Blair Bathory

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Don't forget to watch the video version of Something Scary over at youtube.com slash snarled. And if you'd like to support the show and everything we do at Snarled, join our Patreon at patreon.com slash snarled.

Written by at user xdarkwolf. Hi, I'm Blair Bathory, and this is the Something Scary Podcast. Thank you so much for being here, whether this is your first time or you're one of the brave souls who join us every week. Sometimes it's not the stories we're told that haunt us, but the ones we inherit without hesitation. The prayers whispered in the dark. The trinkets worn without asking why.

Written by at user xdarkwolf. Hi, I'm Blair Bathory, and this is the Something Scary Podcast. Thank you so much for being here, whether this is your first time or you're one of the brave souls who join us every week. Sometimes it's not the stories we're told that haunt us, but the ones we inherit without hesitation. The prayers whispered in the dark. The trinkets worn without asking why.

Written by at user xdarkwolf. Hi, I'm Blair Bathory, and this is the Something Scary Podcast. Thank you so much for being here, whether this is your first time or you're one of the brave souls who join us every week. Sometimes it's not the stories we're told that haunt us, but the ones we inherit without hesitation. The prayers whispered in the dark. The trinkets worn without asking why.

Belief can be a comfort until it isn't. Because when something is passed down for so long, you stop knowing where faith ends and fear begins. First, mirror marks won't fade, followed by inherited horror. Finally, in our last story, you're getting blurry. So, wanna hear something scary? Grief makes ghosts of us all.

Belief can be a comfort until it isn't. Because when something is passed down for so long, you stop knowing where faith ends and fear begins. First, mirror marks won't fade, followed by inherited horror. Finally, in our last story, you're getting blurry. So, wanna hear something scary? Grief makes ghosts of us all.

Belief can be a comfort until it isn't. Because when something is passed down for so long, you stop knowing where faith ends and fear begins. First, mirror marks won't fade, followed by inherited horror. Finally, in our last story, you're getting blurry. So, wanna hear something scary? Grief makes ghosts of us all.

Sometimes the scariest thing isn't what you summon, but what becomes of you afterward. Like in this story written in honor of Jewish American Heritage Month by Sarah. The apartment smelled like old wax and peeled onions, familiar and vaguely rotten.

Sometimes the scariest thing isn't what you summon, but what becomes of you afterward. Like in this story written in honor of Jewish American Heritage Month by Sarah. The apartment smelled like old wax and peeled onions, familiar and vaguely rotten.

Sometimes the scariest thing isn't what you summon, but what becomes of you afterward. Like in this story written in honor of Jewish American Heritage Month by Sarah. The apartment smelled like old wax and peeled onions, familiar and vaguely rotten.

Leah Klein hadn't been back in almost four years, not since she walked away from her seminary program and traded Talmudic texts of Jewish studies for molecular biology. Science makes sense, she told her father. Miracles don't. She hadn't argued. He just said, when the world stops making sense, you'll miss miracles. She used to roll her eyes at that.

Leah Klein hadn't been back in almost four years, not since she walked away from her seminary program and traded Talmudic texts of Jewish studies for molecular biology. Science makes sense, she told her father. Miracles don't. She hadn't argued. He just said, when the world stops making sense, you'll miss miracles. She used to roll her eyes at that.

Leah Klein hadn't been back in almost four years, not since she walked away from her seminary program and traded Talmudic texts of Jewish studies for molecular biology. Science makes sense, she told her father. Miracles don't. She hadn't argued. He just said, when the world stops making sense, you'll miss miracles. She used to roll her eyes at that.

Now sitting, Shiva for her dead dad, alone in the empty apartment. She wanted to throw a chair at the wall just to hear something crash. No one had come. No awkward neighbors. No Minya. Just her. Her father had died alone, slipping in the bathtub of all places. No angels, no divine plan, just cracked tiles in the irony of a rabbi who drowned just like anyone else could have.

Now sitting, Shiva for her dead dad, alone in the empty apartment. She wanted to throw a chair at the wall just to hear something crash. No one had come. No awkward neighbors. No Minya. Just her. Her father had died alone, slipping in the bathtub of all places. No angels, no divine plan, just cracked tiles in the irony of a rabbi who drowned just like anyone else could have.

Now sitting, Shiva for her dead dad, alone in the empty apartment. She wanted to throw a chair at the wall just to hear something crash. No one had come. No awkward neighbors. No Minya. Just her. Her father had died alone, slipping in the bathtub of all places. No angels, no divine plan, just cracked tiles in the irony of a rabbi who drowned just like anyone else could have.

The university gave her a two-week leave. She hadn't touched a breaker or attended rounds since the call. But grief doesn't care about rational systems. It drags you down like a tide. For Leah, it pulled her to her father's office, where yellowed books leaned like tired old men and the wax from forgotten Shabbat candles formed strange, melted figures looking like monsters standing on the desk.

The university gave her a two-week leave. She hadn't touched a breaker or attended rounds since the call. But grief doesn't care about rational systems. It drags you down like a tide. For Leah, it pulled her to her father's office, where yellowed books leaned like tired old men and the wax from forgotten Shabbat candles formed strange, melted figures looking like monsters standing on the desk.

The university gave her a two-week leave. She hadn't touched a breaker or attended rounds since the call. But grief doesn't care about rational systems. It drags you down like a tide. For Leah, it pulled her to her father's office, where yellowed books leaned like tired old men and the wax from forgotten Shabbat candles formed strange, melted figures looking like monsters standing on the desk.