Sometimes, it’s not the stories we’re told that haunt us, but the ones we inherit without question. The prayers whispered in the dark. The trinkets worn without asking why. Belief can be a comfort… until it isn’t. Because when something is passed down for too long, you stop knowing where faith ends and fear begins. First, mirror marks won’t fade Followed by inherited horror Finally in our last story, you’re getting blurry Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Full Episode
Written by at user xdarkwolf. 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. Sometimes it's not the stories we're told that haunt us, but the ones we inherit without hesitation. The prayers whispered in the dark. The trinkets worn without asking why.
Belief can be a comfort until it isn't. Because when something is passed down for so long, you stop knowing where faith ends and fear begins. First, mirror marks won't fade, followed by inherited horror. Finally, in our last story, you're getting blurry. So, wanna hear something scary? Grief makes ghosts of us all.
Sometimes the scariest thing isn't what you summon, but what becomes of you afterward. Like in this story written in honor of Jewish American Heritage Month by Sarah. The apartment smelled like old wax and peeled onions, familiar and vaguely rotten.
Leah Klein hadn't been back in almost four years, not since she walked away from her seminary program and traded Talmudic texts of Jewish studies for molecular biology. Science makes sense, she told her father. Miracles don't. She hadn't argued. He just said, when the world stops making sense, you'll miss miracles. She used to roll her eyes at that.
Now sitting, Shiva for her dead dad, alone in the empty apartment. She wanted to throw a chair at the wall just to hear something crash. No one had come. No awkward neighbors. No Minya. Just her. Her father had died alone, slipping in the bathtub of all places. No angels, no divine plan, just cracked tiles in the irony of a rabbi who drowned just like anyone else could have.
The university gave her a two-week leave. She hadn't touched a breaker or attended rounds since the call. But grief doesn't care about rational systems. It drags you down like a tide. For Leah, it pulled her to her father's office, where yellowed books leaned like tired old men and the wax from forgotten Shabbat candles formed strange, melted figures looking like monsters standing on the desk.
She found the manuscript behind a stack of unopened mail, wrapped in oilskin that left a bitter smell on her hands. Tied with red thread, no label, no title. She almost tossed it, but when she opened the first page, the air in the room was sucked out, like someone had just stopped breathing.
Inside, she saw a hand-bound book, thin as skin, brittle edges, a name across the top in her father's script. Shafir Harazim. She remembered hearing that name. Whispers through half-closed doors. Her father's voice low and tense. Part prayer, part warning. A book of angelic secrets. Curses. Blessings too strange to be holy.
The scientist in her, fluent in nerve signal pathways and how to sterilize a scalpel, snorted. Another relic from a world she'd left behind. until she saw the margin notes in her father's handwriting. Symbols marked, names circled. One of them was hers, Leah, next to a passage in Aramaic she couldn't fully translate. But she caught enough, a ritual to summon wisdom, to speak to angels.
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