about the books I had brought with me on our trip, none of which he liked. As I think I've told you before, Jason doesn't approve of the so-called new woman. He believes that higher education is neither safe nor necessary for women, and that we must not involve ourselves with political matters.

I must admit that when he explains it all to me, it seems reasonable, and I can never think of any way to all to me, it seems reasonable, and I can never think of any way to refute his points during our discussions, only after. He believes too that I have a tendency towards the romantic, one exacerbated by too much reading, Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley, and too much writing. I know he is right, of course. He's a physician of high standing. Only, only I don't feel unwell at all, and I can't possibly bring myself to end my correspondence with you. Before he could recommend rereading The Sphere and Duties of Woman to me for the twentieth time, Agave broke into our conversation by offering us coffee, and then we received very bad news from her.

She told us gravely, The snowstorm is worse than expected. We will be snowed in, I don't know for how long. It must have been a trick of the dim light, the flames casting strange, writhing shadows over her face, but she looked somehow even younger than she had yesterday when we'd first met her. Fifty instead of sixty. Isn't that so strange? Of course, Jason would say that it's simply my overheated imagination at work. He was, of course, absolutely furious at this unexpected delay, which will set back our schedule by two weeks at the least.

You know he can't abide anything disorderly. He expects the world to run like a well-wound watch. He certainly would not allow any strange dreams to make him nervous. I was mortified by his anger. It's not her fault that the weather is so much worse than we predicted. But, guilty despicable thought, at the same time I'm relieved he's angry with her rather than with me. Shortly after Agave left us, Jason told me in clipped tones that he would attempt to get some work done and stormed up the stairs. So here I am, still perched on the armchair with a cup of coffee, set on the dainty little side table beside me, writing this letter to you. I am glad to hear that you are making a swift recovery and that you may soon begin to

walk short distances. Your loving and grateful, Ariadne. January 30th. Dearest Penelope, I am determined to keep writing to you, though I don't know when I'll be able to send this letter or receive any of yours. I suppose I'll have to wait and send all my letters in one batch after the weather has improved. I'm afraid I don't have any exciting news to share, though something odd did happen today. With the snowstorm growing worse, we've all been advised to stay inside where it is warm and safe. So, I spent the entire morning wandering around the house and familiarizing myself with its

layout. I discovered six guest bedrooms on the second floor, three of which were occupied. The other two guests here are a very old man and someone who perhaps is his son? Neither of them introduced themselves to me, so I can only speculate as to their relationship. I haven't seen Alexandra and Sophia since our first morning here, which is exceedingly strange as this house is not so very large, and it isn't possible for them to have left. It's not possible for any of us to leave until the snowstorm ends. After exhausting the third and second floors of the house, I eventually found myself returning to the door beside the staircase, the one that has fascinated me since I first saw it. I don't know what came over me, perhaps it was the lingering after-effects of the nightmare that

first night, but I reached out to touch it, only to touch it, and before I knew what had happened, my hand tried to turn the doorknob. It remained tightly shut and locked. As I stood there looking at it, I realised that the engravings were even more detailed than I had previously supposed, with lines swooping and curling on themselves at odd places. I thought it depicted bulls chasing one another through a forest, but the longer I stood there, the clearer it became that there were women hiding among the trees. It was hard to make them out, but if I turned my head sideways, I could see their staring eyes hidden in the undergrowth, and their hands clutching the tree branches, and their hair spread on the ground. And the bulls weren't chasing one another at all.

They were chasing the women. And if I held very still, it seemed as though the engravings moved the bulls tossed their heads and gawled the air with their curved horns and the women ran and hid oh how the women screamed Jason was very angry with me when he found me he said that I had missed breakfast and dinner earlier and demanded to know if I had spent the whole afternoon simply standing there like a lump. The truth is, Penelope, that I must have, even though I thought only a handful of minutes had passed. He insisted that I immediately rest and has confined me to the bedroom since.

I had to wait for him to leave for supper before I could scribble this letter to you. But I must get your thoughts on the door. Write back to me at once and tell me what you think. All my love, Ariadne. January 31st Dearest Penelope, I had the same nightmare again last night and I woke up feeling irritable and listless. Lately, all I feel is exhaustion. Jason allowed me to venture downstairs for breakfast, but he made sure I went straight there without stopping anywhere else.

I know he is doing this only because he cares for me and wants me to recover quickly, but sometimes... Sometimes I almost wish I had never met... No, I can't write it. After reading his book for a few hours, he went downstairs to speak to Agave again. I must have fallen asleep,

though I can't remember doing so, because he startled me when he entered the room again. I must have fallen asleep, though I can't remember doing so, because he startled me when he entered the room again. Usually, Jason is very calm and resolute, but he looked so upset at first that I was afraid to speak. Then, he pointed wordlessly at his suitcase, and I saw that someone had taken out all the papers he usually keeps inside and ripped them into tiny pieces. Paper confetti covered our entire room, not unlike the snow covering the forest outside. Someone had also ripped apart the stitches in his clothing and flung them all over the ground. It was as though the wind outside had stolen inside and wreaked havoc on our room.

And he accused me of doing it. I didn't. Of course I didn't. I couldn't have. I was asleep. I told him this, but he doesn't believe me. He said that no one else could have entered the room while he was gone. He had the key in his pocket. And he said that it would have been impossible for me to sleep through the noise. But of course, he doesn't know how exhausted I have been lately, and what an effort it takes for me to do even the simplest things. I can well imagine sleeping right through something like this. He said all of this with the gentlest tones, even though I could tell he really was quite angry, and he gave me such a

reproachful look. I could almost have hated him at that moment. But I don't mean that. If only he would stop lecturing me on my nervous condition, treating me like a child he intends on smothering to death. But there I go again. A sort of wild feeling came over me as he kept speaking to me, and I felt as though I could have gladly seized him by his shoulders and... I must not write on, not even to you. Especially to you think I am afraid. I barely recognize myself anymore. Yours, Ariadne February 1st. Penelope, I do not know if these words or any of the other letters I have written will ever reach you. I pray that they will reach someone's eyes, so that they may be of some use.

Even now, I hardly know what to say. Every time I think of what I've seen, I feel dizzy and faint. But I must write this down. I must organize my thoughts. I must convince Jason that we should leave. I'm afraid he won't believe me or that he'll insist on opening the door himself. If only I was there with you, Penelope, the two of us sitting by the fireplace just as we used to sit, your hand in mine, both of us

telling each other of our days. But I must get a hold of myself. I will recount the events exactly as they happened, without deviating from the facts. When I woke this morning, I discovered that Jason had left the door unlocked, which greatly surprised me, as I had supposed he would insist on my staying in the bedroom until we left. He learned from Agave last night that the worst of the snowstorm seems to have passed. He plans for us to leave tomorrow morning, thank God. I crept down the stairs and went straight over to the door. The engravings had changed yet again.

I saw now that there was only one bull on the door and it had red, glowing eyes. It stalked after the women, who all cowered before it and fell to their knees in worship. I don't know how long I would have stood in front of it, watching the carved lines change and squiggle across the wood. Only I heard Jason speaking to someone else in a low voice. I reached out and gripped the doorknob, and to my shock, it smoothly turned under my hand. It was as if it had been waiting for me, as if it had known I would be back again.

I stepped through the door, and there was a vineyard beyond it. It was the same vineyard, Penelope, the same one from my nightmares. I rubbed my eyes, I even pinched myself, but no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was a dream, I knew in my heart that what I saw was real. The sun was warm against my skin. I could hear the sound of bees buzzing somewhere nearby. And when I reached out to pop one of the grapes into my mouth, it exploded across my tongue in a burst of sweetness. And then it was as if someone took

over me. I would have gone back out the door, fled from this place, even if it meant staggering through waist-high snow. But instead, my feet brought me deeper and deeper into the vineyard, until I reached what appeared to be its centre. Someone had placed a stone plinth there, and at its foot... Forgive me, Penelope, for the details I am about to share with you. They aren't fit for your eyes, but it is imperative to recount all that I have seen so far, so that I may attempt to find some meaning in this madness. Alexander's headless, handless, and footless body had been left propped up against the plinth. His head sat in his lap.

I barely recognized him, for the eyes had gone milk-white and glazed like the eyes of a dead fish, and his tongue had blackened and swelled out of his mouth. Dime-sized drops of dried blood clumped the grass around him, and his hands and feet had been carelessly tossed onto the plinth. And as I looked at his body, I felt the horror cresting to a peak, for I am so ashamed I can hardly bear to write on, but I must be honest, for I felt hungry too. Penelope, unspeakably hungry.

I don't remember how I returned to our bedroom. I came to myself, lying in bed. If only I could believe that what happened was the simple result of my imagination running riot. It seems impossible that we might ever safely leave. And why was the door open? I must convince Jason to leave. I must convince him that we are in grave danger. Those must be his footsteps outside the door. February 1st. Dearest Penelope, I'm writing this to let you know that I had the loveliest dream last night,

and I understand now that neither you nor I have anything to fear. None of us women do. And I am well. Better than I have ever felt. I dreamt that I heard loud music and rolling drums while lying in bed, and I followed the sound towards the door beside the staircase. And beyond it, dozens of strangers milled around the sunlit vineyard. The women wore ivy wreaths and the men wore bull masks.

I saw Jason standing by the stone plinth, wearing a mask too, though he didn't appear to recognize me. I had a moment's unease, seeing everyone's carefree smiles, and turned to find the way out. Agave stood behind me, holding out an ivy wreath for me to wear. She looked my age now, the wrinkles on her face smoothed out and gone. Once I put the wreath on, she pressed a cup full to brimming with wine into my hands and urged me to drink my fill. As soon as I did so, I forgot all my unease, intoxicated by the wine and festive atmosphere. All the women came together and we danced and danced. It seemed to me that the music only grew louder and wilder as the night went on. For the first time in my life, I felt wonderfully alive and free.

And as we whirled around the room, each of us laughing and breathless, I thought I saw him, the man from my dream. Only then did I realize he wasn't an ordinary man at all. He reached out to us and... I don't quite know how to put it into words, but it was as if he plucked my consciousness out of my body and I entirely forgot who I was. He was within me, as well as everyone and everything around us, and through him, I was in everyone and everything around us.

All of us united as one soul. The ecstasy within us reached a fever pitch until it could have be contained any longer and we all fell on the bulls. Screams filled the air along with wet rending sounds. I turned to the one closest to me and tore off his head with my bare hands, sending blood fountaining into the air and exposing the gleaming column of his spine. We went around the vineyard, each of us trying to outdo the other, all of us still screaming with raving and ravenous joy.

One of the bulls tried to speak to me, fronting unintelligible words, and I seized him by the shoulders and tore his arm out of its socket, as easily as tearing the drumstick off a roast chicken. I stuffed down handful after handful of his raw flesh, nearly choking on it in my haste, and I buried my face into his blood until it dripped down my chin and stained my teeth red. And still the frenzied ecstasy inside of us continued, until there was nothing left but the dismembered limbs and handful of teeth strewn on the blood-sodden grass around the stone plinth.

That was when the dream finally began to dissolve. And I woke up crying with sheer joy. Oh, Penelope, it was such a beautiful dream. Mere words can't adequately convey how wonderful it was. So, again, you need not be worried for my sake. I'm perfectly alright. Your ever-loving, Ariadne. That's the very last letter. Looks like she never mailed them.

I really don't know what to think, but... She had to be off her rocker, right? I mean, there's no way. Well, hopefully she got some help or something. By the time I had finished reading and then rereading these letters, Anthony had returned. He was upset that I hadn't unpacked our things. In my defense, I had no idea if we were even staying, considering the payment issue. But it was getting late, and despite his insistence, I really didn't want to argue. Now Anthony is asleep, and I can't stop thinking about the letters. And that door she described.

I could swear I passed by it on my way up here. God, he snores like a bull. But he's fast asleep. If I'm quick enough, I bet I could check out that door without him realising. I'm not sure what I'm hoping to find, but to be honest, a vineyard doesn't sound too bad. This episode was written by Michelle Chu and read by Shirin Haider. 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?