Come Dine With Me

 The voiceover of Dave Lamb, dry and dripping with sarcasm, echoed over the aerial shot of a jagged limestone cliff lashed by a violent, unnatural thunderstorm.

“This week, we’re in the cursed Valley of Moaning Shadows, where five strangers are competing for a thousand pounds and the chance to keep their mortal souls. Yesterday, Brenda’s vegan quiche was a bit of a flop—mostly because it started screaming midway through the starter. Tonight, it’s the turn of our host, the Marquis de Sang, at his lovely, definitely-not-haunted estate, The Ossuary.”

The camera cut to the Marquis. He was seven feet tall, skin the color of a curdled marshmallow, wearing a periwig made of what looked like silver cobwebs.

“I want my guests to feel... consumed,” the Marquis hissed, his tongue flickering out like a black ribbon. “For the starter, I am serving a Carpaccio of Spleen with a reduction of Bitter Regret. For the main, a Crown Roast of Despair. And for dessert? A surprise from the cellar.”

“Ooh, a surprise,” Dave Lamb’s voice chimed in. “Let's hope it’s a chocolate fondant and not another portal to the Void. I’m looking at you, Brenda.”

The guests arrived via a carriage pulled by a horse that was clearly just three skeletons in a trench coat.

There was Tabitha, a professional influencer who was currently trying to find a ring light that worked in "oppressive eldritch gloom." Barnaby, a nervous taxidermist who kept checking his own pulse. Griselda, a swamp-witch who had already tried to curse the production crew twice. And Gerald, a retired geography teacher from Reading who was remarkably unfazed by everything.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” the Marquis intoned as the heavy oak doors groaned open. A puddle of fresh blood seeped from under the rug.

“Love the rustic vibe,” Tabitha whispered to the camera in the confessional booth later. “Very ‘ruined chic.’ Though the smell of rotting flesh is a bit busy? Like, pick a scent and stick to it, babe.”

Dinner was served in a room where the walls were literally pulsing.

“So, Marquis,” Gerald said, tucking his napkin into his shirt as a floating candelabra drifted past. “Do you have a lot of local amenities? A Waitrose nearby?”

“I have only the screams of the damned and a small artisanal bakery,” the Marquis whispered, sliding a plate in front of Barnaby.

The Carpaccio of Spleen was, quite literally, still twitching. As Barnaby raised his fork, the meat pulsed and let out a wet, squelching sound, spraying a fine mist of bile across his glasses.

“Oh, that’s a bit lively, isn't it?” Barnaby stammered, wiping his lens.

“It’s fresh!” the Marquis shrieked, his eyes turning entirely red.

“I find the texture a bit... aggressive,” Griselda cackled, picking a parasitic worm out of her portion. “Needs more salt. And maybe a pinch of hemlock to dampen the screaming.”

“Dave Lamb’s voiceover: ‘Ooh, tough crowd. Marquis, maybe less 'unholy abomination' and more 'seasoning' next time?’”

The main course, the Crown Roast of Despair, was brought out by a butler who was just a pair of disembodied hands on a silver platter. It was a massive, rib-caged structure stuffed with something that looked like purple, glowing organs.

As the Marquis carved, the roast began to bleed thick, black ichor that smelled like old pennies and wet dog.

“I’m worried about the presentation,” Tabitha said, filming the bleeding meat for her TikTok. “The lighting in here is so 'Victorian Tuberculosis Ward.' It’s making the gore look flat.”

Suddenly, the roast began to hum a low, dissonant chord. Gerald took a bite, chewed thoughtfully for a long time, and swallowed with a grimace.

“A bit chewy, Marquis. Is this locally sourced?”

“It was harvested from the nightmares of a thousand orphans!” the Marquis roared, slamming his fist on the table. The table groaned, and a skeletal hand reached up from the wood to grab his wine glass.

“Right. Well, I’m more of a Free Range man myself,” Gerald replied, reaching for the water.

Before the dessert could be served, the ‘entertainment’ began. In Come Dine With Me tradition, the host had to provide an activity. The Marquis took them to the conservatory—a glass room filled with carnivorous plants that looked like internal organs.

“We shall play... The Game of Skin!” the Marquis announced, brandishing a rusty flaying knife.

“Is it like Pictionary?” Barnaby asked hopefully.

It was not like Pictionary. It involved a lot of screaming, two minor curses, and Tabitha accidentally losing a finger, which she promptly tried to filter out of her selfie.

Finally, dessert arrived. It was a simple black bowl filled with a viscous, translucent jelly. In the center of each bowl sat a human eyeball, staring upward with a look of profound sadness.

“It’s a Lychee and Almond Panna Cotta!” the Marquis beamed, looking genuinely proud.

“Oh, thank God,” Tabitha sighed. “Something vegan-adjacent.”

She spooned the eyeball into her mouth. It popped with a sickening, wet thwack. A spray of vitreous humor hit the Marquis’s velvet waistcoat.

“Mmm,” she muttered, her mouth full of pupil. “Giving... ocular realness. 7 out of 10.”

As the taxi—a hearse driven by a headless coachman—pulled away at the end of the night, the guests gave their scores.

Tabitha: “The vibe was a bit much, and I’m pretty sure the main course tried to suck my soul out through my nose. 4 out of 10.”

Griselda: “The spleen was undercooked and the Marquis is a bit of a poser. 3.”

Barnaby: “I liked the dog. I think it was a dog. It had six legs and breathed fire, but it had a lovely temperament. 6.”

Gerald: “Lovely chap. Portions were a bit small, and the house was a bit drafty. But he tried hard with the eyeballs. 8.”

The final scene showed the Marquis standing on his balcony, clutching the results envelope.

“And the winner is...” Dave Lamb’s voice announced, “...the person who didn’t serve a pulsating organ that cursed the guests' bloodlines! It’s Gerald!”

The Marquis let out a howl of primordial rage that shattered every window in the manor.

“Oh, sour grapes, Marquis,” Dave Lamb quipped. “Or in your case, sour gallstones. Join us tomorrow when it’s Tabitha’s turn, where she’ll be serving ‘Deconstructed Atmosphere’ and a side of existential dread. Don't forget your holy water!”