It’s wedding season. The time for white dresses, vows, and dreams of a long happy marriage. But beware: fairy tale weddings can hide deadly secrets. Behind the veil, not every story ends in ‘happy ever after’. Some promises come with curses. Some “I do’s” lead to murder. In this collection, love isn’t always a blessing, it can be a curse waiting to strike. First, the ring chooses love Followed by legacy of terror Finally in our last story, vows, blood and betrayal Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Chapter 1: What are the dark secrets of fairy tale weddings?
Hello? Is anybody there? I called out. As soon as I saw it, a scream erupted from my mouth. Submitted by Abby. 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... It's wedding season, the time for white dresses, vows, and dreams of a long, happy marriage.
But beware, fairy tale weddings can hide deadly secrets. Behind the veil, not every story ends happy ever after. Some promises come with curses. Some I do's lead to murder. In this collection, love isn't always a blessing. It can be a curse waiting to strike. First, the ring chooses love, followed by legacy of terror. Finally, in our last story, vows, blood, and betrayal.
Before we get to our stories, the most important thing to do is hit that subscribe button if you are on YouTube, or hit the follow button on Spotify or wherever you listen to your podcast. so you don't miss a single episode. We'd also love you to leave a comment or rating.
Whatever you feel moved to do would be super appreciated, and we love hearing from our fans, and we're so excited to have you listening. Thanks for being here. So, want to hear something scary? Happily Never After. Some heirlooms carry history, others carry hunger, like in this story, based on the cursed ring urban legend written by Sarah.
The day Simone found the ring, she wasn't even looking for it. The attic of her grandmother's house smelled like thyme, dried lavender, old dust, and something faintly metallic. She'd been sorting boxes for hours, pushing past faded Christmas ornaments and long-dead Polaroids when her fingers brushed velvet at the back of a drawer. a small black pouch, warm to the touch.
Inside was a ring, antique gold, slim and elegant, set with a single deep garnet that looked black until the light hit it just right, and then it glowed like a drop of blood. It pulsed against her palm. Don't, she whispered, even as she slid it on. It fit perfectly. She didn't tell Mark about it. The ring stayed on her hand like it belonged there. At first, she figured it was all a coincidence.
She spilled coffee on her dress the morning of their engagement shoot. The florist backed out at the last minute. Mark snapping at her over nothing. It's just stress, she thought. Everyone gets nervous before a wedding. Then she heard the whispers, soft, like wind through an open window. Only there was no wind, and the windows were shut.
Simone would lie in bed beside Mark, eyes wide in the dark, and hear them. Voices not quite speaking words, like conversations in another room. Familiar. Wrong. She bought a white noise machine. She slept with earplugs, but the voices grew stronger. Sometimes they said her name. Sometimes, Marx. Then she caught her reflection watching her.
she started subtly her mirror image lagging behind blinking just a beat too late one morning she brushed her hair and paused her reflection did not it stared at her lips curled in a smile she didn't feel she stepped back heart thudding the reflection mouthed the word mine Simone decided she had to take off the ring that night, but it wouldn't budge. The skin around it had darkened.
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Chapter 2: What happens when a cursed ring is found?
It was angry and red, like it had burrowed into her. Mark offered to cut it off or take her to a jeweler to do it, but she snapped at him not to touch it. Then the dreams began. Simone walked through a burnt-out church, barefoot, wearing a wedding dress gone gray with ash. The aisle was littered with bones. A woman in white stood at the altar, her veil soaked red. She lifted it slowly.
Her face was Simone's. But the eyes were hollow, and the mouth was sewn shut with gold wire. Simone woke screaming, the ring burning on her hand. She started researching. Eleanor Reith, her great-great-aunt, had owned the ring in 1892. She vanished the night before her wedding. Her fiancé was found in the woods, throat torn open, no sign of struggle.
In 1952, Lisbeth Langford wore the ring at her engagement party. Her groom drowned in his bathtub, lungs filled with saltwater. There was no saltwater in the house. In 1987, the ring resurfaced. Another bride, another death. A pattern. Every bride who wore it lost her groom. Murder. Disappearance. Suicide. The ring passed in silence, handed down like fine china, cursed and unspoken.
Simone found a letter, tucked in an old Bible, written in frantic, spidery script. The ring binds the heart, first with love, then with blood. I should have let it burn with her. No signature, no explanation. Simone stopped sleeping, her eyes hollowed. Mark begged her to see someone. "'You're not well,' he said gently. "'You don't believe me,' she whispered. "'You think I'm crazy.'
But he was just scared, while Simone thought she might be cursed. He reached for her. She flinched. The ring gleamed in the dim light, and for a second, his face twisted, not with fear, but with something like hatred. She blinked, and it was gone." On the night before the wedding, she saw the woman in the mirror again. Not a reflection. This time, it was a presence behind her.
Pale dress, hair matted with dirt. The garnet glowed on the woman's hand like a living ember. "'Do you love him?' the woman whispered, her voice both distant and inside Simone's head. Simone turned to run, but no one was there. Only the mirror that had cracked down the center." Mark disappeared on the morning of the wedding. His phone was on the nightstand. His suit hung untouched.
His car keys sat in the bowl by the door. No note. No calls. But Simone knew. The ring had never wanted him. The police found nothing. No signs of a break-in. No struggle. Just muddy footprints leading away from the house. Barefoot. The same size as Simone's. She wore the dress anyway. sat alone in the pews of the old church. It was raining outside, soft and relentless.
She clutched the bouquet so tightly the stems snapped, and then she heard it.
Simone!
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Chapter 3: How does the cursed ring affect Simone's life?
Their eyes met, and Simone understood. It was never about him. It was about her. The ring didn't feed on love lost. It fed on love given freely, obsessively. Sacrificially, her fingers tightened around the bouquet. She whispered, I They found her two weeks later, barefoot in the forest behind the church. Her dress was pristine, untouched by dirt or rain. Her hands were bloody.
Her eyes were blank. The ring was gone. She wouldn't speak for days until a nurse found her carving names into the wall with her fingernails. Eleanor, Lisbeth, Simone. When asked where the ring went, she only smiled. It needs love to survive, she said, voiced soft with devotion. And I loved him enough. Six months later, a young woman in Ohio found a velvet pouch at an estate sale.
She wore the ring to her bridal shower, laughing off the vendor's odd expression. I'd never seen a garnet that color before, the woman said. It's like it's alive. The cycle began again. Would you keep a gift that made you feel powerful, even if it scared you? Can love be real if it's demanded or threatened and not given? And by the way, don't forget to check out our merch store.
We've got some scary summer items just in time to hit the beach, the campfire, or wherever you're headed. Go check them out at somethingscary.com. So if you were following along on my social media the last couple of weeks, then you noticed that I was at the Cannes Film Festival. It was a crazy experience.
I got to do it with my best friend, Gigi Sao Guerrero, who is a horror filmmaker in her own right. So check out her stuff too. And we got to work with Fangoria and Paramount Scares. And it was just such an honor. But I just wanted to let you know that the...
favorite horror movie that i saw while i was there is a film coming out i think this week called dangerous animals it's a killer shark film from australia by the same director that did the loved ones and it is awesome you all have to check it out and let me know in the comments if you do or follow me on letterbox and let me see your ratings for this new killer shark movie all right sweet screams
Sometimes the scariest hauntings are the ones disguised as fairy tales. Inspired by Chloe, based on the Bell Tower Bride urban legend. Cassia Delacroix wasn't just beautiful, she was curated. The daughter of tech tycoon Christopher Delacroix, she was born into a world of private jets and diamond-studded obligations. Platinum blonde with glacier blue eyes, her face was a fixture on social media.
Always perfectly lit, her smile always just the side of hollow. She lived in a glass mansion, perched high above the city, a fortress of steel and silence. Inside, her father shaped her image like a sculptor carving marble, deliberate, relentless, devoid of mercy. Christopher had no sons, but he didn't need one. He had Cassia, and she was his legacy.
For years, he cultivated an alliance with Magnus Whitmore, a widowed venture capitalist nearly four decades older than Cassia. Magnus owned data farms in Iceland, mining just not cryptocurrency, but influence. He was old money cloaked in futurism, with a jaw like granite and a reputation that made regulators flinch. Cassia had never been asked what she wanted. Her body was branded with luxury.
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Chapter 4: What tragic events are linked to the cursed ring?
Her decisions handled by publicists. Her engagement to Magnus was announced in Forbes before it was ever mentioned to her. But Cassia had a secret. Lucio was a part-time event staffer, a nobody in the Delacroix machine, 19, with a shy laugh and a habit of wiping his hands on his jeans before touching anything expensive. He worked catering gigs at the estate.
She met him once by the infinity pool during a fundraiser. He brought her a drink with shaky hands and didn't look at her like she was a goddess, just human. He didn't follow her on social media. He didn't ask for a picture. He asked if she was tired. She was. Their affair bloomed like a bruise, secret, sore, and growing.
Lucio met her in a pool house, behind blackout curtains and beneath security blind spots. He spoke of escape. She spoke of fear. He's buying me, she whispered one night, curled beneath him like a folded letter, like I'm an investment portfolio with legs. I'll get you out, Lucio had promised. You don't owe him anything. Cassia knew better. Girls like her didn't run.
They got renamed, repackaged, disappeared in luxury. The wedding was scheduled in the Whitmore Estate's private chapel, a reconditioned church high in the Berkshires. Exclusive guest list, NDA-bound staff, no press. Cassia wore couture white. Her father held her arm like a man escorting a doll down a runway.
She walked stiffly, her vision narrowing as the stained glass windows blurred with tears she wouldn't let fall. Halfway down the aisle, Christopher leaned in and said softly, "'You'll thank me for this.'" She looked up, following his gaze to the old bell tower.
The window yawned open like a mouth mid-scream, and from it, something dangled, slack-limbed, swaying, casting a shadow that twitched when the wind didn't. Lucio. His head alone hung from the iron crossbeam. His curls were matted, his mouth agape in a silent scream, his skin gray with death. She didn't scream, only gasped, like something had reached inside her and squeezed.
Her knees buckled as if gravity had turned cruel. Somewhere, a candle flickered out without wind. She collapsed mid-aisle in a heap of silk and sequins. Her father caught her and smiled tightly for the guests. The ceremony continued. Magnus barely blinked. The guests whispered, but no one left. Later, during the reception, Cassia was gone. There was a crash, glass high above, and then silence.
Gasps rippled through the guests as all eyes turned toward the bell tower. The stained glass window had exploded outward. Shards rained down like jagged confetti. The old frame groaned. Cassia stood there, silhouetted by the moon, her veil fluttering like it was underwater. Her dress was torn, soaked in something darker than wine.
Her face was blank, but her eyes glowed faintly, catching the moonlight in a way no living eye should. Then she vanished. No one saw her fall. No one heard her scream. But outside, beneath the bell tower, the ornamental fence had split open, blood pooled at the base. Her body was found moments later, impaled cleanly through the chest on one of the iron spikes. Her spine had snapped on impact.
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Chapter 5: What is the relationship between Cassia and her father?
I walked through the house alone, early in the morning before anyone else arrived. I passed Zia's old room. The door was cracked open. Inside, the wallpaper peeled in long strips, and the dust had gathered thick in the corners. I found a bouquet resting in the kitchen counter. At first, I thought it was for the wedding, until I saw the note tucked between the lilies. "'Til death do us part.
Don't leave me again.'" My fingers went numb. The flowers were damp, dripping, and not water. They smelled metallic, like old coins and rot. That night, I couldn't sleep. Every creek in the old house sounded like footsteps. The mirrors fogged, over without reason. At 4.03 a.m., I heard it, a soft splash, followed by what sounded like laughter, a child's giggle, warbled and wrong.
Drawn to the pool, I walked barefoot down the stone steps. The moon hung low, swollen. Zia stood at the edge, a wedding dress clinging to her soaked frame, veil trailing behind her like seaweed. Her skin had that water-long look, pale, bloated. Her eyes were empty, her mouth opened, but no words came, only a wet, guttural gasp.
Her hand reached toward me, water trailing down her fingers like strings. I turned and ran. I didn't stop until I locked myself in the upstairs guest room, heart thundering. The next day was the wedding. Mariko looked radiant but tired. During the vows, her voice trembled. When she tossed the bouquet, she missed. It landed by the pool. She went to retrieve it herself. She screamed. We ran to her.
She was on the ground, gasping, holding her chest. Bruises spread like ink across her ribcage. "'Not now,' she whispered. "'Not again.' They rushed her to the hospital. No one understood what had happened. I did. Because in that moment, I saw the water ripple. Just once. Six months later, I got engaged. He was kind, stable, normal. He proposed in a quiet restaurant, a ring hidden in creme brulee.
I hesitated. I remembered white dresses soaked in blood. I said yes anyway. That night... I woke at 4.03 a.m. There were lilies on the nightstand, wet, and scrawled and red across my bathroom mirror. You said forever. My stomach twisted. My fiancé was still asleep beside me, undisturbed. I crept to the living room. Something in the shadows shifted. I could feel her. Zia.
I whispered into the darkness, I'm sorry. Silence. Then a voice soft, familiar and wrong. You promised. But it wasn't me who drowned.
what i froze but there was no follow-up no answer just the sound of dripping drip drip drip coming from the hallway i followed it heart pounding to the linen closet i opened the door inside a single floaty deflated a string of wedding lights blood splattered tiles a girl's dress nazi is mine
From the night she died, and a photo I didn't remember taking, me, smiling at the edge of the pool, as Zia bled out behind me. I dropped it, my knees buckled, the memories slammed into me like a wave. That night, we fought. I wanted to sleep. She wanted to swim. She pulled me toward the water, joking, pleading. I pushed her, harder than I meant to. She hit her head, slipped, bled. I ran. I lied.
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