My Grandmother Told the Same Scary Story to Every Neighborhood Kid, Except Me

Kelly Clarkson here with Wayfair. I know holiday magic starts at home and Wayfair makes it easy. They have everything from Christmas trees and mantel decor to outdoor lighting and inflatables that I'll use year after year. Head to Wayfair.com today. Wayfair, every style, every home. Tammy regularly hauls stuff to her kids at college. That's why she shops at BJ's Wholesale Club, saving up to 25% off grocery store prices. Beef jerky, microwave meals, laundry pods, even they can't screw up. Have you met my kids? And with BJ's gas, she gets there for less. They call me the road warrior. This is your home, road warrior mom. Home of the save. Join for just $20 at BJ's.com slash mesquite and save 10 cents per gallon for six months. Open soon. Limited time offer, new members only. BJ's, home of the save. This episode is brought to you by TXU Energy. For the first time ever, Texans have an energy plan that combines free nights all year with daytime summer savings. It's called Free Nights in Cool Summer. You get free nights every night, all year long. Plus, a 25% bonus toward your daytime use all summer. It's a first-of-its-kind plan created for how Texans actually use energy. Discover how much more you could save with Free Nights in Cool Summer. TXU Energy. Energy for everything. Visit TXU.com for more information. Rep number 10004. In today's story, Ethan discovers that his grandmother has been keeping one very strange secret from him. For years, she's been telling the neighborhood children the same disturbing story whenever he's not around. He's been telling them the same story every day. His friends refuse to talk about it, and his grandmother insists that the story is not meant for him. One afternoon, Ethan hides nearby and decides to listen as she tells the story. When his grandmother realizes what he's done, she looks at him in horror and says, Oh, my child, my dear sweet child, what have you done? But before we get into it, if you enjoy scary stories like this, be sure to like and subscribe so you never miss, and don't miss any of our weekly uploads. I lived with my grandmother Mallory from the ages of 3 to 10. I don't remember much about my birth parents, although I do recall a room with yellow wallpaper and a crib with flowers painted on its bars. For me, home was always Grandma Mallory's house, a sprawling, 70s-era ranch at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac. The hills behind it were covered with forest, and in the street out front, children could be heard playing from 3 p.m. until sundown. It didn't bother me that Grandma Mallory couldn't do all the things that my classmates' younger, spryer parents could. What mattered was the clean, orderly home she provided me with, the delicious meals she cooked, and the time she spent with me each day. The neighborhood kids loved and trusted her almost as much as I did, so I was never at a loss for playmates. The only problem was that I didn't know how to play. I didn't know how to play. The problem was the secret that they all seemed to share. For years, I didn't even notice the way that, after all of us kids had shared a snack of cool watermelon or warm pumpkin pie, Grandma Mallory would send me to do some mundane, time-intensive chore. There always seemed to be dishes to wash, leaves to rake, or groceries to put away, and I knew well enough that my aging grandmother couldn't take care of all of those things herself. It was only later, after I was older, that I began to wonder about the timing. One winter, I forgot my gloves when I went outside to shovel the driveway. At first, I couldn't be bothered to go back in for them, but after five minutes, my fingers were numb and purple from the cold. I jammed my shovel into a snow pile and trudged back to the porch, grumbling. By chance, I happened to look through the side light window before I went inside, and what I saw stopped me, and my tracks. Grandma Mallory sat in a rocking chair in the center of the living room, surrounded by six of my friends. They leaned in close, as she gestured and spoke animatedly. She was telling some sort of story. Feeling hurt and left out, I opened the front door as softly as I could, but Grandma Mallory looked up right away. But that is a tale for another day, she concluded, then stood and smoothed out her apron. My playmates gazed up at her with something like awe, and I noticed how she locked eyes with each of them in turn, as though reminding them of a promise that they had made. Later, when I asked my friends what they had been up to, their answers were vague. They all seemed to agree that Grandma Mallory had told them a story, but none of them could provide any details or explain the plot. Most kids would have let it go at that, but my friend's silence, made me even more determined to get to the bottom of the mystery. That was why, the next time my grandmother sent me to fold clothes after our afternoon snack, I didn't go right away. I lingered in the hallway, back pressed against the wall, listening. The silence was unbelievable. My friends were never so quiet. They whispered and giggled even during the most important exams. What was going on? I strained my ears for the sound of my grandmother's voice. "Is everything alright, Ethan?" Grandma Mallory was standing right in front of me, even though I hadn't heard her approach. It was as if she knew. I mumbled something about feeling dizzy all of a sudden, then slouched down the hallway to the laundry room. When I came back 15 minutes later, it was no different from the last time. The same guilty, excited faces, the same conspiratorial glances. I behaved like a terror for the rest of the afternoon, and when Grandma Mallory finally asked what was wrong, I told her the truth. I wanted to hear the story that she had been telling my friends. My grandmother pulled me into a big warm hug. Her apron smelled like pie crust and cinnamon. I could see the stitches where she'd mended and re-mended her flower print blouse. "It's not meant for you," Grandma Mallory sighed. "I know that doesn't feel fair now, but when you're older, it will." I hugged her back, but I didn't believe her. I no longer complained when Grandma Mallory sent me off on some errand while my friends stayed behind. I kept silent and bided my time, certain that, sooner or later, my grandmother would let her guard down. And then, that September, my opportunity finally arrived. A new family, the Cuthberts, had just moved in at the top of the street, and all four of their rambunctious siblings had come down to play capture the flag in the hills behind Grandma Mallory's. When we emerged from the woods a few hours later, thorn-scratched and exhausted, we found cupcakes and lemonade on the picnic table. For some reason, my grandmother was unusually eager to launch into her story that afternoon. She sent me to pick apples from the two trees in the front yard. They were far from ripe, but she was in too much of a hurry to think of a more, more reasonable request. I grabbed a pair of buckets and walked away with a sigh. As soon as I was out of earshot, Grandma Mallory turned back to my friends. Her back was to me. This was my chance. I doubled back to the rear of the shed behind the picnic table, pressed my back against its sun-warmed, white-painted wood, and listened. "Once upon a time," Grandma Mallory began, "there was an ugly village full of wretched, wretched people. In a cottage on the outskirts of that miserable town, there lived a young woman named Rosaline." My grandmother went on, "Rosaline was as fair as her neighbors were foul, as wise as they were foolish. Whenever anyone needed a tincture to take away an unwanted pregnancy, a draught to make an unwilling lass more compliant, or a tonic to ease a stubborn older relative into sweet oblivion, who did they turn to? Rosaline. Although their pride would never let them admit it, they depended on her entirely. Then, late one night, a messenger arrived at Rosaline's door. He informed her that Lady Margaret, the local lord's new bride, had gone into labor and urgently needed a midwife. Of course, good, kind Rosaline agreed to go. She could hear Margaret's cries as she hurried up the stone steps of the young lord's manor. By the time she reached the bedchamber, the sheets were already stained with blood. While the young lord paced and his servants dithered, Rosaline worked to save Margaret and her baby. By sunrise, it was over. Both mother and child were alive. The lordly couple, however, were furious." Hey, y'all. Kelly Parker here. You know my favorite compliment during the holidays? Your house feels so cozy. That's when I know everyone's comfortable enough to kick off their shoes, grab more dessert, and stay a little longer. Wayfair makes it easy, with everything from dining furniture to festive guest room essentials, all in one place. So whether you're hosting for an afternoon or all weekend, everyone feels right at home. Get holiday guests ready at Wayfair.com or on the Wayfair app today. ♪ Wayfair, every style, every home ♪ - Hank joined BJ's wholesale club the day he became a father of 30. - I coach football. - Now Coach Hank saves up to 25% off Grocery store prices, 30 pounds of pasta, three cases of protein bars, 75 sports drinks. And that's just pregame. He knows teamwork, and BJ's knows savings. This is your home, coach. Home of the Save. Join for just $20 at bjs.com slash mesquite and save 10 cents per gallon for six months. Open soon. They shouted that Rosaline's techniques done more harm than good and refused to pay her for her efforts. In that moment, Rosaline recalled all the insulting looks and cruel comments she had received from the lord and lady over the years while they presided over village feasts or drove their carriage past her cottage. They were so ungrateful, so undeserving. Then she looked down at the blanket-wrapped infant and remembered how much she longed for a child of her own. The young lord didn't have time to react before Rosaline's turn. Rosaline's knife plunged into his eye socket. Lady Margaret, confined to her bed, was too weak to even scream. From there, it was a simple matter for Rosaline to lift the wailing bundle from its crib and hold a candle to the fine curtains. By the time the servants realized what was happening, the manor was engulfed in flames. Rosaline, meanwhile, had escaped on horseback with the baby. She planned to start a new life someplace else, someplace where she didn't know anyone and no one knew her. How could she have known that the horse merchant she met a few days later would recognize Margaret's prize white and gray mare? How could she have known how far the villagers would go for revenge? They cornered her in an abandoned mill on the roadside. They took the newborn. The most fitting punishment, they decided, was to burn Rosaline alive just as she had been killed. They had burned their lord and lady, so they bound her to a central beam and set the building ablaze. Yet in the morning, when the farmers who lived nearby came sniffing around for trophies, they found no trace of poor, murdered Rosaline. Some began to whisper that her hateful spirit survived the fire, that it still wanders the earth, searching for another child to replace the one she lost. She always comes, after dark, and always brings with her the smell of smoke. Her fingers might look burnt black and bone thin, but they are terribly strong. Her face might look charred and raw, but the bright green eyes within are terribly alive. Perhaps you'll never meet her, but then again, perhaps you will. I waited for more, but Grandma Mallory's tale ended there. The backyard was so dark, so quiet, that I could hear the wind rustling through the leaves of the big oak beside the shed. I understood now why my friends had always been so vague about my grandmother's story. The themes were so adult, and the ending so twisted, that I wouldn't have known how to explain it myself. A few hours later, it might come to feel like nothing more than a grotesque fairy tale. But in the moment, Grandma Mallory's solemn, hypnotic voice made it seem so real. One by one, my playmates stood. They pushed away their paper plates as though they never wanted to eat again and wandered off, looking dazed and a little sick. Anger pulsed through my veins. My grandmother's stories were usually so bright, whimsical, and full of hope. Why would she tell something like that to a bunch of kids? I was still wondering when her shadow fell over me. Grandma Mallory's reaction wasn't what I expected. Rather than scolding me, she looked down at my face, at my two empty apple buckets, and brought a hand to her face. Oh, my child. My dear, sweet child. What have you done? Before I knew what was happening, my grandmother had grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me back inside the house. She pulled down a dusty, battered suitcase from above her wardrobe and began filling it with all manner of things, from my raincoat to her favorite saucepan. I followed as she dragged it to the car, alarmed by her shallow, wheezing breaths. It must have been years since Grandma Mallory had made so much effort in such a short amount of time, and she needed to rest against the car roof before heaving our luggage inside. It was only then that I dared to ask what was happening. We're going away, Grandma Mallory said simply. Her hands shook as she started the car. I was vaguely aware of the neighbor's stares as we sped out of the driveway, but most of my thoughts were with Grandma Mallory. I was too young to understand Alzheimer's or dementia, but I did know that some older people get a little soft in the head. Had my grandmother lost her mind? Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her hands on the steering wheel. While faster than usual, there was nothing erratic about her driving. Minutes and hours passed, with nothing to mark the time but the crackle of a staticky country station on the radio. The sun sank slowly in the rearview mirror. I pulled my scabby knees, up to my chest, and tried to guess where on earth we were going. Around 8 p.m., we finally stopped at a run-down motel just off the highway. After a quick dinner at the diner across the parking lot, my grandmother shuffled me into our room and double-bolted the door. I asked again what was happening. She just shook her head, cracked open a can of ginger ale, and asked if I'd like to watch cartoons. Neither of us had any strength left to argue. Before drifting off to sleep in my unfamiliar bed, I saw Grandma Mallory furtively swallow a pair of pills. She had taken her nightly round of medicine after finishing her meal in the diner, and I wondered uneasily what they were for. Maybe, I thought sleepily, all of this was just a. what is it called? An episode. Maybe when I woke up in the morning, my grandmother and everything else would be back to normal. Maybe. My eyes snapped open. It was full dark. Something was wrong. It was difficult to see in the moonlight streaming through the window slats. But I would have sworn that Grandma Mallory was doing something to the bathroom door. She was bracing it with a desk chair. There was an odd smell in the air, one that reminded me almost of. smoke. I sat up in bed. It might have just been a trick of the light, but the bathroom door handle was turning, like something was trying to open it from the inside. There was scuffling, some angry muttering, and finally a bang so loud it made me jump. Grandma Mallory reached out to grab my hand, but I was already moving, dashing toward the car like I already knew, or at least suspected, what lurked inside that motel bathroom. Grandma Mallory hobbled up after me, gasping harder than ever. Without a word, she got behind the wheel and took us back onto the highway. Mile markers slipped by hypnotically in the headlights. The pine forest beside the road seemed endless. I opened my mouth to ask my grandmother if I could turn on the radio when she suddenly spoke. "I never meant to hurt anybody. All I wanted was to keep you safe." "What on earth was she talking about?" "The baby Rosaline abducted survived, you see. A widowed farmer who lived beside that ruined mill raised him as his own. When the boy was old enough, the farmer told him the story of his past, and that very same night, Rosaline returned. They say she crawled down from the old farmer's attic to strangle him in his sleep. Even though his adopted son escaped, Rosaline's ghost kept coming back. She could be misdirected or destroyed, but never for long. Through all these years, she's never stopped hunting the youngest blood of that boy's family, which is also our family. And that's where the story goes. So you're not worried about hosting the whole family for the holidays? Why would I be? Wayfair had everything I needed to get the house holiday ready. What if Mike brings his cheerful dogs? My tree has tons of five-star reviews telling me how sturdy it is. But what if everyone's plus one brings a plus one? We'll see how extendable this extendable table really is. And extra chairs are on the way. Okay. What if there's a blizzard and everyone has to sleep over? Ready to go with extra bedding and towels. From guest-ready essentials to holiday decor you can trust, Wayfair delivers. With a sinking feeling in my gut, I asked my grandmother what she was talking about. Each time Rosaline loses our trail, her spirit has to return to the beginning, to her story. Each mind that knows it acts as a sort of beacon for her. She goes to them thinking that she's found us, and we can sleep at peace for another night. The more who have heard her tale, the safer we are. Because if she ever finds you, she'll drag you back with her to whatever hell she calls home. Forever. Something slammed hard in the trunk, and that charred odor returned, wafting into the car's cab through the backseat hinges. They were supposed to lock into place, but Grandma Mallory's sedan had seen better days. With a hard enough push from the other side, I frantically scanned the late-night highway around us. No street lights or buildings. Not even a semi-truck rushing to complete a delivery. We were alone. The next blow came even harder than the last. I jumped in my seat, but my grandmother only tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Whether she was focused entirely on the road or simply too frightened to look over her back, I never found out. I whimpered my grandmother's name. She didn't react. Not even when a third impact finally snapped a hinge. As it ricocheted off a window, the backseat folded down with a horrid, rusty shriek. Out of the darkness, I could make out the bright green irises of pale, unblinking eyes. Grandma Mallory clutched her chest, her eyes closed. Her breathing, so rapid and gasping just moments before, had slowed. She was having a heart attack. I gripped the steering wheel and fought to keep us on the road while a nightmare crawled out into the backseat. My grandmother slumped forward. Putting her full, unconscious weight on the gas pedal, I scrambled across the cupholders and pushed desperately at her bulky leg with my scrawny ones. With a speedometer creeping up, I barely noticed the five thin fingers that closed around my shoulder. Grandma Mallory's foot slipped free. I stomped hard on the brakes, but too late. We careened through the marshy roadside grass and crashed head-on into a bent pine tree. A burned shape flew through the windshield, shattering it. Then, blinding pain exploded in my forehead. And the next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital room. As gently as possible, a nurse informed me that my grandmother hadn't survived the crash. Fighting back tears, I asked if anyone else had been found near the car. Confused, the nurse shook his head. It seemed that Rosaline had been thrown off my trail. For a little while, at least. I never told the psychologists and social workers who interviewed me, what I experienced that night. Eventually, I was placed in a group home. I spent the next eight years of my life in the care of the stern, religious, Stadletter family. They were good, kind, trusting people. People who never could have imagined the eerie tale I told to each of the other foster children who passed through their house. Some kids got scared. Others rolled their eyes or laughed. It didn't matter. The important thing was that, with each telling, the odds were a little more in my favor. There was a better chance that they would be the ones to notice a burnt stench coming from a bedroom closet or behind the shower curtain. Rosaline's raw face would peer over the top of their bedsheets, not mine. Did Rosaline hurt the others? Every time I heard news of a mysterious death or house fire among my childhood acquaintances, I got my question answered. And yet, less than a year later, I kept sharing my grandmother's tale with anyone who would listen. Sixteen years after that, I became a father to two beautiful girls. Why? Was it just fear of being dragged back to Rosaline's corner of hell? Just a desire to live a normal life? Or was it something more? Sometimes, I wonder whether the will to live is part of the curse. As soon as I learned about the internet, I considered using it to keep Rosaline at bay. For years, I held back, telling myself that putting a few acquaintances at risk each year was one thing. But opening a door on thousands, perhaps even millions of people, was something else altogether. Until tonight. A few hours ago, my youngest daughter knocked on the door of my study, asking why the hallway smelled like smoke. A horrific sense of déjà vu overpowered me as I shepherded my family into our SUV and drove off into the night. I thought I was being clever by taking us to an airport, someplace with plenty of people, few unlit spaces, and a Wi-Fi connection to share Rosaline's story with the world. If you've made it this far in my tale, you already understand what I've done to you, and I'm sorry. Like my grandmother before me, I did what I had to do to protect my family. But you've got to understand, now that Rosaline is gone, and Rosaline's story has been shared with the world, the chances are better for all of us. Your odds of waking up in a burning bed, with skeletal hands around your throat and a raw, hateful face, glaring down at you are almost zero. Maybe none of it will matter anyway. You see, I had that thought going somewhere so open, so bright, so public would make us safe. I hadn't considered the fact that those who haven't heard Rosaline's story can't perceive her at all. The night janitor didn't even look up from buffing the tile when she appeared, the flames enveloping her like a shroud. If she tries to choke me with those awful hands, passers-by will just think I'm having some sort of attack. I told my daughters to run. I'm going to share my story, then stand and face her. Maybe it will end here, in this desolate, late-night airport. Maybe. But I doubt it. I don't know. ♪ Wayfair, every style, every home ♪