Pasta

A terrifying encounter awaits in the dimly lit corridors of a Midwest pasta manufacturing facility. Scott Detheridge, the dedicated plant manager working late into the night, discovers something impossible lurking within the machinery—a creature made entirely of pasta, animated by some unknowable force.

What begins as an ordinary late-night inspection quickly spirals into a nightmare as Scott comes face-to-face with a monster straight from the depths of industrial horror. The creature's body formed of twisted fettuccine, limbs of rigid ziti, and eyes made of dark rotini creates a grotesque perversion of the very product Scott oversees. When the creature notices him and begins its relentless pursuit, Scott must confront a horror that defies explanation.

The tension builds to an unbearable crescendo as Scott attempts to escape, only to find himself cornered on a deserted highway. Armed with only his daughter's softball bat, he makes a desperate last stand against the pasta abomination. The creature's method of killing—forcing bucatini down Scott's throat—transforms something as innocent as pasta into an instrument of terror. As the monster returns to the factory, we're left with the chilling realization that this nightmare is far from over. The ordinary has become extraordinary in the most disturbing way possible, leaving us to question what other horrors might lurk within the familiar landscapes of our industrial world.

Terrorbytes Intro

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Chapters

• 0:00 Late Night at the Pasta Plant
• 3:25 The Discovery in Machine 7
• 5:54 Desperate Escape
• 8:36 Final Confrontation
• 13:31 Return to the Plant

Transcript

Sam: 0:41

The fluorescent lights in the Midwest pasta plant hummed with a tired late-night drone, a sound Scott Detheridge had grown so accustomed to. It was like a second heartbeat. Tonight, though, the hum felt different, lower, somehow, almost a growl. Scott, his tie loosened and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, locked the door to his cramped office. The air thick, with the fine pale dust of semolina flour and the sweet, almost yeasty aroma of hydration. It was nearly eleven. The night shift was a skeleton crew. Nowhere to be found, of course, the massive twin-screw extruders that could force tons of dough through intricate dyes to create everything from delicate orzo to robust rigatoni. Now, mostly silent. Only the rhythmic whir of the automated drying chambers, where precisely controlled temperature and humidity coaxed the moisture from the freshly formed pasta, echoed softly in the vast space. The packaging lines, with their swift robotic arms that folded cardboard boxes and filled them with precisely weighed spirals and shells, stood dormant.

Sam: 1:54

Scott usually liked the quiet of the plant after hours, a chance to collect his thoughts before the morning's inevitable rush of production schedules and quality control checks on the incoming shipments of durum wheat. But tonight a prickle of unease danced on the back of his neck, a feeling as unwelcome as a stray kernel of corn in a batch of penne. He walked the long corridor that bisected the main production floor, his footsteps echoing off the polished concrete, past the towering silos filled with mountains of golden semolina Past, the dormant packaging lines, their sensors, dark and unblinking. It was when he reached the far end, near the hulking bule or extrusion machines relics from the plant's early days still used for specialty shapes that he heard it, a sound that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. It was coming from inside Machine 7, a behemoth typically used for elbow macaroni. Scott knew its inner workings well the auger that relentlessly pushed the dough forward, the rotating die head that shaped each individual curve. Now it emitted a wet scraping sound like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard, mixed with a low guttural clicking. It wasn't the sound of a machine malfunctioning, not the familiar clatter of a loose bolt or the whine of a failing motor. This was organic, wrong. Scott's heart hammered against his ribs. He told himself it was probably just a rat, though he'd never heard a rat make a sound like that, a sound that hinted at something being chewed and formed. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the emergency shut-off button. A large red mushroom cap designed to instantly halt the tons of pressure. Within Curiosity, that old devil won out.

Sam: 3:53

He grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the wall mount and approached the machine cautiously. The inspection panel on the side of machine seven, secured by heavy latches, was slightly ajar. He aimed the beam inside. The air within smelled strangely sweet, like fermenting dough mixed with something metallic. At first he saw only the usual residue of fine semolina dust clinging to the stainless steel walls and the remnants of dried macaroni.

Sam: 4:22

Then the beam caught something moving, something impossible. It was roughly three feet tall, hunched over, and it was made of pasta, not just coated in it but formed from it. Its torso was a twisted, still damp mass of freshly extruded fettuccine clinging together as if glued by its own moisture. Its limbs were thick, rigid tubes of dried ziti, their ridged surfaces catching the light, and its head. Its head was a grotesque caricature of a human skull, the eye sockets filled with dark, brittle rotini, their spiral shapes unsettlingly like empty sockets. It moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, its pasta joints clicking and scraping against each other, the sound like dried pasta being snapped in half. And it was eating.

Sam: 5:17

Scott watched frozen in disbelief and horror as the creature gnawed on a piece of broken lasagna sheet, its movements disturbingly deliberate. He could see the faint dusting of white flour on its form, as if it had just emerged from the initial stages of production. The wet clicking sound he'd heard was the sound of pasta being pulverized by something inside that horrifying form. Perhaps the very moisture used to bind the dough? Horrifying form, perhaps, the very moisture used to bind the dough. Then, as if sensing his presence, the creature stopped. Its rotini eyes swiveled in his direction and a low, menacing hiss emanated from what might have been its mouth a jagged tear in the mass of pasta that formed its face, revealing a dark, pulpy interior that looked disturbingly like wet dough. Revealing a dark, pulpy interior that looked disturbingly like wet dough. Terror, cold and sharp, pierced through Scott's disbelief. This wasn't a nightmare. This was real.

Sam: 6:16

The pasta creature unfolded itself, its movement surprisingly quick, despite its rigid composition. It took a step towards the inspection panel and Scott could see with sickening clarity that its fingers were sharp in pieces of spaghetti stained a disturbing shade of brown, perhaps from dried blood or some other unholy secretion. He didn't wait. He scrambled backward, his flashlight clattering against the corrugated metal of a nearby spiral conveyor used to move finished pasta to the packaging area. He turned and ran, his breath catching in his throat. The wet clicking and scraping followed him, growing louder, closer, echoing off the smooth surfaces of the continuous pasteurizers. He risked a glance over his shoulder. The pasta thing was lurching after him, its unnatural gait, somehow terrifyingly efficient, as it moved past the towering bags of imported Romano cheese waiting to be blended into a sauce line. It moved with a silent determination that spoke of a hunger beyond comprehension.

Sam: 7:26

Scott sprinted down the corridor, the hum of the factory lights now seeming to mock his panicked flight. He could hear the creature behind him, the sound of its pasta limb scraping against the polished concrete floor, the wet clicking, a constant, horrifying reminder of its presence. As it passed the stainless steel tanks where water was precisely mixed with the semolina to begin the transformation into dough, he reached the main doors of the plant, fumbling with the heavy security bar, his fingers were slick with sweat. He could hear the creature getting closer. It's clicking now, right behind him, the faint scent of warm, drying pasta emanating from it. Finally, the bar lifted and he yanked the door open, bursting out into the cool night air.

Sam: 8:14

He didn't stop running, didn't dare to look back, until he was halfway across the deserted parking lot, the vast dark bulk of the Midwest pasta plant looming behind him like a monstrous tomb, the faint scent of cooking pasta now tinged with something rotten. He finally stopped gasping for air, his lungs burning. He looked back In the dim light of the parking lot lamps. He could see a figure standing in the open doorway of the plant. It was the pasta creature. It stood there, its twisted form silhouetted against the faint light inside its rotini eyes, seeming to gleam with a malevolent intelligence. It didn't move, just watched him. A low, guttural hiss drifted across the parking lot, carried on the night air, a sound that seemed to vibrate with the very essence of uncooked dough. It was a promise.

Sam: 9:11

Scott Detheridge knew with a chilling certainty that settled deep in his bones that this was just the beginning. He had seen something that shouldn't exist, a nightmarish byproduct of the very process he oversaw, and now it was hunting him. The taste of fear was bitter on his tongue, a grimacing flavor that no amount of marinara made with the finest San Marzano tomatoes could ever wash away. He was the plant manager, and tonight he had discovered the horrifying secret that lurked within the heart of the pasta factory. And it was hungry, so terribly, terribly hungry.

Sam: 9:51

Scott fumbled for his car keys, his hand shaking so violently he could barely grip the cold metal. He jammed the key into the lock of his Ford Taurus, the click echoing in the stillness of the night. He yanked the door open and practically fell into the driver's seat, his heart pounding like a trapped bird. He jammed the key into the ignition and twisted the engine sputtering to life with a groan. He slammed the gear shift into reverse and backed out of the parking spot, his eyes glued to the plant's entrance. The pasta creature was still there, a silent, unsettling sentinel.

Sam: 10:28

As Scott accelerated forward, tires squealing, the creature began to move again, its jerky gait somehow matching the speed of his car. Panic clawed at Scott's throat. He pressed down harder on the accelerator, the Taurus roaring as it sped out of the parking lot and onto the deserted industrial road. He glanced in his rearview mirror the pasta thing was still following its unnatural form, illuminated by the streetlights, looking like some kind of grotesque animated scarecrow made of food. This can't be happening. He muttered his voice, a strained whisper. This has to be a dream. He swerved onto the main highway, the familiar lines of the road blurring in his fear. He looked in his rearview mirror again. The creature was still there, impossibly keeping pace. It was closer now, its rotini eyes seeming to bore into him.

Sam: 11:28

Then Scott saw something truly horrifying. As the creature ran, pieces of its pasta body would occasionally break off A strand of fettuccine here, a piece of penne there, only to be instantly replaced as if the creature was constantly reforming itself from some unseen source. It was as if the very essence of pasta was being drawn to it, coalescing into its terrifying form. He knew he couldn't outrun it. It was relentless, unnatural. He had to try something else. He slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching in protest. He threw the car into park and yanked the emergency brake.

Sam: 12:11

He reached into the back seat, his hand brushing against the smooth, cool metal of his daughter Addison's aluminum softball bat. She was a much better softball player than he ever was. He'd promised to take it out of the car after her last game but hadn't gotten around to it. Now it felt like a lifeline. He grabbed it, the familiar weight comforting in a bizarre way. He flung the door open and faced the creature it had stopped about twenty feet away, its pasta limbs twitching. The air around it seemed to shimmer, with a faint, dusty haze of flour. Stay back. Scott, yelled, his voice cracking.

Sam: 12:52

He hefted the bat Addison's name scrawled in pink marker, barely visible in the dim light. His hand trembled. The creature didn't respond. It simply tilted its head, the rotini eyes glinting in the streetlight. Then it began to move again, its jerky steps closing the distance between them.

Sam: 13:13

Scott swung the bat, putting all his weight behind it and Lord knows he had put on some weight. The aluminum connected with a dull thud impacting the creature's torso. Instead of the satisfying crack of bone, there was a splintering sound like dry twigs breaking. The bat sank slightly into the mass of fettuccine, leaving a dent, but the creature didn't even flinch. Then it lunged.

Sam: 13:47

Scott stumbled backward, the bat slipping from his sweaty grip. The pasta creature was on him in an instant, its rigid limbs, surprisingly strong. It slammed him against the side of his car, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He could feel its pasta fingers, sharp as broken glass, digging into his flesh. One of them pierced his cheek, tearing through the skin, and he tasted blood, thick and metallic. He screamed a raw, primal sound of pure terror. He tried to fight back, kicking and flailing, but the creature's grip was like iron. It pressed him harder against the car, the twisted mass of its body grinding against his. Then it began to consume him. Its jagged mouth, that horrifying tear in its pasta face opened wider, revealing a dark, wet interior. It pressed its face against his and Scott felt a sickening sensation as thick, hollow tubes of bucatini began to slide into his mouth, down his throat. He gagged, trying to spit them out, but more kept coming, filling his mouth, choking him.

Sam: 14:52

Bucatini Addison loved it with pesto. He'd always teased her for slurping the long strands. Now they were his undoing. He clawed at the creature, his fingers sinking into its brittle pasta flesh, breaking off pieces of macaroni and rigatoni. It didn't seem to notice. It continued to force the bucatini down his throat, the wet clicking sound echoing in his ears. Force the bucatini down his throat, the wet clicking sound echoing in his ears.

Sam: 15:19

He felt a sharp agonizing pain in his stomach as the pasta began to move inside him, expanding, twisting. He could feel the rigid tubes tearing at his insides, the sharp edges of the dried noodles ripping through his organs. His vision began to blur. He could feel the creature's weight pressing down on him, the smell of stale flour and dried pasta overwhelming him. He tried to scream again, but all that came out was a choked gurgle. As more and more bucatini filled his mouth, his lungs, he could feel the hollow centers of the pasta filling with his own blood. He could feel the hollow centers of the pasta filling with his own blood.

Sam: 16:04

Addison's bat lay forgotten on the asphalt. The last thing Scott Deathridge saw was the dim glow of the streetlight reflecting in the dark, lifeless rotini eyes of the creature that was devouring him from the inside out His favorite pasta, now a disgusting harbinger of his final agonizing moments. Then darkness the pasta creature stood over Scott's lifeless body. Its form, now slightly larger, bulkier Pieces of broken penne, spaghetti and bucatini littered the ground around them, stained with Scott's blood. The creature tilted its head again, a faint, wet clicking, the only sound in the stillness of the night. Then it turned and loped back towards the silent, looming bulk of the Midwest pasta plant, disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind only the horrifying testament to its existence oh yeah, and a discarded aluminum bat with a girl's name scrawled on it.