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

Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep

Ethan discovers that his grandmother, Mallory, has been sharing a terrifying legend with all neighborhood children except him. After eavesdr

Key takeaways

• Grandma Mallory used storytelling as a defensive mechanism to make people aware of Rosaline's presence.
• The legend of Rosaline involves a midwife who murdered a noble couple and was burned alive.

Main topics

• Generational curses
• Supernatural folklore

Notable quotes

The more who have heard her tale, the safer we are.

Conclusion

A chilling meditation on how knowledge and shared trauma can serve as

Transcript preview

Speaker 1 (0:00) 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. 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 any of our weekly uploads. Speaker 1 (0:47) I lived with my grandmother Mallory from the ages of three to ten. 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, sprier 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 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 sidelight window before I went inside. and what I saw stopped me in 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. Speaker 1 (3:36) 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