Blair Bathory

Their truck had been caught between two semis. He stared at the screen, blood rushing in his ears. They had been spared. The old couple had not. The house felt lighter after that. The strange occurrences faded. The shadows weren't as hungry, as if whatever had been waiting had finally moved on. He wanted to believe it was a coincidence, that it was all in their heads.

But deep down, he knew better. Some things weren't meant to be understood. Some things were warnings. And some things were meant to be feared. If something is watching you from the darkness, how do you know if it's meant to protect you or hurt you? Have you ever had an encounter with the Mothman? Tell us your story by sending us an email at somethingscaryatsnarled.com.

But deep down, he knew better. Some things weren't meant to be understood. Some things were warnings. And some things were meant to be feared. If something is watching you from the darkness, how do you know if it's meant to protect you or hurt you? Have you ever had an encounter with the Mothman? Tell us your story by sending us an email at somethingscaryatsnarled.com.

But deep down, he knew better. Some things weren't meant to be understood. Some things were warnings. And some things were meant to be feared. If something is watching you from the darkness, how do you know if it's meant to protect you or hurt you? Have you ever had an encounter with the Mothman? Tell us your story by sending us an email at somethingscaryatsnarled.com.

Beware the house that keeps its secrets buried beneath the floorboards, like in this story inspired by Mary. When I was five, I lived in a nice two-story house in Greenwood, Florida. It was a small town, quiet and surrounded by thick woods that made everything feel a little more isolated. I loved it. At least I thought I did.

Beware the house that keeps its secrets buried beneath the floorboards, like in this story inspired by Mary. When I was five, I lived in a nice two-story house in Greenwood, Florida. It was a small town, quiet and surrounded by thick woods that made everything feel a little more isolated. I loved it. At least I thought I did.

Beware the house that keeps its secrets buried beneath the floorboards, like in this story inspired by Mary. When I was five, I lived in a nice two-story house in Greenwood, Florida. It was a small town, quiet and surrounded by thick woods that made everything feel a little more isolated. I loved it. At least I thought I did.

It wasn't until years later, when I was 14, that I understood how evil that house was. I don't know why spirits were drawn to me or why I was drawn to them. But even as a child, they found me. Before we moved to Greenwood, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Katie.

It wasn't until years later, when I was 14, that I understood how evil that house was. I don't know why spirits were drawn to me or why I was drawn to them. But even as a child, they found me. Before we moved to Greenwood, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Katie.

It wasn't until years later, when I was 14, that I understood how evil that house was. I don't know why spirits were drawn to me or why I was drawn to them. But even as a child, they found me. Before we moved to Greenwood, I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Katie.

I don't remember when she first appeared, just that she was always there, whispering in my ear, watching from the corners of my room. At first, she was my comfort, until the bruises started appearing on my arms and I woke up with scratches on my legs. My mother, a deeply religious woman, blamed demons and cast her out.

I don't remember when she first appeared, just that she was always there, whispering in my ear, watching from the corners of my room. At first, she was my comfort, until the bruises started appearing on my arms and I woke up with scratches on my legs. My mother, a deeply religious woman, blamed demons and cast her out.

I don't remember when she first appeared, just that she was always there, whispering in my ear, watching from the corners of my room. At first, she was my comfort, until the bruises started appearing on my arms and I woke up with scratches on my legs. My mother, a deeply religious woman, blamed demons and cast her out.

She burned sage, read from the Bible, and prayed over me every night until the bruises stopped appearing. I thought she had saved me, but when we moved into the two-story house, I realized something worse had been waiting for us. At first, the house felt normal, cozy even. My bedroom overlooked the backyard, where a massive oak tree stretched its limbs toward the sky.

She burned sage, read from the Bible, and prayed over me every night until the bruises stopped appearing. I thought she had saved me, but when we moved into the two-story house, I realized something worse had been waiting for us. At first, the house felt normal, cozy even. My bedroom overlooked the backyard, where a massive oak tree stretched its limbs toward the sky.

She burned sage, read from the Bible, and prayed over me every night until the bruises stopped appearing. I thought she had saved me, but when we moved into the two-story house, I realized something worse had been waiting for us. At first, the house felt normal, cozy even. My bedroom overlooked the backyard, where a massive oak tree stretched its limbs toward the sky.

But then, strange things started happening. People in town would ask my dad strange questions. "'How's your wife? Has she been aggressive? Has she hurt you?' The first time, he laughed it off, but it kept happening." Why would I be aggressive? My mom snapped when he mentioned it. I'm your mother. I would never hurt anyone. But we all noticed the shift in her.

But then, strange things started happening. People in town would ask my dad strange questions. "'How's your wife? Has she been aggressive? Has she hurt you?' The first time, he laughed it off, but it kept happening." Why would I be aggressive? My mom snapped when he mentioned it. I'm your mother. I would never hurt anyone. But we all noticed the shift in her.

But then, strange things started happening. People in town would ask my dad strange questions. "'How's your wife? Has she been aggressive? Has she hurt you?' The first time, he laughed it off, but it kept happening." Why would I be aggressive? My mom snapped when he mentioned it. I'm your mother. I would never hurt anyone. But we all noticed the shift in her.

Some days, she was the mother I knew, warm, affectionate, humming hymns as she cooked. Other days, her face changed, her eyes dulled, emptied. She stared at me too long, like she had forgotten who I was. Her voice would drop an octave mid-sentence, stretching like it wasn't entirely her own. My parents started fighting all the time.