Speaker 1: Hello friends, I'm your host, Julie Hopkins, and I'm so
glad you decided to join me in my little.
Speaker 2: Corner of the world tonight.
Speaker 1: Welcome to Cozy Horror, where the chills come wrapped in
a soft, comforting blanket and the shadows linger just beneath
the warmth of your favorite cup of tea. Tonight's story,
Grandmother's Yarn, weaves a tale of family, love and the
dark secrets that can be hidden in even the most
innocent of gifts.
Speaker 2: When a woman.
Speaker 1: Receives a basket of yarn from her brother's late grandmother,
she never expected the twisted threads to unravel her life.
Speaker 2: In ways she could have never imagined.
Speaker 1: So curl up by the fire, get cozy, but don't
get too comfortable.
Speaker 2: You're about to get haunted by grandmother's yarn.
Speaker 3: I remember the day I received the basket. It was
a few days after his grandmother's funeral, and my boyfriend
David insisted on giving it to me. The basket was
filled with knitting supplies, balls of beautiful, vibrant yarn, knitting needles,
and a half finished sweater that David's grandmother had been
working on in her final days.
Speaker 4: It's her gift to you, he had said, maybe you
can finish the sweater she started. She would have wanted
that a gift.
Speaker 3: Yeah right. David didn't know his grandmother the way I did.
As I looked at the basket, my fingers tracing the
smooth yarn and the sharp needles, I couldn't help but
think about all her leading questions and passive aggressive comments.
Speaker 5: Does David like your hair like that?
Speaker 3: She had said, after I put blue and violet streaks
in my blonde hair.
Speaker 5: He's always dated more traditional women.
Speaker 3: Or when we invited her over for dinner and I
made her favorite three bean chili, and she took one
bite and turned to David.
Speaker 5: No one makes chili like your grandmother, right, David.
Speaker 3: David agreed, giving me an apologetic smile across the table.
He was a grandma's boy through and through. David was
perfect in her eyes, and I was the woman with
the mediocre cooking skills and the weird hair. But the
thing she detested most was how I never learned to
knit like she did. I crocheted. When I first found
this out, I thought we might bond over our shared
love of fiber arts. But no, grandmother hated that I crocheted,
and I swear she held a grudge about it for
as long as I knew her. Little did I know
that grudge would follow me even after she was six
feet underground. I felt so conflicted about this so called gift.
I knew David was grieving for his grandmother and that
maybe finishing her sweater would give him some sense of peace.
But I I didn't knit. I crocheted. These were two
very different skills, something that became painfully clear to me
after five hours of YouTube knitting tutorials. Ugh, David's grandmother
was a very good knitter, and my clumsy attempts to
knit one pearl two ended up in a giant knot.
I tried to explain this to David, but he insisted
I could learn, after all, it was what his grandmother wanted.
A few weeks went by, I'll admit I started feeling
a little guilty. Finally I decided to give up on
learning to knit and to take matters into my own hands. Literally.
I unraveled the half finished sweater, the whole darn thing.
I smiled as the soft fibers slipped through my fingers,
the prim perfectly even stitches, a reminder of the woman
who had done everything in her power to make me
feel small. Then I began to crochet, defying everything about
the fiber arts that grandmother stood for. David wouldn't know
it was all the same to him, and grandmother wouldn't
know either, Or so I thought. With each loop of yarn,
I felt a sense of rebellion stirring inside me. I
spent the whole day crocheting a new sweater from scratch.
When I presented the sweater to David, he'd nearly burst
into tears.
Speaker 4: Grandmother would be so proud, he said.
Speaker 3: He'd put it on immediately, totally oblivious to the fact
that the sweater was a completely new design and that
it included none of his grandmother's original stitches.
Speaker 4: She's probably looking down at us right now with a
big smile on her face.
Speaker 3: Now we have something to remember her by, I.
Speaker 4: Said, I knew you could do it.
Speaker 3: Take that grandmother. After that, I felt comfortable using up
the rest of her yarn stash. The yarn was beautiful,
hand dyed and made with materials like merino wool and
cash mirror, not that cheap acrylic, mass market stuff I
usually bought at big box stores. I used some green
Marino wool yarn for mittens and added a small row
of white hearts around the cuff. They turned out adorable,
and this was by far the nicest yarn I'd ever
crocheted with. It was unbelievably soft and fuzzy, with a
subtle stretch. I couldn't wait to wear them. But when
I slipped them on for the first time, I noticed
something very wrong. It was one of those delightful, lazy
Sunday mornings in November, and my boyfriend and I were
walking to the coffee shop down the street from our house. Immediately,
a strange chill shot up my arm and settled over
my entire body. I started shivering and couldn't stop. It's
freezing out here, I said.
Speaker 4: It's like forty five degrees.
Speaker 3: David said, throwing an arm around me.
Speaker 4: You shouldn't be this cold. Are you getting sick?
Speaker 3: I feel okay, just cold.
Speaker 4: Should we go back so you can get a winter coat.
Speaker 3: It's mostly my hands, but you're wearing mittens, David pointed out.
I held up my hands, examining the mittens. I'd used
a tight single crochet stitch, so there weren't any large
gaps in the yarn. Still, I felt like I had
dunked my hands in a bucket of ice. It was
like the mittens were draining all the warmth from my body.
I feel like these mittens are making my hands colder.
Speaker 4: I said, Dave, I don't think that's how mittens work.
Speaker 3: David cocked an eyebrow at me. I know how mittens work, David,
I said. Maybe it's the type of yarn I used.
Speaker 4: Isn't that my grandmother's yarn.
Speaker 3: No, it's my yarn. She gave it to me. Remember,
I attempted to yank one of the mittens off. It
wouldn't budge. The crocheted fabric tightened around my fingers, squeezing,
holding my hand captive, I can't.
Speaker 4: Get them off here. Let me help.
Speaker 3: David took my hand and the mittens instantly went loose
like normal mittens. He easily slipped each one off my hand,
give giving me a funny look. Thanks, I said, feeling
a little stupid for overreacting. They just felt really tight
all of a.
Speaker 4: Sudden, if you say so.
Speaker 3: David gave me an uncertain smile. He didn't believe me,
but in that moment. I didn't care. I was too
relieved to have those mittens off. The moment I got
back to the house, I shoved the mittens in the
trash and quietly closed the lid. I felt a little
irrational doing this, but these mittens had creeped me out.
I was still feeling a hint of that unnatural chill
in my fingertips. I glanced up to see David staring
at me.
Speaker 4: What are you doing?
Speaker 3: His voice was more hurt than angry. I spilled some
coffee on them. They're pretty much ruined, I said David,
being the grandma's boy he was, opened up the trash
can and dug out the mittens.
Speaker 4: They're fine, we can wash them.
Speaker 3: You can't put this kind of yarn in the washer machine.
Don't worry. I have more yarn. I can just make
another pair, I said. As it was, he looked pretty upset,
cheeks flushed, eyes watery.
Speaker 4: That basket of yarn meant everything to my grandmother. How
can you just throw it away like it's nothing.
Speaker 3: I'm really sorry, I said, softly, trying to be considerate
of his grief. But it's just yarn. The memories you
have of her are what's important.
Speaker 4: It was her gift to you, he said. She trusted
you to take care of it. I can't believe you
would be so disrespectful. Where are you going to try
to wash these mittens?
Speaker 3: He said, swiping a hand across his cheek. He was crying,
and I felt bad. This wasn't about mittens or yarn.
It was about him missing his grandmother. Even if his
grandmother was a total monster, and even if there was
something weird going on with those mittens, it didn't change
the fact that David missed her. But I was never
gonna wear those mittens again. That night, I had a
terrifying dream. I was sitting at a table with David,
and across from us was his grandmother. She smiled at me,
but it wasn't a kind smile. It was something darker,
something wild, her eyes filled with contempt.
Speaker 5: You'll never marry my grandson.
Speaker 3: She said, her voice like ice, cold and cutting.
Speaker 5: You think you can take my place, You'll never be his.
Speaker 3: She reached for me, her hands around my neck, thumbs
pressing down hard.
Speaker 2: Did you hear me?
Speaker 3: I opened my eyes. My heart was racing. The sheets
soaked with sweat as I gasped for air. I could
still hear her voice, still feel the weight of her
words hanging in the air.
Speaker 4: Did you hear me, Rachel? Did you hear what I said?
Speaker 3: No? I was sleeping, at least I hope I was sleeping.
David motioned to the floor.
Speaker 4: Is this some kind of joke?
Speaker 3: I followed his gaze, and my insanity began to unravel
the yarn. It was everywhere. There were bits of yarns
scattered across the floor, twisted into knots, looping together in
a tangled, yet very intentional mess. Someone had painstakingly arranged
the yarn so it spelled out in neat, little cursive letters,
You'll never marry my grandson. I sat there, frozen, horrified.
How had it gotten there? I didn't do it, I.
Speaker 4: Whispered, Then, who did?
Speaker 3: David demanded? I don't know, I said, shaking my head.
But the words felt hollow because I did know. I
knew exactly who did it. And if David wasn't so
grief stricken, he would have noticed that those yarn letters
looked exactly like his grandmother's handwriting. I had to get
rid of it. That yarn was cursed, or haunted or
possessed there was no other explanation for what was happening. Wealth.
There was one other possibility that I was losing my mind,
but I didn't want to go there. I knew what
I saw, and what I saw was haunted yarn. That
yarn had to go. I waited until David left for war.
Then I grabbed the scissors, my hands shaking, and I
started cutting the threads. I hacked away at those balls
and cakes and schemes like I was cutting up spaghetti
for my four year old nephew. With each snip, I
felt lighter, freer, and for the first time since that
basket of notions arrived in my home, I felt peace.
I should have known David's deranged grandmother wouldn't give up
that easily. As I severed the last strand, a deep,
dark red liquid began to pour out of the yarn, thick,
almost black like blood. The liquid splattered across the kitchen floor,
dripping like it was being I stumbled back, dropping the scissors.
I was sure it was blood. That coppery smell was
a dead giveaway. It was all over the counter, the floor,
and all over me. I couldn't let David see this,
Not after the mittens and the yarn messages. He already
thought I was making all this up. Frantically, I grabbed
a sponge and bleach and started scrubbing at the blood
soaked floor like a villain in a Lifetime movie. The
smell of bleach filled the air, making me dizzy. My
heart pounded in my chest as I worked quickly, desperately
trying to erase all evidence of what had happened. After
that problem was contained, I moved to phase two of
my vanquishing Grandmother plan. I threw on my coat and
went straight to the yarn store. The doorbell jingled as
I walked in, and I tried very hard to look
like I hadn't just been scrubbing senior citizen ghost blood
off my kitchen floor. I searched the shelves, grabbing any
yarn that looked remotely like something from Grandmother's yarn stash.
I found rich Marina wools in delicate hand eyed threads.
It was pricey, but it was all going to be
worth it if I could put an end to this
bizarre haunting. David walked in as I was putting the
last new yarn away.
Speaker 4: Hey, what are these red drops on the floor.
Speaker 3: I must have missed a spot. Thinking fast, I snatched
a bandy from the bathroom and wrapped it around my finger.
I cut myself while I was making dinner, I said,
holding up my finger like I was a kindergartener and
this was show and tell time.
Speaker 4: See.
Speaker 3: David eyed me for a moment.
Speaker 4: Are you okay?
Speaker 3: I nodded, I'll survive.
Speaker 4: That's good, he smiled. Where's the dinner? You were making
dinner right?
Speaker 3: I threw it out?
Speaker 4: I said, you threw it out.
Speaker 3: There was blood on it, and I didn't want to
risk it. That was when I saw the first bit
of doubt creeping into the air between us, the whole dinner,
the whole dinner. Want to order a pizza. A few
days passed without anything evil happening, So that was good.
I had won, and now things were going back to normal,
unless this momentary reprieve was yet another tactic to throw
me off, to lull me into a false sense of security.
David's grandmother was wily like that, which was why I
shouldn't have been surprised when one afternoon David burst into
the living room cradling a wad of marino wool yarn
in his arms, tears in his eyes.
Speaker 4: What happened to my sweater?
Speaker 3: He asked, Except it wasn't really a question, more like
an accusation. I sat up on the couch. Are you
saying that's the sweater I crocheted? You?
Speaker 4: Stop with me, Just tell me what happened. Why did
you do this?
Speaker 3: You think I unraveled the sweater that I spent hours
making for you? He swallowed.
Speaker 4: That doesn't sound like a denial.
Speaker 3: Are you kidding me? Of course I didn't unravel the sweater.
That would be a very strange thing for me to do.
I said.
Speaker 4: First you try to throw these beautiful mittens in the trash,
Then you used her yarn to write that weird message
on the floor, and just last week you were acting
all suspicious about cutting your hand.
Speaker 3: Okay, I can explain everything, but you need to listen
to me. Do you believe in ghosts?
Speaker 4: Ghosts? What do ghosts have to do with anything?
Speaker 3: I think your grandmother is haunting us, my grandmother. I'm
not saying for sure that it's your grandmother. It could
be some other spirit, but she is the most likely culprit.
Speaker 4: My grandmother was a sweet, gentle, kind lady.
Speaker 3: You didn't know your grandmother like I did. She's angry
and vengeful, and she never liked me. She never wanted
us to be together, and now she's trying to keep
us apart. She's tormenting me through the yarn. David's mouth
hung open in a mixture of shock and disgust, and
I knew i'd lost him. That last thread of trust
between us had snapped.
Speaker 4: You're out of your mind. My grandmother loved you, and
so did I. But you're not the woman I thought
you were.
Speaker 3: David hugged the yarn to his chest protectively.
Speaker 4: You and I are done. I'll sleep somewhere else tonight.
Speaker 3: I got up and followed him into the bedroom. Don't
you get it, this is what she wanted. We can't
let her win. I realized too late that this was
the wrong approach, because David whirled around, nostrils flaring, cheeks reddening.
Speaker 4: My grandmother only ever wanted me to be happy. And
if what you're saying is true, which is very unlikely,
but if it's true, maybe my grandmother was right about you.
Speaker 3: I raced to my craft drawer, digging through it until
I found my scissors. David's eyes widened What are you
doing with those? He looked legit scared of me. I'm
going to prove to you that this yarn is haunted.
I yanked the unraveled yarn out of his arms and
started cutting it. The yarn bleeds, See it bleeds when
you cut it, like it's something alive. But of course
the yarn didn't bleed this time. It just fell to
the floor like normal non evil yarn. David swiped a
hand through his hair, exasperated.
Speaker 4: I'll be back tomorrow for my things. You should get
some sleep or something.
Speaker 3: He didn't believe me with those words. He'd taken the
scissors to our three year relationship and cut me off.
My body went numb as David sighed and dropped the
rest of the yarn onto the kitchen counter. Then he
turned on his heel and walked out. The door slammed
behind him, and a moment later, a drop of red
dripped from the mangled merino wool. Grandmother strikes again. I
got smart this time. I scoured the Internet, searching fringe
conspiracy websites and archives Reddit threads until I found what
I was looking for. What was the best way to
destroy a haunted object? Kill? It with fire, simple and efficient.
It was time to send grandmother back to wherever she belonged,
probably hell. I gathered up what was left of the
cursed yard and put it in a paper bag, and
then I placed the bag in the sink. Safety first,
eternal damnation. Second, I lit the match and touched it
to the bottom corner of the paper bag. The paper
caught the bag began to crackle, the fire spreading quickly
along the edges of the paper. My heart pounded in
my chest as I watched, almost mesmerized by the way
the flames hungrily devoured the bag. The sound was sharp,
like static, mixed with the faintest crackling of a fire
that had been waiting to ignite for far too long.
Then a sizzling sound erupted from the bag, like something alive,
something angry. The yarn began to catch, its fibers, lighting
up with an almost unnatural speed, and then an unexpected
smell hit my nose. Rosemary. David's grandmother had always made
the most delicious rosemary bread. I could almost taste the warm,
comforting scent until the sizzling grew louder, more intense, and
then it turned into a hiss, a deep guttural sound,
like something trying to breathe and speak through the flames.
The yarn shot out of the bag like a cornered cobra,
striking fast and unrelenting. I stepped back, covering my face,
and it wrapped around my wrist in a blur of motion,
tight as a vice, pulling and tugging. Other bits of
yarn exploded from the bag like fireworks, the sparks going everywhere,
some of them finding their way to the more flammable
objects in the kitchen, a pair of oven mits, a rug,
and a roll of paper towels. The yarn slithered up
my arm, tightening around my ribcage. I heard a crack,
followed by a white flash of pain. She was breaking
my bones. They splintered like brittle knitting needles. The fire
grew quickly and fiercely, with an intensity fueled by a
grandmother's love, misguided as it was, And there was my answer. Love,
that was my only way out. With my vision fading,
my breath coming out in desperate gasps, I felt something
deep inside of me snap, something that refused to give in,
something primal. The yarn was still tightening around my chest,
but I forced my fingers to find a burn bit
of yarn that had spilled out of the paper bag.
I gripped it and dragged the burnt end of yarn
across the floor, scrawling my own cryptic message, David killed me.
I didn't know how much sense it made, but in
that moment, it felt like my last chance. If you
kill me, I said, your beloved grandson is going to
get blamed, because no one is going to believe it
was you, grandmother, Even if they can't prove it was him,
people will always wonder. My voice barely carried, but the
words were sharp, and I could feel them sinking into
the air. I hoped she could understand me. If these
last few weeks had taught me anything it was that
trust was fragile. Once broken, it was nearly impossible to restore.
Doubt would always be stronger. For a moment, there was
nothing but the tightened pressure around my chest. But then,
just for an instant, I felt it loosen. It was
so slight, so small, a changed, but it was enough
that brief moment of doubt, of hesitation was all I needed.
Maybe I shouldn't have lied about finishing that sweater. Maybe
I should have told David how his grandmother treated me.
If I had acted differently, and maybe none of this
would have happened. Maybe David would have believed me. But
all I knew for sure was that I had to
get out of here. The flames licked at the walls,
the air turning thick with smoke as the fire spread.
The fire alarm was going off, and someone must have
called nine one one, because outside sirens blared. The fire
was out of control. My home was burning along with
that cursed yarn. I untangled myself from the yarn and
flung myself at the door. I fell to the ground outside,
gasping for air as the cold night air hit my lungs.
Fire trucks screeched to a halt. Men and women armed
with hoses climbed out to douse the flames. I didn't
know whether to laugh or cry as I watched my
life literally go up in flames. As the firefighters put
out the last of the flames, David appeared. His face
was a mix of relief and concern When he saw
me standing there, covered in soot. He rushed over and
pulled me into an embrace. What happened, you wouldn't believe
me anyway. He paused, and I could see the guilt
written across his face.
Speaker 4: It was my grandmother, wasn't it, he asked quietly.
Speaker 3: I blinked up at him. The weight of everything that
had happened hung in the air between us. David pulled
something from his jacket, a small, worn leather diary.
Speaker 4: I've been reading through her diaries. I just got to
the day I introduced you to her. You were right.
She hated you, like really hated you.
Speaker 3: He opened the diary, paging through until he found what
he was looking for. He held it up for me
to read.
Speaker 4: Look what she wrote right here.
Speaker 3: She'll never marry my grandson. I'll make sure of it.
The corners of my lips twitched, but I couldn't quite
muster a smile. So you only believe me now because
of what she wrote. David shrugged.
Speaker 4: That and the mittens you made started calling my name
and whispering really weird things before they burst into flames.
I'm really sorry I didn't believe you.
Speaker 3: He went in for another hug, but I stepped back.
You didn't believe me when I needed you most, and
I almost died because of it. I said, no, we're done.
This is over. I can't trust you anymore. David looked
at me, stunned, as if trying to make sense of
my words.
Speaker 4: You're not thinking clearly, You're in shock. How about you
take some time to think about it. You really shouldn't
be alone right now.
Speaker 3: You're doing it again. I am dead serious, David. I
am done letting you yell a wallpaper me. I snap.
Believe me when I say I am thinking clearly for
the first time in no long time. This is over.
David opened his mouth to protest, but I didn't want
to hear it. I stood up, shaking off the weight
of the conversation, and walked away from him. He stood
there for a moment, helpless, before turning to leave. As
I was walking away, a firefighter came over to offer
me one of those shiny, metallic blanket things. He had dark,
kind eyes and a soft smile.
Speaker 4: Hey, he said, I know this is probably a weird time,
but would you like to grab a drink sometime?
Speaker 3: I blinked, surprised, but I managed a small smile. That
depends how do you feel about your grandmother? The firefighter
tilted his head, looking confused, but thoughtful. I'd never met her,
she passed away before I was born. I smiled Hew's
Friday pick me up at seven.
Speaker 1: Thank you for joining me on this spooky episode of
cozy Horror. I hope Grandmother's Yarn kept you on the
edge of your seat and reminded you that even the
most thoughtful gifts might try to strangle you in the night.
Tonight's tale wasn't just about a haunted object.
Speaker 5: It was about trust.
Speaker 1: Rachel fought not only the terrifying grip of a ghost,
but also the doubts that clouded her own judgment. In
the end, she learned that trusting yourself is more important
than anyone else's beliefs, and sometimes standing up for yourself
means walking away. Grandmother's Yarn was written and produced by
your host, Julie Hopkins. If you enjoy Tonight's story, please
subscribe and leave a review. Your feedback helps me weave
more eerie tails for your listening pleasure. For a bonus
audio drama, head to January Daphne dot com. Remember the
next time you receive a present wrapped in something soft
and comforting, be sure to look closer.
Speaker 2: You never know what might be lurking beneath the surface.
Speaker 1: This has been cozy horror, where the darkness has never
been so inviting and