Full Body Chills - The Cookie Exchange

Episode Date: December 20, 2023

A story about some cookies that might have gone bad.Written by Julie Gallahue. 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

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Mmm. Sorry about that. You caught me in the middle of one of my snack breaks. Mrs. Claus has me under a strict diet. First breakfast, then a snack, then second breakfast, another snack, lunch, snack, then a cookie break, then another snack, then a full Christmas meal followed by another cookie break. Keeping up with my figure takes a lot of work. Ah, but you're not here for dietary tips. Oh, keeping up with my figure takes a lot of work.

Ah, but you're not here for dietary tips. No, you just couldn't stay away. I understand. Now that you've had a bite of the fruitcake, you want the figgy pudding. Well, unfortunately, I've had all the figgy pudding. But what I have here is a story that might just satiate your sweet tooth now where did I put that letter ah I seem to have made it my napkin let me just um ah they're good as almost new You can hardly see the chocolate milk. Anyways, the letter I have here comes from your friendly, nosy neighbor.

It has all the right ingredients. Mystery, curiosity, and flavorful consistency to make this tale one savory treat. So gather all your kitchen appliances and listen close. Well, well, it's not every day a person finds themselves in a police station, sitting across from a detective with such a sensational story to report. Ah, but first, let me start off by saying, I know you're going to think I'm crazy, but I'm not. You can believe every word I say. Now, the trouble began about five years ago. Lucas, our son, graduated from college and took a job in California. Of course, we're proud of him.

Don't get me wrong, we're excited for his future. But I'm sad for me. I spend too much time by myself now. Even my husband, Travis, would tell you that. It's been lonely. I've been lonely. I'm one of those moms that stayed home to raise the child, and when the contract expired on that gig, I didn't have anything else to do. Oh, that's a cop-out. I had to take the bull by the horns and find new activities. I needed to join a club or find a group of like-minded women to spend time with. A book club, maybe. Or volunteer work. Travis and

I have fallen into a routine that one might say is uneventful. Mostly, we watch television and read. Neither activity requires much talking. Needless to say, I had to find something to occupy my time. And I did. Our neighbors. They all appeared to be living interesting lives. Certainly more interesting than mine.

And I had a perfect view of their comings and goings through the peephole in our front door. Being the last apartment down the hall, I can see every single door. At first, I told myself I was the neighborhood watch lady and that I was keeping an eye out for their safety and well-being. I took the job seriously and spent hours a day monitoring the hallway. Maybe I got a little obsessed with them, but it was only for their own good. I know what you're thinking, detective, but I'm not a stalker. I'm a run-of-the-mill busybody, and what I tell you about these neighbors is the absolute truth.

Now, here are some of the things you need to know. Sanjay Bashar, apartment four. Sanjay enjoys the company of many women. Over time, I've observed that he has a type, and it's female. There's a constant stream of visitors. Many of them leave in the early morning hours. Not much more to say there. The girls in number three, Chloe and Jess, drink too much and stay up too late. I'm not really surprised. That's what young adults do, but it doesn't lead to good decisions. They have a large dog, and they don't always pick up after him. I've seen them through my window, and they only bag it if someone's watching. They look around, check if anyone's there, and if there isn't, they leave it in the grass.

The lawn we all share! Someone could step in it. Someone has to pick it up, and it's not going to be me. Or, so I thought. But I don't want to get ahead of myself, detective. This next one may be of particular interest to you. Make sure you get this in your notes. Apartment 5, to the left of ours. Helena and Darius Graves.

They're an enviably good-looking couple, if I'm being honest. And I am. I'm kind of enamored with them. They're sophisticated, stylish, and I think they have money. They have a busy social life, so they probably don't want children.

It would just slow them down. Oh, I would kill for a reason to shave my legs, let alone put a dress on. I don't know where they go, but I want to go with them. Helena is a little more social than Darius. She has a special friend that comes for a sleepover whenever Darius is out of town. Sleeping is an exaggeration. I can hear them all hours of the night, and they're definitely not sleeping. I think you should look into that man. Clearly he has loose morals. You understand what I'm saying,

right? Greasing the hip bones, putting sauce in the pan. Ah, yes, you're nodding. Then I won't say any more. Now, in apartment two, there's Mrs. Emily, a gentlewoman in her late 70s. She's so quiet, you almost don't know she's there. I thought she was a hoarder because I would see a lot of things go in but not much come out. I know better now. Hoarding is not her problem. But you could see why I would think so, especially since she won't let anyone come into her home and opens the door only a few inches when answering. I worry about her sometimes.

But the neighbor I worry about the most is Brenda in number one. The way she's always yelling at her kids. I have to give her some grace. She's a single mother with a whole litter of children. I think there's five of them. The youngest is still in diapers. I have no idea where the father is. That's why I let it slide when she leaves a bag of trash outside her door.

Lastly, there's apartment number six. I suppose someone lives in there, but I've never seen them or heard them. We share a common wall, so I would expect to occasionally hear someone moving around in there, but I never have. Once I heard keys rattle outside our door and raced to the peephole. But I was too late. I only saw their door closing. There. Now that you know who the players are, this next part will make much more sense. Every Christmas, the apartment complex does a cookie exchange. You only exchange with the people on your floor. We've been doing it as long as we've lived here, which has been a very long time. I'm kind of the cookie exchange monitor.

I make sure everyone is reminded two weeks, then one week before Christmas. On Christmas Eve, everyone puts a basket outside their apartment door. Mine is tastefully decorated with a red plaid ribbon, tiny pine cones, and a sprig of holly. Not real holly, of course. It's plastic. But if I can be so bold, it is the prettiest basket of them all. Yet Mrs. Emily has a respectable one as well. I'm not sure if the others put their hearts into it. Sanjay and Brenda don't decorate them at all, which I don't appreciate. But I try not to be judgmental. I suppose it's too much to ask of a bachelor and a single mom. Anyway, we leave the

cookies wrapped in cellophane or in little gift bags, tagged with our apartment number, so you know whose they are. To be honest, I see it as a bit of a competition, because I am rating the cookies from best to worst, with categories for most creative, difficulty level, and quality. It's a fun little game I like to play, and I'm sure others are doing the same, so I put a lot of thought into my cookies. This year, I made pecan sandies. Delicious. If it was a contest, I would have won. It's a nice tradition if I do say so myself. But I must confess, I am a bit of a cookie monster. I have a sweet tooth. And so, here's where things get interesting.

Christmas morning came, and I was greeted with a bounty of holiday joy. I went straight for the Rice Krispie treats. They're always best when fresh. Travis loves them. He goes at them like it's a drug. Like cocaine! Well, I mean, I don't know why I use that phrase. We've never done cocaine,

not even in college. But anyway, Brenda's go-to cookie is the Rice Krispie Treat, and it makes a lot of sense. Four inexpensive ingredients, 10 minutes of kitchen time, and poof, it's like magic. Everyone loves them. Tell me, have you met one person that doesn't like a Rice Krispie treat? My point exactly. Brenda gets the award for crowd favorite. However, after I ate two, something strange happened. I felt hungry, like I hadn't just eaten a full Christmas brunch.

I was stuffed before I ate the cookies, but immediately after, I was ravenous. So hungry, I wanted another meal and went straight into the kitchen and started whipping up more food. We eat fairly healthy, but I wasn't craving baked chicken breast and spinach salad. What I really wanted was macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. And fruit punch! I don't have hot dogs and fruit punch, but I substituted with vegetarian sausage and a light cranberry juice.

It wasn't very good, but I ate every last bite. I almost made myself sick. Now, the next night, I decided to dress up. I don't know why. We weren't going out, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted to wear pearls. But you don't wear pearls with sweatpants and a stained t-shirt.

So I put on a little black dress. I found it in the back of the closet. I forgot I had one. A little black dress and a string of pearls go together of the closet. I forgot I had one. A little black dress and a string of pearls go together like ice and water. They were made for each other. Then I put on heels. Then I curled my hair. Then I put on a full face of makeup, including red lipstick. I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. Travis was shocked. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with me.

He asked me if I wanted to go for ice cream. Isn't that sweet? Travis has always been a good man, but I had already eaten the peanut butter blossoms Helena and Darius put on the cookie exchange basket. So I sat at the kitchen table and did a crossword puzzle. All dressed up for a daily crossword. Don't you think that's weird, detective? Anyways, the next day, I was feeling out of sorts about my unexplained behavior. I comforted myself with Mrs. Emily's shortbread. I could die a happy woman eating Mrs. Emily's shortbread. It's buttery and flaky, and it practically melts in your mouth.

I admit I ate all of it. Travis was at work, and once you start eating it, you must finish it. It couldn't be helped. No sooner did I swallow my last bite than I was on my feet and moving around the apartment, somewhat manically, dusting, dusting, the worst chore of all chores, and I was moving all our things around, not so much redecorating as relocating. I moved one lamp to three different spots in the apartment and then brought it right back to where it started. I rearranged the framed photos on the piano over and over again.

I lined up magazines on the coffee table. These were our things, but they didn't feel like our things. It felt like I was cleaning and organizing someone else's apartment. Maybe Mrs. Emily's. I wondered if I had it all wrong. I thought Mrs. Emily was a hoarder because she wouldn't let me into her apartment. Maybe Mrs. Emily's. I wondered if I had it all wrong. I thought Mrs. Emily was a hoarder because she wouldn't let me into her apartment. But maybe it's the opposite. Maybe she didn't want me in there because she was worried that I would upset the order or make a mess. I'm going with obsessive compulsive disorder now. I bet if you check out her apartment, you'll find it in pristine condition.

I bet she even has plastic on her furniture. However, it was after I ate the cookies from Chloe and Jess in number three that I suspected something nefarious was going on. They made snickerdoodles. I give them credit for the most creative cookie, because they own a golden doodle, and it was clearly inspired by their love for the dog.

At first, I didn't think anything was going to happen, and the other experiences could be chalked up to mild depression and a little delusional thinking. But I was wrong. We had a typical night of watching television. We've been binging crime shows on Netflix. After a while, you get a little paranoid, so that probably played a role in my thought process.

I fell asleep on the sofa, and Travis left me there. I hate it when he does that, but he says I'm too hard to wake up, so he just covers me with a blanket now. It's shocking to wake up on the sofa, but it's even more shocking to wake up on the sofa and leave the apartment, which is what I did. I woke up with a start and immediately put my boots and jacket on. I walked down the hall, took the elevator to the main floor, and left the building in the middle of the night. I could have been sleepwalking, but I don't have such a history. Moreover, I remember everything that happened!

Oddly enough, I kept my arm outstretched in front of me. I walked around the entire building that way, stopping in the parking lot and just standing next to a car. It wasn't our car, and I didn't know whose car it was, but I felt like I needed to stand near the end for a good five minutes, doing nothing but keeping my one arm straight out, pointing at the tire. Eventually, I left the parking lot and headed towards the mailboxes. Around the corner, there's a nice patch of lawn. I stopped in the middle of the grass and waited for something to happen. After a few moments, I looked down and saw a pile of dog poop by my feet. I almost stepped in it.

I don't know why, but I reached down for it and picked it up with my bare hand. Can you believe that? How disgusting! I carried it to the trash can next to the mailboxes and tossed it in. It wasn't until that moment that I realized what I'd done. I can't describe my horror. I raced right back to the apartment and scrubbed my hands with dish soap. After these events, I had concluded that the cookies were somehow giving me a front-row seat into my neighbor's real lives. Now, you're probably thinking, if this was the case, I should have left well enough alone. I should have been disturbed by this. But I wasn't. I was curious.

Very curious. Some of my conclusions were wrong, but some had been correct. And I felt validated. At first, I wasn't going to eat the chocolate chip cookies. They were the pre-made dough kind, divided into perfect, uniform cubes that only need to be separated and dropped onto a cookie sheet and baked for eight minutes. No love was put into them. Just what I expected from Sanjay. If I had gotten a sneak peek into the other neighbor's habits by eating their cookies, then I believed it would be the same for him.

I suspected Sanjay was up to no good, and this was my opportunity to confirm it. I ate his cookies. Nothing to write home about. Only children appreciate a store-bought cookie dough cookie. They have low standards. But the results were interesting. Detective, I'm a modest woman, so I think it's enough to say that Travis was pleasantly surprised with my actions that night and the next morning too. I don't think I need

to get into the details. There was only one package of cookies left, and they were from the mysterious resident in apartment number six, the one I had never seen. Can you imagine how incredible it is that I could simply eat a cookie, a tasty-looking one at that, and I would find out who lived in that apartment and what kind of shenanigans he, she, or they were up to. You've spent enough time with me now to know that nothing short of a natural disaster

could stop me from eating those fluffy sugar cookies with red frosting and green sprinkles. They may have been six days old, but they tasted like they had just come from the oven. I waited for the revelation. Nothing happened. I ate another one and waited. Still nothing. I ate the last one and waited. My revelation was as empty as I suspected apartment number six was.

I was terribly disappointed. I even went out in the hallway and put my ear to number six's door, hoping to hear some movement inside. It was quiet. No signs of life at all. I had no choice but to shrug it off. That night, Travis and I did our usual nothing and went to bed around 10 o'clock. He fell asleep right away. But I couldn't stop thinking. There had to be someone living in that apartment, or there wouldn't be any cookies at all. Perhaps they did exactly what we did.

Nothing exciting. I listened to Travis breathing, and the rhythm lulled me, and I almost fell to sleep. But then I sat up abruptly. Now, I'm telling you, someone or something was directing my every move. You understand? I was compelled to get up and go into the kitchen, just like how I was compelled to find my largest knife in the butcher block, take it back to the bedroom,

straddle my husband's sleeping body, and stab him over and over and over. I mostly stabbed him in the chest, but some in his arms and neck as well. I don't know how many times I stabbed him in the chest, but some in his arms and neck as well. I don't know how many times I stabbed him. I think 10 to 15. I wasn't counting. But once it was done, I threw away the knife and then I called you.

See, it wasn't my fault. It was the cookies that made me do it. Ho ho ho! Now that's what I call a killer cookie! But all jokes aside, you should really watch what you eat. I still remember when a young couple left me some evergreen frosted cookies. Well, that's eggnog on my face because those leafy sweets weren't cut to be Christmas trees. Let's just say my sleigh's never flown higher. I hope you have a wonderful night.

See you soon. Full Body Chills is an AudioChuck production. This episode was written by Julie Gallagher and read by Holly Laurent. This story was modified slightly for audio retelling but you can find the original in full on our website. So what do you think

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