Blair Bathory

The cord was fraying. One morning, I found the bead sitting by itself on my desk. The thread had come undone entirely, and that night it saw me. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Around 2 a.m., the air went still. The buzzing stopped suddenly. Everything was too quiet, like the house was holding its breath. Then the mirror in the hallway turned black. Not shattered, not fogged, just dark.

The reflection had been drained from it, like a screen that had powered off. I stared at it from the end of the hall. Something moved inside it. Not a shape exactly, but a smear of motion, the way oil distorts in water. I didn't go near it. The next day, the lights flickered whenever I walked past. My phone refused to take photos inside my room.

The reflection had been drained from it, like a screen that had powered off. I stared at it from the end of the hall. Something moved inside it. Not a shape exactly, but a smear of motion, the way oil distorts in water. I didn't go near it. The next day, the lights flickered whenever I walked past. My phone refused to take photos inside my room.

The reflection had been drained from it, like a screen that had powered off. I stared at it from the end of the hall. Something moved inside it. Not a shape exactly, but a smear of motion, the way oil distorts in water. I didn't go near it. The next day, the lights flickered whenever I walked past. My phone refused to take photos inside my room.

They came out warped, static-lined, as if something was pressing against the lens from the inside. I started carrying the broken bread in my pocket, like maybe it could still protect me. But every night, the darkness inside the mirror spread, reaching from the hallway to the living room, pulling beneath door frames. My father said I was pale, asked if I was eating.

They came out warped, static-lined, as if something was pressing against the lens from the inside. I started carrying the broken bread in my pocket, like maybe it could still protect me. But every night, the darkness inside the mirror spread, reaching from the hallway to the living room, pulling beneath door frames. My father said I was pale, asked if I was eating.

They came out warped, static-lined, as if something was pressing against the lens from the inside. I started carrying the broken bread in my pocket, like maybe it could still protect me. But every night, the darkness inside the mirror spread, reaching from the hallway to the living room, pulling beneath door frames. My father said I was pale, asked if I was eating.

I nodded, though I barely touched food in days. Every time I sat at the table, the salt clumped in its shaker. The candles blurred with blue flames. I stopped praying. I couldn't remember the words. Instead, I went back to Nanna's things, searching for anything I had missed. Inside the ceramic dish beneath the cracked rosary, I found a folded paper. A prayer I didn't recognize. Not Italian.

I nodded, though I barely touched food in days. Every time I sat at the table, the salt clumped in its shaker. The candles blurred with blue flames. I stopped praying. I couldn't remember the words. Instead, I went back to Nanna's things, searching for anything I had missed. Inside the ceramic dish beneath the cracked rosary, I found a folded paper. A prayer I didn't recognize. Not Italian.

I nodded, though I barely touched food in days. Every time I sat at the table, the salt clumped in its shaker. The candles blurred with blue flames. I stopped praying. I couldn't remember the words. Instead, I went back to Nanna's things, searching for anything I had missed. Inside the ceramic dish beneath the cracked rosary, I found a folded paper. A prayer I didn't recognize. Not Italian.

Not Latin. Just strange syllables. The bottom of the note had her handwriting barely legible. If it follows you, burn the thread. If it stays, offer your blood. I have one more letter from a fan I'd like to read to you this week. It reads, I would love to hear everyone else's thoughts on the topic, a snarl fan, Florence. I don't know. That's a really weird thought.

Not Latin. Just strange syllables. The bottom of the note had her handwriting barely legible. If it follows you, burn the thread. If it stays, offer your blood. I have one more letter from a fan I'd like to read to you this week. It reads, I would love to hear everyone else's thoughts on the topic, a snarl fan, Florence. I don't know. That's a really weird thought.

Not Latin. Just strange syllables. The bottom of the note had her handwriting barely legible. If it follows you, burn the thread. If it stays, offer your blood. I have one more letter from a fan I'd like to read to you this week. It reads, I would love to hear everyone else's thoughts on the topic, a snarl fan, Florence. I don't know. That's a really weird thought.

But I do have to say the twins I have met do freak me out a little bit. And of course, the twins from The Shining are classic horror twins. So I think you're onto something, Florence. Please keep sending us letters by emailing somethingscaryatsnarled.com and I might read them on the podcast. Sometimes it's not who you see in the mirror that's terrifying. It's who's seen you back.

But I do have to say the twins I have met do freak me out a little bit. And of course, the twins from The Shining are classic horror twins. So I think you're onto something, Florence. Please keep sending us letters by emailing somethingscaryatsnarled.com and I might read them on the podcast. Sometimes it's not who you see in the mirror that's terrifying. It's who's seen you back.

But I do have to say the twins I have met do freak me out a little bit. And of course, the twins from The Shining are classic horror twins. So I think you're onto something, Florence. Please keep sending us letters by emailing somethingscaryatsnarled.com and I might read them on the podcast. Sometimes it's not who you see in the mirror that's terrifying. It's who's seen you back.

Like in this story inspired by Avery. The year I got sick was awful. My mother says it was the flu. My father says it was just stress. But I know better. It started the night I saw myself standing at the end of the couch. I was seven when the sickness began. Not just a stomach bug. Not a cold. It was something deeper. Something with eyes. I vomited for days without fever or cause.

Like in this story inspired by Avery. The year I got sick was awful. My mother says it was the flu. My father says it was just stress. But I know better. It started the night I saw myself standing at the end of the couch. I was seven when the sickness began. Not just a stomach bug. Not a cold. It was something deeper. Something with eyes. I vomited for days without fever or cause.

Like in this story inspired by Avery. The year I got sick was awful. My mother says it was the flu. My father says it was just stress. But I know better. It started the night I saw myself standing at the end of the couch. I was seven when the sickness began. Not just a stomach bug. Not a cold. It was something deeper. Something with eyes. I vomited for days without fever or cause.

Hospital shrugged. My mother, exhausted, moved me downstairs to the cold den, the one with the sunken floor and heavy curtains. She said I needed space to sleep. I think she just didn't want me in the room anymore. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember the shadows.