Sometimes, the ground beneath you isn't as solid as it seems. It shifts, breathes, and remembers. The forest doesn’t just grow, it watches, whispers, and waits for you. Every step you take awakens something that should’ve stayed buried. There are places where the earth hungers, where the trees are hungry for more than just your fear. And once you've crossed the line, there's no going back. So my spooky listeners, Happy Earth Day, or should I say, beware. First, marked by midnight Followed by it breathes beneath you Finally in our last story, some eyes don’t blink Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Chapter 1: Who is Blair Bathory and what is the Something Scary Podcast about?
I sat silently in my tent listening to the sounds of snapping bones and guttural growls. When the sun rose and I peered out, all that was left were blood-soaked footprints leading right to my truck. 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 I hope you enjoyed that two-sentence horror story at the opening of this podcast. If you have one you'd like to share with us, drop it into the comments or send me an email at somethingscaryatsnarl.com. We might even add it to next week's podcast. Manchmal ist der Boden unter dir nicht so fest, wie es scheint. Es schifft, atmet und erinnert. Der Wald wächst nicht nur.
Er schaut, schreit und wartet auf dich. Jeder Schritt, den du nimmst, erwacht etwas, das geblieben sein sollte. There are places where the earth hungers, where the trees are hungry for more than just your fear. And once you've crossed the line, there's no going back. So, my spooky listeners, happy Earth Day, or should I say, beware. First, marked by midnight, followed by it breathes beneath you.
Finally, my last story, some eyes don't blink. So, wanna hear something scary? Buried Screams. It's not what you hear in the woods that should scare you. It's who hears you. Like in this story inspired by Marcus. Als wir im vierten Jahrgang waren, gingen wir auf eine Klassenreise nach Islandwood, einem pflanzlichen Bildungszentrum, der sich in den schwarzen Wäldern von Bainbridge Island befindet.
Chapter 2: What is the story behind 'Buried Screams' and the Whistler legend?
Für die meisten Kinder war es ein dreijähriges Abenteuer mit Schmuck und Hiken und dem Lernen von Salmon. Für mich war es das letzte Mal, dass ich in den Wäldern sicher war. Es waren vier von uns, ich, Matt, Harrison und Jackson. Untertitelung des ZDF, 2020 Ein scharfer, metallischer Klick-Klick, als würde jemand versuchen, reinzukommen.
Aber die Tür wurde von innen geschlossen, und es war niemand in der Halle, als wir uns angeschaut haben. Wir haben es dem Wind verurteilt, oder vielleicht eines der Bewerber, der sich anschaut. Aber ich sah den Blick auf Harrison's Gesicht. Er hat es auch gehört. Und es klingt nicht wie der Wind. Die zweite Nacht war schlimmer.
Chapter 3: What happened during the mysterious school trip to Islandwood?
Wir haben gerade unsere nachtliche Routine beendet, unsere Zähne in der riesigen gemeinsamen Bathroom. Sprinting barefoot down the hall like idiots. When Jackson dared us to sneak into the woods behind the lodge. Just for a minute. We'll be back before anyone notices, he said. So we slipped out with our flashlights. Through a side door near the mud run. The forest swallowed us whole.
The trails were slick. The trees gnarled like they'd grown angry. Twisted by time. In etwa zehn Minuten haben wir ein Klärgerät gefunden. Die Sonnenlicht fiel in Schläge, alles blutig-grün. Das war, als Matt es sah. Was ist das? Er schrie. Im Zentrum des Klärgeräts war eine seltsame Struktur aus Stein. Es sah aus wie ein Karren.
Steine, die wie eine krüge Tauern stecken, aber nicht wie alles, was ich je gesehen habe. There were sticks tied with twine, bone-colored things arranged in a circle. A rusted bell hung from a branch above it, motionless. Jackson reached out and rang the bell. I still hear that sound sometimes. Not a ding, not even a chime. More like a sharp whine, like metal screaming.
It echoed through the forest. Then everything went quiet. Not late night in the woods quiet, but the kind that makes your chest hurt. No bugs, no wind. Just stillness. We should go, I said. And we did. We ran. Back in Room 203 we tried to pretend everything was normal. We didn't tell anyone, but we couldn't stop listening to every creak, every scrape.
That night, just after midnight, something fell in the janitor's closet. The door was locked like always, a heavy padlock hung from the outside. But we all heard it. A shift, a thud, then silence. We sat up in our beds, not saying a word. At some point, we must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. I woke up at 5 a.m. to scratching, slow and deliberate, from inside the closet.
And something else, humming, a reedy off-key melody, like someone singing a lullaby through clenched teeth. I shook Harrison. As soon as he opened his eyes, the sound stopped. We sat there in the dark, too scared to breathe. I cracked the window for air. The fog rolled in, thick and cold. That's when the door opened. Es war Timmy, einer der Jungs aus Raum 210.
Er ist reingeworfen und hat überlegt, wie früh er aufgewacht ist. Wir haben uns nicht interessiert, wie oder warum er reingekommen ist. Wir waren nur froh, jemanden zu sehen. What's with you guys? he asked, eyeing our pale faces. I told him about the closet, about the sounds, about the thing we saw in the woods. He laughed until we mentioned the bell. That's when he got quiet.
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Chapter 4: What are the eerie signs and events experienced by the group in the woods?
My brother told me something once, Timmy said, about a thing called the Whistler. It lives in the Olympic Mountains. He said, if you hear anything whistling in the woods, you're already marked. It doesn't kill you right away. It waits, follows, gets into places it shouldn't. Like your closet. Stop messing with us, Matt muttered, but his voice cracked. No, listen, Timmy continued.
It rings a bell so you hear it. Once. And then it comes for you that night. You'll hear it whistle before it takes you. But if it stops... Das ist schlimmer. Wir starrten alle an ihm, nicht atmen. Nur dann kam ein kräftiger Schrein durch das Fenster. Nicht ein Tier, nicht ein Mensch, sondern ein Geräusch, der den Fog zerstörte. Wir schlugen alle. Dann, scratch, scratch, aus dem Klosthaus.
Wir warten nicht. Wir schlugen. Aber als wir den Knochen bewegen, klingelt es. Von außen. Keiner war in der Halle. We spent the rest of the night huddled together. Backs to the wall. Lights on. We didn't talk. Didn't blink. The next day, our teacher told us it was time to pack up. We didn't argue. We barely spoke. Room 203 had turned quiet and strange.
Like the air itself didn't want to be there anymore. Auf der Busreise zurück, habe ich die Wälder geblurrt und Schrecken von Grün und Schatten gesehen. Sobald wir den Bind aus dem Eilenwald umdrehten, habe ich etwas in den Bäumen gefangen. Eine Figur, nur über der Bäume, groß, flach.
Chapter 5: What is the significance of the bell and the scratching sounds at night?
thin perfectly still like it had been waiting i blinked and it was gone none of us ever talked about it again matt moved away the next year harrison stopped answering my text by middle school jackson switched schools and wouldn't meet my eyes when i pressed him at the grocery store years later but sometimes in the deepest part of the night i wake to a sound a soft whistle Slow and off key.
Not outside. Inside. In my closet. At first, I thought it was my imagination. Then I heard the scratching. The quiet tap, tap, tap of fingernails on wood. And last week, I found dirt on the floorboards. Pine needles. Like something had been coming and going. I don't sleep much anymore. Because the Whistler waits. Not in the woods. Not in the mountains. It waits in the places that we feel safest.
And once it finds a way in, it never leaves. Not until you do. What would you do if you heard a whistle in the dark? Could it have followed you home? Do you think it was in their closet? Tell us your thoughts in the comments The forest doesn't need to chase you. It just waits. Like in this story inspired by Japan's Dancing Trees and written by Sarah. Sie haben ihr Telefon zuerst gefunden.
Gesicht in der Mosse, immer noch merkwürdig enthalten. Kein Blut, keine gebrochenen Brüste, nur ein Telefon, das dort saß, als ob es süßlich eingepackt wurde. Ein feiner Inbruch in der Untergröße, wo sie fallen oder knallten musste. Die Batterie hatte lange gestorben, aber nicht bevor 24 Stunden von Fotografie streamten. Die meisten von ihnen waren Routinen, schäbige Fotos von zerstörten Beinen,
Reckless Commentary on insane moss density and that wide-eyed, over-caffeinated YouTube energy. Let's get primal today, fam! Happy Earth Day, respect the land, lead no trace, right? Aokigahara hat nichts auf dieser Insel. Ich schwöre. Die Bäume bewegen sich. Das Video hat die Runden gemacht. Reddit hat es frame-by-frame ausgewählt.
Aber das letzte Video, das kurz vor Mittwoch veröffentlicht wurde, war das, was geblieben ist. No tags, no music, just a title. The forest is breathing. It knows I don't belong here. And then, in the glow of her headlamp, the sound of leaves shifting, the lungs drawing in a slow, shallow breath. After that, only silence.
Sie sagten, ihr Name sei Alex, Backpacker, Solo-Trekker, besessen mit remote Trails und off-grid-Vibes. Yakushima-Inseln war ihr Erdzeit-Pilgrimage. Unbekannte Seeders, jahrhundertelange Routen, UNESCO-Level-Peace. Sie war nicht die erste Hikerin, um zu verschwinden, aber sie war die erste, um am 22. April zu verschwinden.
Und ein Forst, das die Lokalen schreit, lässt dich nur weg, wenn es dich wählt. Sie sagen, es passiert einmal im Jahr. Eine Seele ist zurückgeflogen. Der Wald wartet patient und dann fliegt es. Alex hatte ihren Hike von Shiratani begonnen, folgendem markierten Weg. Zumindest zuerst.
Die frühen Videos zeigten Sonnenlicht, das über mossige Bäume fliegt, Flüsse, die über Wolken wie aus einem Ghibli-Film fliegen. But somewhere around hour six the trail changed. Not dramatically, just subtly wrong. Markers vanish, trees bent at odd angles, as though leaning into whisper. A few had growths, bulbous knots or hollows that looked too much like eyes, like mouths caught mid-word.
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Chapter 6: How does the Whistler affect the narrator and their friends long-term?
Alex laughed it off, calling it anime-level weird. Dann hat ihr Kompass angefangen zu spinnen. Das ist nicht wahr, hat sie auf der Kamera gesagt. Nervös. Sie hat den Dial zu lange gehalten, als ob sie wartet, es zu lösen. Aber es hat es nicht gemacht. Dann hat sie ein wenig gestürzt, als ob die Gravität für einen Sekunden nach links geflogen ist. Ihr Atem hat nur einmal geflogen, trotz des Heites.
Der Wald hat stillgehalten. Sie hat ihr Telefon-GPS gecheckt, aber das Signal ist gestorben. Sie ist immer noch da. Das ist die Art von Ehrgeiz, die man mit einem Überlebensreise-Hike live streamen muss. Aber die Wälder sind kein Fan von Selbstvertrauen. Bei Twilight haben die Videos einen anderen Ton genommen. Weniger Kommentar, mehr Ruhe.
Das einzige Audio sind Brüder, die im windlosen Luft fliegen. Die Flasche ihrer Schuhe, in einer einmal feinten Stimme, nicht ihres. Hast du das gehört? fragte die Kamera. No one did. She laughed weakly. Probably just an echo. Or a bird, right? The forest didn't answer. The lens shifted toward the trees. Gnarled trunks stood like frozen dancers mid-step.
One root twisted mid-air, curling as if it had been in motion. She paused, then muttered. I swear that tree was facing the other way earlier. No one responded. The forest isn't big on conversation. Sie hat weniger darüber gesprochen. Seine Atmung wurde lauter in den Rekordungen. Schallig, ungewiss. Sie hat unter ihrem Atem gesungen. Unzumutbar und schräg.
Ein Video zeigte ihr, dass sie die selben selben, selben, selben, selben, selben, selben. Die Zeitplätze waren Minuten entfernt. Die Lokalisten nannten es Kotaimori, der Wald von schiffenden Körpern. Sie sagen, dass seine Rüste tiefer als Böden strecken, dass seine Bäume alles in ihr verbleiben. Dass am Erde-Tag der Wald wacht, nicht mehr ein Ort, sondern ein Wesen.
Und wie bei jedem lebenden Ding, muss es füllen. Nicht auf Blut, nicht genau, aber auf Leidenschaft. Um 11.52 Uhr hat Alex das letzte Video gemacht. Die Kamera hat zu ihrem Körper geschlüpft. All das, was wir sehen, ist ein langsamer, Seite-zu-Seite-Schwingen, als sie aufwacht. Als ob der Wald sie schlägt, sie schlägt.
Ihr Geräusch ist jetzt kaum noch ein Geräusch. Es ist nicht die Trees, es ist das Zuschauen. I think I stepped where I should. I picked a branch, dead wood, and thought it was cool. I put it in my pack. Silence. Then, I think that was a mistake.
There's movement up ahead, leaves shifting without wind. Branches twisting mid-frame. Not fast, just wrong. Then clearly, a groan, like wood flexing under weight. Except no one is stepping on it. The lens tilts. The trees are circling now, like a spiral. A quiet, subtle dance that only makes sense if you stop blinking. She turns the camera slowly, toward the trees, where something had been.
Not a figure, just the echo of where one might have stood. Something rustles close. Too close. Her breath hitches. The trees don't move, but the shadows between them seem to deepen. Then, just before the footage cuts, there's the faintest impression of a handprint forming in the moss beside her foot, pressing doubt. The forest is breathing, she says, voice cracking. It knows I don't belong here.
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Chapter 7: What is the story of Alex and the breathing forest on Yakushima Island?
And then the footage ends. Search teams combed the area, found the pack. The stick was gone. No tracks, no struggle. Just the phone, perfectly placed, like someone had set it down or handed it off. People still hike there. Some try to recreate Alex's routine. Urban legends always attract the curious. But they say GPS fails in strange, specific ways.
That the trees bend to form new paths behind you. And that if you listen, really listen, you're going to hear a low hum, pulsing underfoot. A breath. Once a year, the earth takes someone back. It's never the worst people. Not killers or oil executives. Just someone who thought the rules didn't apply to them. Someone who thought, leave no trace.
Didn't include that pre-branch or that moss-covered rock. Wenn der Wald entscheidet, schifft er sich langsam, patient, bis jeder Weg tiefer innen führt. They never found Alex, but a new video surfaced recently. It was posted from her old account, years after it had been deactivated. No description, no tags, just a black screen and the sound of leaves exhaling.
The timestamp read April 22nd, but the year was next year. What if nature isn't just alive, but aware? Would you know if the ground beneath you was watching you? And if you love horror like we do, join us at patreon.com slash schnarl to get even more spooky fun. Sometimes when you disturb the darkness, the darkness follows you home. Like in this Guyanese urban legend inspired by Amarita.
The younger hunter crouched silently in a makeshift platform he had constructed in a tree, several feet above the forest floor. It was a deep night in the jungle surrounding Santa Mission, Guyana. und die Dunkelheit um ihn herum war fast komplett. So dünn, dass es fühlte sich an, als ob die Bäume Licht bewegen. Aber es war ein guter Abend.
Er hatte bereits zwei Labas getötet und war optimistisch, dass er noch einen vor der Nacht fangen könnte. Nur 22 Jahre alt, Joseph Brown war bereits ein verabschiedeter Hüter. Geboren und geboren in der Kirche von Santa Mission, hat Joseph erwachsen, das Wald wie eine zweite Sprache zu lesen.
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Chapter 8: What strange occurrences did Alex capture on her hike before disappearing?
Und jetzt, er wurde sogar von einem legalen Firmen in Georgetown bezahlt, um Wildmehl für ihre Kunden zu hüten. It was around 8 o'clock, the hour when the forest begins to feel a little less alive. Joseph knew from experience this was the time the Labas liked to roam. The jungle was quieter now, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
He adjusted his grip on the shotgun and was preparing to climb down from the platform to retrieve the second Labas. But then, a sound... Irgendwo unter ihm, hinter dem Baum, scharf, subtil, ein Fußweg, eine Branche, die unter Gewicht lebt. Er pausierte, hörte. Die Luft hat gewechselt. Er hat hunderten von Nachts allein im Busch gelebt, und er wusste seine Sprache intim.
Dieser Geräusch war nicht normal. Es war nicht das Rutschen eines Pferdes oder das Stöcken eines Predators. Es war deliberate. Etwas, das mit Zweifel bewegt war. Und es ging näher. Joseph kept his 12-gauge shotgun at the redhead and slowly switched on the torchlight. The beam pierced through the thick blackness, slicing into the underbrush where the sound had come from. Then his light caught eyes.
Two twin pinpoints of eerie, glowy reflection just hovering in the dark. He expected the eyes to be low to the ground, maybe a nocturnal animal caught mid-crete. But no, they were too high, chest height, then higher. The beam slowly climbed until it revealed the full outline of a man, or what looked like a man.
Tall, about six feet, and completely still, just standing there, staring directly at him. Joseph's chest tightened. The figure didn't make a sound, didn't flinch, didn't blink. Um rational zu sein, schlug Josef seine Flasche drei Mal ein, um zu sagen, ich sehe dich. Identifiziere dich. In der Wälder, es war ein einfaches, gemeinsames Gestütz.
Wenn die Figur eine Person war, ein anderer Wanderer, ein Lokaler, sie würden antworten, etwas sagen. But the strange man remained silent. Not a breath. Not a word. Then Joseph noticed something even stranger. The eyes. They weren't reflecting light. They were glowing. Like a cat's or something deeper in the food chain. No human's eyes did that. Not like this.
A cold shiver ran through Joseph's veins. The hair on his arms stood on end. His instincts screamed. This wasn't a man. He raised the shotgun and fired. The jungle erupted with the blast. A deafening boom tore through the silence, briefly illuminating the trees in stark, unnatural light. Then silence again. But not a normal silence. It felt wrong, hollow, pressurized.
There was no scream, no impact, no sound of a body hitting the floor. The echo of the gunshot was swallowed instantly by the thick, human air, as if the jungle itself didn't want the noise. Joseph didn't wait. Clutching his shaka, he climbed down from the tree and ran, sprinting through the bush, dodging branches, tearing through the brush, his breath ragged.
The two miles to his home blurred into one endless corridor of shadows and rustling leaves. He left the Labus behind, left everything behind. When he reached his home, panting and drenched in sweat, he told his wife what had happened. She listened quietly, then said something that chilled him even more than the silence in the jungle. You shouldn't have shot it. You shouldn't even have seen it.
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