Blair Bathory

And our head writer just knocked out one that day and lit the fuse. And now we're getting lots of them from all of you. To those of you who want to send one in, send it to me at somethingscaryatsnarl.com or you can drop them in the comments on Spotify or YouTube. What makes you scared? It's something I always think about. Is it the location, the sounds, the smells, or the time of day?

And our head writer just knocked out one that day and lit the fuse. And now we're getting lots of them from all of you. To those of you who want to send one in, send it to me at somethingscaryatsnarl.com or you can drop them in the comments on Spotify or YouTube. What makes you scared? It's something I always think about. Is it the location, the sounds, the smells, or the time of day?

Do scary things happen when you are alone or with someone else? For me, it's the unknown and things that go bump in the night that we don't really know what it is. So I'm always thinking what's lurking in the shadows.

Do scary things happen when you are alone or with someone else? For me, it's the unknown and things that go bump in the night that we don't really know what it is. So I'm always thinking what's lurking in the shadows.

Do scary things happen when you are alone or with someone else? For me, it's the unknown and things that go bump in the night that we don't really know what it is. So I'm always thinking what's lurking in the shadows.

Sometimes what's left behind wants you to stay. Like in this story inspired by our listeners who are most terrified of 3.30 a.m. The house was quiet, but not comfortably so. More like the hush before a confession. Veda Alvarez stood in the hallway of her late grandparents' home, where the air felt wet, like someone had just been breathing there, and stopped when she entered.

Sometimes what's left behind wants you to stay. Like in this story inspired by our listeners who are most terrified of 3.30 a.m. The house was quiet, but not comfortably so. More like the hush before a confession. Veda Alvarez stood in the hallway of her late grandparents' home, where the air felt wet, like someone had just been breathing there, and stopped when she entered.

Sometimes what's left behind wants you to stay. Like in this story inspired by our listeners who are most terrified of 3.30 a.m. The house was quiet, but not comfortably so. More like the hush before a confession. Veda Alvarez stood in the hallway of her late grandparents' home, where the air felt wet, like someone had just been breathing there, and stopped when she entered.

Her fingers grazed the floor wallpaper with pineapples that had yellowed with time. She told herself she was only there to save money. One year, maybe less, just enough to rebuild her savings and get back to the city. But the house seemed to know she wasn't staying, and it didn't like that. The third night was when the sleep stopped feeling restful.

Her fingers grazed the floor wallpaper with pineapples that had yellowed with time. She told herself she was only there to save money. One year, maybe less, just enough to rebuild her savings and get back to the city. But the house seemed to know she wasn't staying, and it didn't like that. The third night was when the sleep stopped feeling restful.

Her fingers grazed the floor wallpaper with pineapples that had yellowed with time. She told herself she was only there to save money. One year, maybe less, just enough to rebuild her savings and get back to the city. But the house seemed to know she wasn't staying, and it didn't like that. The third night was when the sleep stopped feeling restful.

She woke in the dark, unsure why, until she glanced at the clock. 3.30 a.m. The red digits glowed like an accusation. Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. No ringtone, just vibration. An incoming call. The number was blank. No area code. No contact info. Just zeros. Veda didn't answer. Didn't even touch the phone. In the morning, the call was gone. No record of it.

She woke in the dark, unsure why, until she glanced at the clock. 3.30 a.m. The red digits glowed like an accusation. Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. No ringtone, just vibration. An incoming call. The number was blank. No area code. No contact info. Just zeros. Veda didn't answer. Didn't even touch the phone. In the morning, the call was gone. No record of it.

She woke in the dark, unsure why, until she glanced at the clock. 3.30 a.m. The red digits glowed like an accusation. Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. No ringtone, just vibration. An incoming call. The number was blank. No area code. No contact info. Just zeros. Veda didn't answer. Didn't even touch the phone. In the morning, the call was gone. No record of it.

But her phone battery was drained, and the screen was smudged with fingerprints she hadn't left. Just a faint unease that clung to her skin like humidity. Veda had never been superstitious. She'd grown up in Texas, spent most summers with her abuela in that very house, surrounded by rosaries, prayer candles, and whispered prayers that always sounded more like mornings.

But her phone battery was drained, and the screen was smudged with fingerprints she hadn't left. Just a faint unease that clung to her skin like humidity. Veda had never been superstitious. She'd grown up in Texas, spent most summers with her abuela in that very house, surrounded by rosaries, prayer candles, and whispered prayers that always sounded more like mornings.

But her phone battery was drained, and the screen was smudged with fingerprints she hadn't left. Just a faint unease that clung to her skin like humidity. Veda had never been superstitious. She'd grown up in Texas, spent most summers with her abuela in that very house, surrounded by rosaries, prayer candles, and whispered prayers that always sounded more like mornings.

But she left that all behind, college, career, logic. Still, when the call came again, same time, same number, she answered. There was no voice at first, just breathing, deep weight, too close. Then, as if dragged through static, I found you. She hung up. The phone slipped from her hands, hit the carpet with a muffled thud. That morning, she searched. 3.30 a.m. Call unknown. Number breathing.

But she left that all behind, college, career, logic. Still, when the call came again, same time, same number, she answered. There was no voice at first, just breathing, deep weight, too close. Then, as if dragged through static, I found you. She hung up. The phone slipped from her hands, hit the carpet with a muffled thud. That morning, she searched. 3.30 a.m. Call unknown. Number breathing.

But she left that all behind, college, career, logic. Still, when the call came again, same time, same number, she answered. There was no voice at first, just breathing, deep weight, too close. Then, as if dragged through static, I found you. She hung up. The phone slipped from her hands, hit the carpet with a muffled thud. That morning, she searched. 3.30 a.m. Call unknown. Number breathing.