This Mother’s Day, we honor the incredible strength and love of the mothers who shape our lives for the better. Those of us lucky enough to have them, or other nurturing parental figures, are truly blessed. But remember, not all maternal bonds are pure. 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, if they’re even living at all. First, when instincts scream Followed by a mother’s wrath Finally in our last story, a child almost taken Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Chapter 1: Who is Blair Bathory and what is this podcast about?
I woke up to the sound of my mother calling my name from the kitchen. But as I stumbled out of bed, I saw her standing beside me, whispering, Don't go down there. I heard it too. From the darkness below, I heard her voice again, this time calling, Sweetheart, come down and eat breakfast. 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. And this Mother's Day, we honor the incredible strength and love of the mothers who shape our lives for the better. Those of us lucky enough to have them or other nurturing figures are truly blessed. But remember, not all maternal bonds are pure.
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.
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.
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Chapter 2: What is the story behind Mara and the mysterious baby Junebug?
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.
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.
On the monitor screen, the baby twisted unnaturally, her head jerking once, twice, almost like she was listening for something. Her husband sleepily called for her to come to bed, but when Mara tried to show him, Junebug lay still, serene, angelic. You need to rest, he said, pulling her back to bed. Days blurred into nights. Mara fed, rocked, and changed Junebug.
But the feeling grew, that deep, primal wrongness. Her mother came to visit once and offered an awkward, brittle hug. You're just overwhelmed, sweetheart, she said. Everything feels strange at first. But when Mara handed Junebug over, her mother flinched, a small, involuntary shudder she tried to hide. Mara noticed. She noticed everything now. By the third week, Mara couldn't sleep at all.
The house, once warm and comforting, felt too quiet, too expectant, like it was holding its breath. She started hearing it at night, the soft, wet slapping sounds on the floorboards. Tiny hands, tiny knees sliding across the wood. But Junebug wasn't crawling yet. She shouldn't even be rolling. Mara clutched her husband's arm one night, shaking him awake. Listen, she hissed.
They both strained to hear, but only the hum of the heater answered back. Mara, he said, more gently this time. She's asleep. Look. On the monitor, Junebug lay limp and still. Mara almost believed it. Almost. She began keeping the baby close during the day, watching for proof she wasn't losing her mind. Junebug stared up at her, wide-eyed and unblinking, lips working as if tasting the air.
She rarely cried, not real cries, not familiar newborn squalls Mara had prepared for. Instead, the sounds almost like a whisper speaking in tongues or some foreign language. The cries she made were low, guttural whimpers that grated at Mara's nerves.
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Chapter 3: What strange events make Mara question her baby’s identity?
Mara, the woman said gently, your baby is healthy. You're under a lot of stress. Why don't we sit down and talk? No, Mara said, voice breaking. That's not my baby. The social worker's mouth pressed into a thin line. Very carefully, she folded her hands on the table. She looked around cautiously, as if the walls were listening. She was scared. Mara could see it all over her face.
In a whisper, she told Mara, we're aware. But you need to understand, Junebug isn't the only one. Outside in the maternity ward, new mothers cooed over their newborns, tying perfect bundles tucked into pink and blue blankets, rows and rows of bassinets.
Mara pressed her face to the glass, bile rising in her throat, because now she saw it, the small things she hadn't noticed before, the unnatural stillness, the way some babies blink too slowly or not at all. The way one baby opened its mouth in a silent wail, and something inside flickered. Something black and endless. Sweet dreams, Junebug. Sweet dreams, all of them.
What would you do if everyone told you the baby in your arms was yours, but every instinct inside of you said it wasn't? Can you really trust what you see in a hospital nursery? Hi, witches. Like I said last week, I am going to start talking to you one on one a little bit more in between the stories. I want to get to know you more and I want you to know who I am a little bit more.
I've been your host for about three years and I've not really taken the opportunity to share things about my life, what I do for a living and my hopes and dreams and things I want to accomplish in the spooky community. So if you didn't know, I think I say this almost every week, but I guess it's a nice reminder. I'm a full time writer and director.
I've been doing this for almost 17 years now, and I actually have a new film coming out and I will be announcing the project live with Fangoria this week. So please go to their channels because it's going to be really awesome. And we're doing this at the Cannes Film Festival. So by the time this podcast comes out, this will already be announced in the trades and people will be talking about it.
And I'll be posting content about this multiple times a day, every day on all my platforms. If you didn't know, Cannes is one of the oldest and most prestigious film festivals in the world. It's also iconic for fashion and, of course, film.
I'm very excited to go because some of my heroes, Alfred Hitchcock, Sam Raimi, a lot of other horror film directors have premiered there and have been staples at this film festival. So it's really iconic that I get to go and represent the horror film community. I'll be hosting a digital series alongside Fangoria and my friend Gigi Sal Guerrero.
And we're rolling out the bloody carpet for the horror fans and everyone that has always seen the outside of canon, but not the inside. So during this time, I will also be taking the opportunity, gratefully, to announce my project. So please go to the livestream, which is happening every day on the Fangoria social media platforms. And... I just want to give a little bit of a hint.
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Chapter 4: How does Mara discover the truth about Junebug at the hospital?
It's for your own good. Your room was getting cluttered. You don't need all that junk anymore. Let's focus on the future, not the past. Each time she moved something, she erased a little more of his past, making him feel ungrateful for holding on to it. Jose started to dread coming home. The house felt suffocating, as if he were slowly being erased from it.
The breaking point came one night when Jose framed a photo of him and Pepita at one of their favorite concerts. He had saved for weeks to get it done, a way to hold on to her in the world that now felt emptier without her. He placed it proudly on his nightstand, a small but important act of remembrance. The next morning, Christina found the photo.
Her smile was tight as she picked it up, her fingers caressing the glass. Such a lovely photo, she said, but her eyes narrowed. But don't you think it's a bit childish? Jose froze, his chest tightening with dread. He could already hear the words that would follow. You're not a little boy anymore, Mio. You need to grow up.
She glanced at the photo again, a flicker of something darker crossing her face. Your mother wouldn't have wanted you holding on to this. Let go, Mio. It's time. I don't care, he said, his voice shaky. It's mine. It's all I have left of her. Cristina's smile twisted, her eyes colder. You'll never be good enough for me, mijo, no matter how hard you try.
The words landed like blows, making his skin crawl. That night, Jose came home to find Cristina standing in the kitchen, her face calm but her eyes hollow. You've made me do something I didn't want to do, she said softly, but with a sharp edge in her voice. Jose's stomach dropped. What? Jose stepped back, his heart racing. This wasn't the woman he had been living with. This wasn't Christina.
This was something else. Something darker. Without warning, she lunged at him, the knife poised to strike. But then, something stopped her. It wasn't Jose. Jose. He wasn't close enough to touch her, but the air around them thickened, the room suddenly freezing. Christina froze too, her arm rigid in midair, the knife suspended. The lights flickered, the drawers rattled.
The sound of clattering kitchen utensils filled the air as knives, spoons, and forks flew toward Christina. One knife dug deep into her shoulder, another sliced her cheek open. She screamed, but it was a shrill sound, swallowed by the chaos. But then it happened. The music began, a song Jose and Petipita used to dance to, the familiar guitar riff filling the room like a ghost.
The melody twisted the air, making it feel as though Pepita herself had returned. From the corner of the kitchen, a figure appeared, a woman in white, her black hair cascading around her shoulders. Pepita's hair ornament, one that Jose had given her, now adorned the woman's hair. Pepita stood before him, but her face was no longer that of the mother he had known.
It was decayed, skin stretched tight over bones, eyes hollow and dark. Mom? Jose whispered, his voice cracking. Pepita smiled, her voice both soothing and terrifying. You're not alone, mijo, she whispered, her words filled with love and something more. Christina still suspended in air, tried to scream, but her mouth was frozen in terror.
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Chapter 5: What personal updates does Blair Bathory share about her film project?
She found me standing on the couch, hands pressed flat against the living room window, staring out at the moon. When I turned to look at her, my face was pale and tear-streaked. I saw Grandma, I whispered. She came to play with me. My mother's stomach dropped. But she had to leave, I said, voice cracking. She said she couldn't finish the game. Not yet.
At first, my mother tried to dismiss it, just imagination. But when she glanced the floor, her blood ran cold. The dolls I had been playing with, they weren't mine. They were hers. The same worn, cloth doll she had played with as a child. Dolls she'd left behind in Mexico decades ago. Dolls that should have rotted away, lost to time. But there they were, sitting neatly in a circle, waiting.
After that night, strange things started to happen. Sometimes I would have conversations in my sleep, murmuring soft, frantic words to someone who wasn't there. Sometimes I woke up sobbing, reaching out as if trying to catch something slipping away. Sometimes the air around me felt heavy, thick, like walking through water, especially during full moons.
And sometimes, when the house was too still, my mother swore she heard small, padded footsteps creeping from my room to hers. But when she checked, I was always asleep. At least, that's what she told herself. Years later, when I was older, she finally told me everything. The dreams she had before I was born, the chase, the crying. And she told me the secret she had buried deep inside herself.
Sometimes, she whispered, I wonder if you were ever meant to stay with me at all. Sometimes, I think I stole you. I asked her quietly what she thought my grandmother had been trying to do. She hesitated for a long time before she answered. I used to think she wanted to take you with her because she missed me, because she was lonely. She swallowed hard.
But for now, now I wonder if she was trying to protect you from something I couldn't see. Something that still wants you. Now that I'm grown, I still wonder. Sometimes, when the world is quiet, I feel it. A soft tug at the edge of my mind, like something waiting, watching. Sometimes, I wake up to find my old doll sitting at the foot of my bed.
Even though I packed them away years ago, sometimes, when the moon is heavy and full, I catch myself standing at the window again, my hands pressed against the cold glass, waiting, listening. And sometimes, just for a second, I catch a glimpse of her reflection behind me. But it's not just my grandmother anymore. There's something else standing with her now, something I can't quite see.
But that fills me with a fear so old and deep it feels like it was planted inside me before I was even born. Something that has been waiting a very, very long time. And sometimes I wonder, did my mother save me? Or did she only delay the inevitable? What if the ones we love the most aren't always trying to save us?
Okay, so last but not least, I thought it would be fun to share my Fangoria collection with you all. Since I'm doing a project with him this week, I thought it would be cool to show off some of the magazines that I've collected. I'll show you my favorites last. But for now... One of the first covers that I have is the Saw X cover.
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