Blair Bathory

What you think is love may be something darker, something that lingers long after the last breath. Proceed with caution, for not all mothers are what they appear. Some don't live up to the title, even if they're living at all. First, when instincts scream, followed by a mother's wrath. Finally, in our last story, a child almost taken.

What you think is love may be something darker, something that lingers long after the last breath. Proceed with caution, for not all mothers are what they appear. Some don't live up to the title, even if they're living at all. First, when instincts scream, followed by a mother's wrath. Finally, in our last story, a child almost taken.

What you think is love may be something darker, something that lingers long after the last breath. Proceed with caution, for not all mothers are what they appear. Some don't live up to the title, even if they're living at all. First, when instincts scream, followed by a mother's wrath. Finally, in our last story, a child almost taken.

But before we get to our stories, I wanted to remind you to subscribe to the Something Scary podcast on Spotify or wherever you listen to your podcasts. That way, you'll never miss an episode. You can also leave us a comment or a rating. We love hearing from you, and I try and answer as many people as I can. So, wanna hear something scary? A mother's deadly instincts.

But before we get to our stories, I wanted to remind you to subscribe to the Something Scary podcast on Spotify or wherever you listen to your podcasts. That way, you'll never miss an episode. You can also leave us a comment or a rating. We love hearing from you, and I try and answer as many people as I can. So, wanna hear something scary? A mother's deadly instincts.

But before we get to our stories, I wanted to remind you to subscribe to the Something Scary podcast on Spotify or wherever you listen to your podcasts. That way, you'll never miss an episode. You can also leave us a comment or a rating. We love hearing from you, and I try and answer as many people as I can. So, wanna hear something scary? A mother's deadly instincts.

Sometimes, lullabies aren't meant to comfort. They're meant to warn, like in this story written by Sarah. Mara had whispered it every night for months, rubbing slow circles over her swelling belly beneath the glow of the nursery lamp. Sweet dreams, Junebug, she'd murmur.

Sometimes, lullabies aren't meant to comfort. They're meant to warn, like in this story written by Sarah. Mara had whispered it every night for months, rubbing slow circles over her swelling belly beneath the glow of the nursery lamp. Sweet dreams, Junebug, she'd murmur.

Sometimes, lullabies aren't meant to comfort. They're meant to warn, like in this story written by Sarah. Mara had whispered it every night for months, rubbing slow circles over her swelling belly beneath the glow of the nursery lamp. Sweet dreams, Junebug, she'd murmur.

Feeling the faint flutter of tiny feet, the soft push of an elbow just under her ribs, she knew this child the way she knew the sound of her own breathing. She knew the rhythm of her daughter's heartbeat before she ever saw her face. So when Junebug came early, a blood-slick arrival under the cold buzz of hospital lights, Mara told herself the fear she felt was normal.

Feeling the faint flutter of tiny feet, the soft push of an elbow just under her ribs, she knew this child the way she knew the sound of her own breathing. She knew the rhythm of her daughter's heartbeat before she ever saw her face. So when Junebug came early, a blood-slick arrival under the cold buzz of hospital lights, Mara told herself the fear she felt was normal.

Feeling the faint flutter of tiny feet, the soft push of an elbow just under her ribs, she knew this child the way she knew the sound of her own breathing. She knew the rhythm of her daughter's heartbeat before she ever saw her face. So when Junebug came early, a blood-slick arrival under the cold buzz of hospital lights, Mara told herself the fear she felt was normal.

The hours had blurred into white noise, nurses shouting, her husband's pale face, the endless drum of machines. Junebug was rushed to the NICU. Just a precaution, they said, common with early births. Mara counted the hours until she could hold her own. When they came, they placed the baby in her arms. She was perfect. Dark hair, tiny curled fingers, soft gurgling breaths.

The hours had blurred into white noise, nurses shouting, her husband's pale face, the endless drum of machines. Junebug was rushed to the NICU. Just a precaution, they said, common with early births. Mara counted the hours until she could hold her own. When they came, they placed the baby in her arms. She was perfect. Dark hair, tiny curled fingers, soft gurgling breaths.

The hours had blurred into white noise, nurses shouting, her husband's pale face, the endless drum of machines. Junebug was rushed to the NICU. Just a precaution, they said, common with early births. Mara counted the hours until she could hold her own. When they came, they placed the baby in her arms. She was perfect. Dark hair, tiny curled fingers, soft gurgling breaths.

but as Mara rocked her, a hollow note thudded in her chest, a sense, sharp and unwelcome, that something essential was missing. The doctors smiled. They called it postpartum anxiety, hormones, exhaustion. The doctors kept saying, Mara nodded and smiled, too tired to argue, but the feeling burrowed deeper every day. The first night home, Mara placed the baby monitor on the nightstand.

but as Mara rocked her, a hollow note thudded in her chest, a sense, sharp and unwelcome, that something essential was missing. The doctors smiled. They called it postpartum anxiety, hormones, exhaustion. The doctors kept saying, Mara nodded and smiled, too tired to argue, but the feeling burrowed deeper every day. The first night home, Mara placed the baby monitor on the nightstand.

but as Mara rocked her, a hollow note thudded in her chest, a sense, sharp and unwelcome, that something essential was missing. The doctors smiled. They called it postpartum anxiety, hormones, exhaustion. The doctors kept saying, Mara nodded and smiled, too tired to argue, but the feeling burrowed deeper every day. The first night home, Mara placed the baby monitor on the nightstand.

She watched the screen obsessively. Junebug's crib bathed in the soft gray light of the camera. The baby barely moved at first, only a twitch here and there. But as the hours dragged past midnight, the movements changed. Junebug didn't stir like a newborn. Her limbs twitched too sharply. Her spine arched. Her tiny fists curled and clawed against the mattress. Mara leaned in, her breath catching.

She watched the screen obsessively. Junebug's crib bathed in the soft gray light of the camera. The baby barely moved at first, only a twitch here and there. But as the hours dragged past midnight, the movements changed. Junebug didn't stir like a newborn. Her limbs twitched too sharply. Her spine arched. Her tiny fists curled and clawed against the mattress. Mara leaned in, her breath catching.