Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 3 Scary TRUE Summertime Horror Stories | True Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 24, 2024

These are 3 Scary TRUE Summertime Horror Stories Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:23:09 Story 2 00:38:42 Story 3 Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #truescarystories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Only on Netflix May 8th. My wife and I met when we were undergraduates in college. We had totally different majors, but I think the free-thinking lifestyle of being a student showed us that we both had a lot in common, especially in regards to morals, personal values, and where we both saw ourselves later in life. By the time we graduated, we had been dating for a year, and everything started moving much faster after that. We moved in together after graduating, and within another year, Mary was pregnant with our first child. Let's fast forward another ten years.

We're both working corporate jobs in the city, with a 10-year-old son named James and an 8-year-old daughter named Sylvia. This is pretty much where things kick off. The city had always felt suffocating, a constant den of noise and chaos that just wore us down. Mary and I would often daydream about escaping it all, finding a secluded spot where we could raise our kids in peace. It was a fantasy that we'd indulged in since our dating days back in college, and it only grew more appealing with time. I hated all of it, the commute, the mortgage, the endless taxes, and bills accrued purely from living in a high-demand area. My college experience turned me on to some radical thinking, mostly that of off-the-grid living self-sustained practices, not bending over for any local or national government. I work hard, and I feel like I should have something to show for it all.

That's when fate intervened. Mary's father passed away, leaving her the family. cabin in his will. It was a remote place, 75 miles outside the city limits, nestled in a small community on the mountainside. Some of the homes had lights and water, while others relied on generators and wells. Our cabin fell into the latter category. It was a small price to pay, though, the chance to live off the grid. It was a very humble cabin, something Mary's father and grandfather had built back in the day. I'm talking the late 1950s. It really only had two rooms. They were big, though, with a small bathroom, and then a larger house on the edge of the property. Being four of us in the

family, this really wasn't ideal, but Mary and I had it in our heads that we could do some light remodeling, turn it into exactly what we both needed. The square footage was good. We just needed to convert it from less of a hunting headquarters and more of a family home. I was beyond excited to begin making changes to what I envisioned to be a perfect life. We packed up our lives and made the move, trading pavement for dirt roads, skyscrapers for towering trees. The cabin did need a lot of work, but we were both eager to put in the effort. The kids, James and Sylvia, were excited to explore their new surroundings, and Mary and I were determined to make this new life a complete success. The truly beautiful part was that this wasn't any kind of huge investment for us.

The cabin literally was handed over, deed and everything, so all we had to do was just pay to haul everything, a few hundred at most. Between our jobs and what we'd saved in the last 10 or 12 years, we had a healthy cushion to take our time and approach everything with this relaxed energy. It was ideal, truly, everything we'd been hoping for, and it all came at once. The cabin itself was a charming but rustic affair, with creaky floors and a chimney that puffed up smoke like a grumpy old man. We spent those first few months cleaning and remodeling, trying to bring it back to the 21st century. My wife and I have wildly different skill sets, so while she took out the cobwebs and scraped the dust off everything,

I knocked the paper-thin wall down that divided the home, cleaned up the residue, and then divided the master bedroom, which was more like a bunk room large enough to sleep ten grown men. Then I put up two shorter walls, allowing for my wife and I to share a bedroom, then James and Sylvia to share one as well. This was all just temporary until I decided exactly how I wanted the floor plan to look. The kids would spend their days wandering through the wilderness, exploring the sparse neighborhood, getting to know the locals, but only when they weren't helping us.

When we ran out of work for them to do, they'd check out the trails, walked a few meager houses in the area. The community that we lived in was nothing of the sort, though. No gas station, no store, no hotels, nothing. No business, no commerce. One guy had a shed on his property that he called the supply shop. He kept extra stuff on hand and would sell it to folks in the area for a premium price, things like nails, maple syrup, mason jars, mouse traps, that kind of thing.

One day, as they were walking back from the mailboxes, outside of town, they spotted a man lurking in the trees. He was near a cabin, his face hidden behind a bushy beard and a mop of unruly gray hair. James and Sylvia exchanged a nervous glance, but the man didn't seem to notice them. He was too busy staring at our cabin, his eyes fixed on our little family home like a hawk on its prey. Who's that? James asked. His voice barely above a whisper. I don't know, but he's creepy. Why is he watching our house? Sylvia said, said again, that's when they quickened their pace, eager to get back to the safety of our cabin. Once they were inside, they recounted everything to Mary and I, all while eerily looking out

the windows over our shoulder as they spoke. I just imagined every single average mountain man or off-the-grid type of person. I just chalked it up to a curious neighbor. Kids, it's just got to be some old hermit, I said, dismissing their concerns. He's probably just wandering around looking at his new neighbors. We've had power tools running over here for the better part of six weeks. Mary nodded in agreement. There are plenty of people like that up here. They just want to be left alone. The kids accepted our explanation, but I could tell that they were still uneasy. They've always been city kids. This whole new world was full of unknowns. Seeing a big shadowy man off in the trees probably would have scared me at their age too, so I did my best to just be

understanding. At the same time, I was trying to showcase what off-the-grid living requires, to be tough, rugged, logical, fearless. Our move was going to require a different outlook, and I was more than happy to help them achieve that. I made a mental note to reach out to a few neighbors, clear the air, and hopefully put everybody at ease. As the days continued to pass, we settled into our new routine. The kids explored the woods. Mary tended to her garden, and I worked on fixing up the interior of the cabin. We'd occasionally see Marty, that's what the kids started calling him, lurking around the edges of the property. He never approached us, he never spoke, but his presence was always felt. I learned that the kids had

asked some others in the area about him, some of the neighbors that were a little more friendly. The story went that Marty had moved up here 20 years ago with his wife, who died suddenly about five years prior. After her death, Marty turned into a complete recluse, stopped talking completely, and was only seen sporadically on his property or in the trees throughout the community. He apparently had enough know-how to keep himself alive and well on his own, without ever having to venture back into town for any real supplies. He purchased gas when he needed it from the shopkeeper in town, the guy with the shed, but besides that, Marty didn't need help from anybody. It was a slow-burning tension, though, one that simmered just below the surface.

We tried to ignore it, focus on our new lifestyle, but it was hard to shake that feeling that we were being watched because, well, we were. Almost at any hour of the day, one of us could look outside and find that old man hiding in the trees, standing still to prevent us from potentially seeing him. At first it was something that I could explain away, but after three months of steady creeping, I didn't really know what else to make of it. One night, we heard the generator sputter and then die. Great, I muttered, getting up from the couch, just what we need.

Mary then followed me outside where we stared at the dark shape of the generator right from our porch. Was this old thing very prone to breakdowns? Fortunately for us, we'd been lucky so far, but now, not so much. I had some skills in regard to woodworking, but electrical and mechanical problems. That's where my knowledge would start to dry up. I'd have to go back inside for a few tools before I could actually even take a crack at it. Hey, I'll go take a look, I said, grabbing a flashlight from the kitchen counter.

Mary nodded, her eyes flickering towards the trees. Careful. I knew what she was thinking. Marty might be out there watching us, waiting for his chance. But I pushed the thought aside and headed out into the darkness. Little did I know, our lives were about to. take a drastic turn. I squatted before the generator and started to work the exterior panel off so I could just look at the wiring. I also made a mental note to check the gas and the fuel cap.

Maybe, and hopefully it was just something simple. Maybe the vibration of the machine had rattled the cap loose, made it shut down. I methodically went over everything until I found the problem was exactly what I was hoping for. A very, very simple fix. The issue, from the issue, from what I was looking at was that somebody had definitely messed with the generator. They loosened the cap, then yanked a handful of cables, unplugged the main power line to the house, and lastly, flicked the power button off for good measure. I checked the ground around the area but didn't find anything, didn't see any boot prints or any kind of calling cards. Then I checked the perimeter of the property, nobody. So I just called it a night and went back inside. I didn't

I didn't mention any of my concerns to Mary or the kids, but I was certain that somebody had paid us a visit and sabotaged our only source of power. To say I was on edge was a drastic understatement. It wasn't long until we had our next run-in with our neighbor. Mary and I were working on hanging the door in the kids' room, which was one of the last tasks that we had planned for our update. Next, we were going to refocus on the exterior work, getting some better furniture for each room to better serve the family itself.

With the door installation almost complete, Mary and I exchanged a satisfied glance, our minds shifting to the next project on our list. But before we could even take a step back to admire our handiwork, the kids burst through the front door. Their faces pale and frightened. They were out of breath,

talking a mile a minute about whatever just happened to them. My wife and I did our best to calm them down, get them coherent, so we could figure out exactly what was going on. Dad, Dad, James exclaimed out of breath. Marty, Marty had a gun. He was pointing it at us. My heart skipped a beat as I started to put it all together.

Wait, what happened? Sylvia's eyes were wide with fear. We were walking in the woods, and he came out of nowhere. He chased us. Mary's voice was laced with concern. Are you kids okay? I didn't hesitate. Stay in the house.

I'll go talk to Marty. The kids nodded, still shaking, as I headed out into the cool mountain air. I knew exactly where Marty's cabin was, and I didn't need to follow a road to get there. The woods were dense, but I knew the route by heart, and I had this feeling I might run into Marty if I stuck to the trees because that's where the kids said they saw him the most. I trudged headlong into the wilderness, empty-handed, looking for the guy that kept messing with my kids. This conversation was long overdue, but the mountain of work that the cabin had demanded prevented me from ever going to even say hello. Now we were at an impasse as neighbors. My suspicions were quickly confirmed just a couple of hundred yards in. Marty lurched from

the underbrush, his eyes fixed on the ground. I called out to him. No response. Anger quickly flared up inside of me. Messing with the generator. Messing with my generator. Messing with my kids, and now he wouldn't even acknowledge me. Something primal just snapped in me, and suddenly I was over the edge. I found myself running, hollering out through the trees. Marty, stop right there, God damn it! Finally, he turned around, his eyes narrowing at me. What do you want? He shouted back. I could see the shotgun in his hands. My heart began to race. Of course, he was armed. My kids had literally told me he had a gun, but for some reason, I wasn't expecting that to be the truth. I guess I thought maybe it was just some kind of misunderstanding.

No, he had a gun, and an illegal one at that. He held the remnants of a homemade, sawed-off 12-gauge between his wrinkled hands. You need to stay the hell away from my family. You're scaring my kids, was all I said. Marty's face twisted into a snarl. Then you keep your damn kids on your property. It's real simple. I took cover behind a tree, not wanting to get blasted.

If you come near my property again or speak to my children again, I'm calling the sheriff. You're not welcome here. My kids have done nothing wrong to you. You want to make this into something. Fine. We'll make it into something. Marty's eyes flashed with anger, but he didn't move.

Keep your family away from my property. It's all I ask. With that, he turned and disliked. disappeared into the trees. I watched him go, my heart's still racing. I knew I had to protect my family, but I also knew that Marty was unhinged and very dangerous. I couldn't believe how heated that exchange was, and neither of us had really even communicated anything like a classic neighbor dispute. This was the kind of stuff that I wanted to move away from when I left the city, but here I was again, dealing with that same crap. I made my way back to the cabin, mind racing

with worst-case scenarios. I flipped on all the external lights, grabbed my rifle, and loaded it up. It was time to take matters into my own hands, even though I didn't know exactly what that meant. But I knew that I needed to be ready for anything. This guy didn't hesitate to get crazy when the time called for it, so I figured I needed to do the same.

As I placed the rifle on the mantle, Mary approached me, her eyes very worried. What happened out there? Mary's lost it. He's dangerous and we need to be prepared, I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. The kids were watching, their faces pale. I knew I had to keep them safe, no matter what it took. I didn't make a big, boisterous show or anything, but I just made sure the windows were covered. The doors were locked, flashlights placed near every door. I also made this little bugout bag for my family, just in case we had to take off for whatever reason.

Hey, we'll get through this, I said, trying to reassure them. Stick together, we'll make it through. He's just an old man. He's not going to actually do anything. But as I looked out into the darkness, that feeling that we were in danger grew and grew. Marty was out there, watching us, waiting for his next move. I remember it dawned on me then that I didn't even know why this was happening.

Were my children really even that close to his property? I mean, have they been doing something else they weren't telling me about? I questioned them a bit, but they were adamant they hadn't done anything more than walk around in the woods. We all hung out in the living room for the rest of that night and slept in each other's company. The next morning, Mary and I went over our options and decided on a course of action. Sitting around and waiting wasn't really on the table anymore. We decided to call the sheriff and make a report, as well as to get the scoop from any other local. After making our call and explaining the situation, we were told that the sheriff would be out to our location within the hour.

Our next move was my idea. I wanted to get any information on Marty, so I decided to approach some of the others that live nearby. I hopped in the truck and buzzed over to Walter's house. The guy with the shed out front he called the store. I went there because I knew this guy the most out of the people that lived in our area. We were actually on a first-name basis, and on top of that, I knew for sure that he'd be home. He was the retired type, made being home a full-time responsibility. He came out to greet me even before I got out of my vehicle.

Hey there, need something from the shop? He called down, nodding to the shed. He was always looking to make a few bucks. Not today, Walter. I'm actually looking for information, I replied. Walter laughed and waved me up the steps. I don't really have a whole lot of knowledge, but I'll see if I can help, he said. I didn't waste any time, just got right into the thick of it.

I told him about all the early run-ins with Marty, and how they were slowly escalating over time, even about the generator mishap. I mentioned the gun, the property disputes, everything that I could remember. Walter just went stoic as he took it all in. Well, what do you think? I asked when I was finished. Well, Martin was never right after his wife died, he started. Then Walter went on to tell me his own story, filled in a lot of the gaps.

It turned out that just before Marty's wife died, the two of them were bickering a lot. Marty's drinking was at an all-time high, was cruising into town every single day to hit a bar or pick up a case of beer. His wife was really the only one keeping him in check, and suddenly, she was just dead. No story, no funeral. Marty was just telling everyone that his wife died last night. He didn't even seem that upset. Everyone living on the mountain thought that that was a little strange, but didn't know Marty well enough to question him anymore.

The general consensus was that he murdered his wife. When the other residents reached out to law enforcement, they assured everyone that Marty reached out to them with the news as well. Everything was copacetic on their end. Still, it was weird because no coroner came by, no body removal. Nothing. Marty just said she was dead, and that seemed to be it. No one ever saw her corpse. This is when Marty's behavior got really erratic. He started to patrol the woods around his home. He'd gotten into a few pissing matches with other locals that lived up there. It was always

the same thing. Stay away from Marty's property. Don't come near Marty's property. Everyone else seemed to see a heartbroken, perhaps mentally unwell old man. I saw a guy trying to hide something. As Walter and I continued to talk, we put some pieces together, and he was inclined to believe me. When I said I had to go back to my house and meet the sheriff, Walter asked to go with so he could do his part and make a statement, and hopefully get everything figured out. Neither of us were prepared for just how deep this grave went. The sheriff took everything down that we said, even offered up some of his own hearsay that he'd acquired over the last five years, and told us he'd be in touch. From our house,

he went straight to Marty's and from there everything exploded. I don't know how it all occurred, but Marty ended up arrested by the end of the week. It turned out Marty's wife was found buried just under two feet of loose soil, and it definitely wasn't a beautiful or ceremonious burial. No, not at all. He'd dragged her body to the edge of his property line, posted a little dirt over, and called it a day. The really telling part was the multiple bullet holes found in her bones. She'd clearly been shot to death.

The whole story was this. Five years prior to my family moving out there, Marty and his wife were having a rough patch, just like Walter described. What wasn't public was that Marty's wife was telling him that she was leaving. Going back to South Texas or New Mexico, somewhere along the border, was getting back together with an old boyfriend of hers.

What she had with Marty had dried up. He was now just a miserable, drunk, bitter old man. Marty heard a threat one too many times, decided to do away with the woman for good. What she didn't know was that Marty had actually killed the boyfriend she spoke of many, many years ago, like in 1981. There had been something of a love triangle between Marty and his wife and whoever this third man was. The wife originally was with the third man, but Marty wooed her away. Then they moved away, but before they did, Marty went back to that man's house, attacked him before shooting him as well.

They left town, and miraculously, no one ever got fingered for that murder. After that, they lived a relatively normal life before deciding to move up on the mountain. Marty slowly but surely lost his mind over time. We were living next to a guy who had killed not one but two people in his life and seemingly had gotten away with both. As the story rolled out over the next couple of weeks, we were blown away to bear witness to such a sick, mind-blowing event. What started out as our little daydream lifestyle quickly devolved into solving a multiple murder

that stretched through the decades, I guess Marty had given himself up pretty much right away, much to the surprise of our little off-grid community. The courts couldn't be kind to him, as he was every bit of 70. If it were any amount of time behind bars, it would be a life sentence, so that's what he was given. We still live in the cabin, and I've come to enjoy every aspect of our rural lifestyle. Mary homeschools the kids, and we're all very grateful to have that whole Marty fiasco behind us. We didn't realize just how close we came to tragedy. The guy literally pointed a shotgun at my children and had the nerve to pull the trigger.

It turns out it doesn't really matter where you live, the city, or off-grid. There are still crazy people residing in both. Padiday presents in the red corner the undisputed, undefeated weed whacker guys. Champion of hurling grass and pollen everywhere. And in the blue corner, the challenger, extra strength, Hannity! Eye drops and work all day to prevent the release of histamines that cause itchy allergy eyes. And the winner by knockout is Padaday. Hadiday.

Bring it on. I was a parole officer in the state of Utah for nine years, four months, and 18 days. It was nothing like working as a correctional officer, but after a bad car accident in the spring of 97, it was one of the few options open to me that didn't include medical retirement. Many guys told me to take the medical, buy a boat, and start up that charter service idea that had served as a pipe dream for so many years. But frankly, that felt a little too much like giving.

up. On top of that, there was the fact that if I worked nine more years, I'd be entitled to a full pension, and I'd have all my treatment covered by the state. That last thing proved to be the deciding factor. Instead of walking off into the sunset with a big check and a bum leg, I joined the Utah Department of Corrections as a parole officer. I worked hundreds, possibly even thousands of caseloads prior to my eventual retirement. And sadly, I think I only had a handful of stories that might interest you. Being a parole officer wasn't exactly action-packed, and it's always laughable when the movies present us as badass bounty hunters, when really were mostly just slow horses with a motley collection of dysfunctional appendages, with a few exceptions, obviously.

I think I only had three or four major incidents in my whole parole officer career, but the incidents I did experience were just as intense, if not more so, than anything I experienced as a corrections officer, including the time that I almost lost my life, to a man who, in another life, could have been a cousin or a nephew of mine, maybe even a son. I first met Sean at the trailer park that he was calling his temporary home following his release from federal prison. The trailer park was part of the halfway home scheme that we were sort of running due to budget constraints, and all that extra freedom meant only the most promising of parolees got to stay there. Out of all these promising parolees that ended up calling the park home for a while, I'd swear that Sean

was the most promising of them all. He was a former Marine flight mechanic, two tours of duty before the crap really hit the fan. Even so, the base he operated at got pummeled by insurgent rockets and mortars. I remember him saying, meaning that he came back stateside with a nasty case of what he called the Shakes. I guess officially speaking, whatever Sean suffered from would be categorized as PTSD, but for whatever reason, he never called it that. He just said that he got the shakes sometimes, when he got to thinking about things too hard. He tried all kinds of medication, all kinds of therapy, but nothing ever worked. Then one day, out of pure self-destructive desperation, Sean smoked a bowl of meth at a party on Memorial Day weekend and found that it actually

stopped his shakes. I don't know how something like meth came to have that kind of effect on him. If anything, I'd have assumed that it made his shakes worse, but surprisingly, it had the opposite effect. I guess, he said, it focused him like a laser, but brought the tremors down to almost nothing. Having discovered what he thought was the miracle cure for his shakes, Sean started using a little meth here and there, just whenever things got a little too rough, he said. Then he discovered it made him feel better, shiny and new, as he put it, and much more able to deal with all the bull crap of being freshly discharged from the Marine Corps with nothing to show for it but a glorified severance check. He started doing more and more, a little before work, a little

after work, then in his free time, and then all alone whenever he was craving. But then this obviously left Sean with a problem. One day, he found that he wanted to smoke more meth than he had money, but he also really didn't want to be that depraved drug addict, who spends his last few dollars on on drugs. So instead, he goes to a meth cook, asks what he needs to cook him a batch, and then goes around either stealing or buying everything on his little shopping list. He helps the cook with the batch, makes a bunch of mental notes, and then starts cooking his own for purely personal use, keeping the batches as small as possible. But just like when he first started smoking, the amount that he was cooking got bigger and bigger, until eventually he couldn't hide it anymore.

Cops raided his cookhouse, Sean got arrested, and then he spent the next 12 years in a federal prison. He'd have gotten way longer if it wasn't for his military background, and his behavior as an inmate was impeccable. Had it not been for that, there's no way that he'd have been paroled nine years into the 18 the judge gave him. But I'm also guessing, in front of the judge, he showed a hell of a lot of enthusiasm for putting his life in order, because that sure is hell what he showed me that first time that I'm not. met him at the trailer park. I thought that he was going to be the easiest case that I'd ever dealt with. He was itching to get his life back together, and every time I stopped by his place, or we met for bacon and eggs at a nearby diner, his enthusiasm seemed to have only grown.

A few months go by, Sean's well on his way to getting all the early release recommendations he needs, including my own, and I stopped by his place for a pre-arranged meeting, only to find that he's not there. I figured something must have been wrong for him to just pull a no-show like that. And unlike some other cases I've worked, I didn't assume that he was trying to duck me or play games. After building up a little trust, I tried giving him a call on his cell, and the first time, the call went through, but when it suddenly and abruptly went to voicemail, I started to get this sinking feeling. Best case scenario, he was running late, driving back to the trailer park, and didn't want to risk getting pulled over by talking on his cell.

But then the next time that I tried to call him, it went straight to voicemail, no dial tone, like he quickly just turned off his cell between calls. Again, I get that sinking feeling. I liked Sean. I had high hopes for him, so the idea of him messing up all of his progress and ruining his chances of getting those recommendation letters,

it made me feel like a scared parent. I didn't just leave right away. I walked back and forth in the dirt in front of his trailer, hoping to catch one of Sean's neighbors. He'd mentioned borrowing one of their trucks to get to and from his job, so I mozied on around the trailer park, hoping that I might be able to talk to someone who knew him. I knocked on the doors of a few trailers, got no answer, and then finally, the last one I visited had someone home.

I asked if they knew Sean, and they said yes. Then, when I asked where he was, they started giving it the use. whose business isn't of yours kind of thing. I explained that I was his PO and that he wasn't in any trouble, and I wanted to know where he was, because I was worried about him. It wasn't like him to miss a face-to-face. I wasn't making up some story to get him to talk, and I'd appreciated it very much if he could do me a solid and just tell me what he knew. I remember the guy gave me this look, like, you really don't know, do you? And then told me Sean's mom had died. He took it real bad.

An owner of one of the other trailers was out there drinking beer with him for a while, but Sean was pacing back and forth, making phone calls. And the next thing you know, a truck pulls up, Sean jumps in the back, and then off he goes. I ain't seen him since. I asked him how long ago this was, and my heart sank when the guy said Tuesday. So four days now, give or take. Four days, Sean could have been halfway across the country by then, and if he'd gotten some kind of terrible news, there was no telling what he retreated to in order to cope.

I couldn't blame him, but as I got back into my truck, I was praying to God. Please, just stick to booze, Sean. Stick to booze if you got to. The last thing I wanted to do was call it into my superiors then and there. If it were some scumbag who had been caught with some kitty pictures on his computer, I'd have come down on him like a stampeding steer. But as I've said already, Sean was far from some pervert scumbag. If I came down hard on him over one missed appointment, especially when it was due to a death in the family, I'm not sure that I've been able to look myself in the mirror for a while.

And the trouble was, leaving him to his own devices for too long, not to mention in a state of grief, he might not pass a urine test. Then, if that happened, he was definitely going back to jail to serve out the remainder of the sentence there, instead of doing it on parole. Obviously, Sean wasn't my only parolee during that period, so it's not like I could devote all my time to searching for him. But over the next few days, I kept calling his cell phone, kept stopping by his trailer, and most importantly, gave my cell number to the neighbor that I spoke to, and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for me. A few days later, I get a call on my cell, and it's the neighbor saying that he's just seen Sean and a few others entering his trailer. I thanked him for the info, but before I hung up, he warned me that they didn't look like the kind of folks who woke up bright and early for Sunday service.

And then I might want to be careful if I was looking to arrest anyone. I definitely wasn't looking to make any arrests. I didn't even have the power to, but I did want to make sure that he was okay. And if these friends of his wanted to put themselves in the way of that, then that might pose a very big problem for myself. I drove over to the trailer park as quickly as possible, hoping to catch Sean before he did anything that he'd lived to regret. When I arrived, all the curtains of his trailer were drawn, and music was so loud that I could hear it as I turned into the park and was thumping out of some kind of sound system inside.

Now, just to be safe, I put on the bulletproof vest that I kept in my trunk and then headed up to the front door of the trailer. I had to hammer on it just to be heard over the racket, and when someone opened up the door. Not only was it not Sean, but they didn't look too pleased to see me standing in front of me. When the door opened up, it was a guy that looked like his daddy was Bigfoot, and his mommy was a skeleton. And to him, with all of the narcotics in his system, I guess I looked like the devil himself. He slams the door closed, and even over the loud music, you could hear him scream. It's the cops. At first, I found the guy's reaction to be kind of funny. Sure,

I was wearing a vest and I had a gun on my hip, but I wasn't a cop, so I guess it was halfway to bringing a smirk to my lips as I peered around to a window and tried to peer through a crack in the curtain. Having these guys throw all their drugs in the chemical toilet would have most definitely been in their best interest, but the fact was, I wasn't there in that capacity. I was only there to talk to Sean. Everything else was secondary, and if they knew how understanding I was prepared to be, then I'm not sure that they'd have reacted so frantically at all.

I started to call out, I'm not a cop, relax. I'm just here to speak to Sean for a minute. But it didn't seem to do any good. I could hear the people inside scrambling around, cursing, saying things about the cops being outside. I repeated myself again, and that's when the first bullets smashed through the trailer siding. It all happened so quickly that at first, I wasn't quite sure what had happened. Or maybe I did, and I just didn't want to think that it was happening. I backed up upon hearing the sound, but the shot came through way below eye level, so I didn't see the bullet hole or realize what was happening until the next few shots came through. I remember throwing myself back off into the little wooden deck that led to the door,

then feeling almost certain that I'd broken something when I landed on my back and shoulders. I think I must have knocked the wind out of myself too, because there was a second there where I was scared that I'd been shot, but after seeing no entry wounds on the vest and seeing no blood on my shirt underneath, I pulled my sidearm and did the only thing I could, emptied the entire clip into the front of the trailer. There wasn't any time to consider the implications. I just had to scare them into keeping their heads down long enough for me to get back to my truck.

I got there, but just in time to have someone shatter the windshield with a well-aimed shot, someone in the trailer had a solid view of the driver's seat, meaning there would be no getting in it or getting out of there without taking a bullet. I had to crawl underneath and then out the other side, taking cover behind one of my truck tires. I then reloaded, dialed 911 on my cell phone, and then just lay there, peering out towards the trailer, hoping nobody came out the door in pursuit of me. Luckily, someone else had heard the shot, so uniformed officers arrived at least a minute or two faster than they would have from my call alone.

But by the time they did get there, they noticed what I had around the same time I made my own 911 call, that Sean's trailer was on fire. The officers and myself that arrived figured everyone inside would have run before the flames got too bad. But from the perspective of those inside, they had no idea what they were facing. In their minds, if they ran outside, they'd have been shot to pieces, but staying inside and trying to put the flames out, they stood a fighting chance. So as myself and the officers started moving on the trailer, someone inside pulls one of the curtains back, but the silhouette they made, including the gun in their hand, made them look like one of those training targets.

And for the officers who arrived as my backup, they were just as easy to shoot. What followed was another prolonged gunfight, and as more shots went into the trailer, the less those inside were able to put the flames out. The fire grew, and the shooting died down. In the end, the fire department arrived far too late to save those inside from burning to death. I honestly don't know if any of them were still alive by the time they got there, but by the time the flames were out, everyone inside were either burned to a crisp, or died of smoke inhalation, or a grisly combination of the two.

It took the county coroner a hell of a long time to figure out who was who, as well as the exact cause of each person's death. Only one person died by gunshot, and that person was. Sean. The coroners ID him through his Marine Corps dental records, but determined that he'd been dead before the flames got to him. There was no telling whose bullets were the ones to put him down, either mine or the cops that showed up after. But deep down, I think I know. I think I killed the one person that didn't really need my help. I think Sean would have gone through the grief of his mom's death. He might have gone off the rails, but I think her ghost would have dragged his butt back on the

them again. I think I should have called in that first no-show meeting as and when it happened, and that way he could have gotten picked up long before I had the opportunity to empty my pistol into his trailer. He might have gone back to prison, maybe for a hell of a long time too, but at least he'd still be alive. There was a phrase I'd heard long ago that never made much sense until that day. The road to hell, they say, is paved with good intentions.

USAA knows dynamic duos can save the day like superheroes and sidekicks or auto and home insurance With USAA you can bundle your auto and home and save up to 10%. Tap the banner to learn more and get a quote at usaaa.com slash bundle. Restrictions apply. I have an off-the-grid story, but not in the usual fashion. I never lived off-grid per se, but I existed off-grid for many years. As a young man, I dropped out of college and started hitchhiking around my state

when I was around 18, which was also when I quit wearing shoes. I was a free-spirited type with long hair and covered in these makeshift DIY stick-and-poke tattoos. As a musician at heart, I would just hit the road with a guitar or banjo and land wherever the wind took me. I did this until I was 21 or 22, and usually hitchhiked back and forth between my hometown in South Dakota, to Denver or Fort Collins, Colorado. These were happening places for a small-town kid like me, ripe with drugs, cool people, and all kinds of different musical shows. I could catch a concert and make a few hundred dollars playing on the street in Denver while high the whole time. This quickly became a ritualistic way of life for me in my most impressionable years. I'll never forget the night that I met Chaz.

It was a warm summer evening in downtown Denver. I was playing my guitar at the corner of 16th in Champa, I had just finished a set and was packing up my gear when I heard a voice behind me. This caught me off guard because it was a man. I figured I was about to be robbed. Usually the only people who lingered to talk after a show were single girls, so it being a man was a little suspicious. Also, there had been a string of muggings in the area, so I was extra cautious about whoever was behind me.

Hey, pretty good. You play like a real musician does, he said. I turned around to see this. tall, lanky guy with messy hair and a big wide grin carrying a battered old guitar case. It looked like he'd been on the road for a while too. I immediately let my guard down. In the moment, it felt like I was looking in the mirror. I knew this guy just wanted to talk shop, maybe even buy me a beer, so I took the bait and ran with it. Hey, thanks, man, I said, should shouldering my pack. I try my best. It's not easy out here. There's lots of stiff competition. We introduced ourselves,

and Chaz told me that he was a musician too. We started talking about music, life on the road, and everything in between. It felt like we had known each other for years and years. He was from Kansas, also from a small town, and got out of town the only way he knew how, playing music. He tried to start a few bands and failed, so hit the road as a solo gig, never looking back. Colorado cities were like a magnet at the time for wandering souls like ourselves. so it was purely happenstance that we just happened to meet up that night. Chaz opened up the conversation only because he liked the way I picked the strings.

From that night on, Chaz and I were inseparable. We spent the next three years traveling around the Central U.S., playing music, hitchhiking, and seeing all the sights we could see. We lived a colorful life, always on the move, never staying in one place for too long. We did this largely without phones or technology of any kind, just our instruments, some clothes, and whatever money we could scrounge up with our talent. Those years were incredible because we really got to learn how the other played, and by doing so, truly learned how to complement one another.

We got many high praises from people all over the country, but as the holidays would approach, we'd always make our way back to our respective hometowns to spend our time with friends and family. It was a ritual that we both looked forward to, a chance to recharge our batteries and get ready for another year on the road. We also like to hide out from those winter months. As Colorado and some of the other places we like to reside in were pretty unforgiving during the cold season. Snow, ice, frigid temperatures. We lived on the street and didn't even wear shoes if we didn't have to.

We weren't built or prepared for any kind of experience like that, so home retreat was always in order for some time around Thanksgiving. This year was no different than any other. I had just got back to my hometown, a small town in South Dakota, and was settling into my parents' old house, looking forward to having a few weeks of relaxation, some good home cooking, and maybe even playing a few local gigs. I like to come home and really fine-tune whatever it was I'd been working on.

That way, when I hit the road again in the spring, I'd be much sharper and ready for a whole set repertoire. Then, on a cold winter evening late in the season, my phone rang. It was Chas. We usually didn't start making plans until March or April, so he was a little early to be reaching out. I figured something was up. He had some kind of question or maybe just missed me.

Whatever the case I answered and said hello. Hey man, how's it going? He asked his voice crackling with excitement. It's going, Chaz, I replied. laughing, just enjoying my downtime. How about you? I'm ready to hit the road soon, my friend, he said. Been studying these railroad maps all winter, and I think I found a way for us to get to a music festival down south. My ears perked up at that, a music festival. That sounded like the stuff of dreams. What a perfect destination for our reunion trip. The fact that it was in the south

was a little off-putting, but who knows? There are indie festivals all over the south. I quickly bit my tongue and waited to hear the rest of the details. Tell me more, I said. Curiosity peaked. And Chaz did. He explained that he had found a route that would take us away from my hometown to the festival grounds, all by train. We'd have to hop a few freight trains, but he was confident we could make it. He went on that he actually caught a train back home when we split, and that's what gave him the whole idea.

All right, so what kind of festival, I asked. Indy, New Wave, Sludge Pop, Beachbum Crap, he said as fast as he could. Exactly what I wanted to hear. I was hesitant at first, but I mean Chaz's enthusiasm was just unrelenting. Before I knew it, I was agreeing to meet him at the local train yard next month. He literally had everything planned out, from when he needed to depart, and when he would arrive, to which train he needed to hop on in order to be on time. Frankly, I was blown away, super impressed with how much time he thought about this and put into it.

As we continued talking, I'll admit, something though, Chas sounded different, almost like something was off. His voice was tighter, more urgent. There was almost a hint of desperation in his tone. I didn't know what to make of it, other than maybe he was just excited. I wanted to ask about how things were going at home. Maybe something was wrong for him to be so focused on hypothetical train schedules, but I didn't want to pry. For being a road-ass hobo, he was kind of a private guy, like to keep his personal stuff to himself.

He was my best friend, so I had nothing but respect for boundaries like that. So I pushed those thoughts aside. We were going on an adventure, and I couldn't wait to see what lay ahead. Chaz said he'd send me more information over the next couple of days, but for the most part, all the hard work was done. I just needed to pack up my stuff, get some extra strings, and make sure my hands were in working order for the next eight months. I breathed a sigh of restlessness as I hung up, already ready for this trip.

Little did I know this journey would take us down a dark, dangerous path, one that would test our friendship and our resolve. But for now, all I could think about was the thrill, the ride, the rush of adrenaline as we hopped from train to train, and the music that would bring us together in the end. I got myself and my belongings ready over the next few weeks, patched up my backpack and patched up my jeans, tuned all my strings,

even picked up a few extra sets just in case. I had all kinds of weird routines that I did before hitting the road, meditating, exercising, weird stuff that prepared my mind and body for month after month of pretty rough living. I even fasted before I started my travels, just to shrink up my stomach and get ready for these sparse meals. The day finally came, and it was time to meet Chas at the rail station. It's a relatively open place for obvious reasons. I assumed Chaz would be riding in on a train.

I stashed my stuff so it wasn't obvious that I was a hobo, just wandered up and down the tracks looking for any sign of him. After an hour or so, I see a little dumpy SUV pull up down the way. Sure enough, Chaz pops out with all his stuff. He waves to the driver, who waves back, then departs back toward town. I go over and greet my best friend, ask him about why he hitchhiked instead of rode a train. He explained the train schedules are rigid, and none were coming this way. The quickest and safest way to get here on time was to hitchhike, and so here he was. Whatever the case, I was just glad to see him. Now we were ready to get the show rocking.

Come on, man, let's move, Chaz whispered his eyes scanning the train station. A ride is waiting. I followed him, my heart racing with excitement. Been planning this for weeks, and finally we were about to hop our first train together. We shouldered all of our stuff, instruments as well, and began that long jaunt down the tracks. I was sick with sweat, nervous as hell, fearing something bad would happen. I don't know why. I just heard about all kinds of crazy horror stories about train hopping, everything from run over accidents to getting teeth knocked out by railway workers. Just kept close to Chas and watched my back as we walked.

We made our way down the line, avoiding detection by hiding behind crates and stacks of luggage. Finally, we found a quiet car with an open door. In here, Chaz said, gesturing for me to enter. Dingy as hell, just a rough wooden floor with some hay here and there. The car was mostly full of pallets, but they had a little room for us to hide our belongings and sit down, stretch out if we wanted to. We made sure to keep clear of the door, just in case anyone came back to check on the car before departure. We settled in, our backpack stashed in the corner. I couldn't believe it. We were actually doing this. We were train hopping out of my hometown.

It was dead silent in there, and there was no sign of any workers. So we just shot the crap been there while we waited. Chaz said it could be a couple of hours before it was time. We caught up for a bit, talked about our holidays, and then he filled me in on the festival and that train hopping schedule. I was over the moon to be having such a discussion. The hour slowly passed by, but eventually the train rumbled to life. We chugged out of town, the scenery blurring by us outside through the crack in the compartment door. I scooted out from the wall so I could get a better look at the terrain as it went by. I knew once we were clear for the long haul, I'd probably break out my guitar and start jamming as the country went by.

It's almost like something out of a music video, made me emotional to even think about. Dude, this is amazing, I said, grinning at Chaz. He smiled back, his eyes gleaming with excitement. I told you it would be. You want to play some tunes, I asked. He shook his head and got this funny look on his face. Let's get high instead, he said. This was another commonality between us. Chaz and I both loved to get messed up. It was one of the things that brought us together in Denver all those years ago. I'll admit he was a little crazier than me, but I could hang with the best of them with almost any poison. I figured he wanted to smoke some weed or pop some pills at the most, break out a ball of coke. Instead, he pulled out a drug that I had never used before. I had.

for black, sticky heroin. I remember getting a jittery nervous feeling all throughout my body, and for some reason I instantly had to take a dump. Scary and exciting, just like that train ride. I figured this would be a perfect place to experiment. Chaz did the honors, as I had no idea how to even prepare a shot of heroin. I just watched in awe. He explained he started using on his last trip home, and it quickly became integral to his creative process. loved playing music when he was high on it. He argued that all the greats used it during their prime, and frankly, I couldn't really argue.

I wouldn't have anyway, as I loved using too much to mess it up. After he hit me with it, I just remember blasting off, feeling like my body was tripping away underneath the train as it rocketed along the earth. Such a euphoric sensation, truly indescribable, but that's what all us junkies say, isn't it? We start chasing that high, and it's never coming back. all that tacky Hollywood crap.

It was honestly amazing, and I fell in love with that draining rush instantly. We rode in silence for a while, watching the countryside roll by. We would talk occasionally, but mostly we were just zoned out and enjoying the ride, both literally and figuratively. Anytime anything cropped up in my head that I thought I should be concerned about, but nothing like that ever came to me. No anxiety, no panic, nothing but bliss.

The hours ticked by, and we got closer and closer to our next rail station. Then Chaz stood up, his eyes fixed on something outside. I looked and saw the sun had gone down quite a bit. Time to get out, he said, his voice low. We grabbed our packs and I followed him, my heart pounding. It was like all that stress from earlier had suddenly reappeared, now wanting to suffocate me. I gripped my guitar case with steady resolve. trying to quickly catch my breath, and did my best to be quiet and alert.

We jumped off the train as it moved to the next station, our feet pounding the gravel. If the train had been moving any faster, we both would have eaten dirt. There was a pile of rubble nearby, some kind of jackhammered concrete. If we had fallen headlong into that, we both would have cracked our skulls and died right there on the first stop. We made our way through the station, avoiding detection by hiding behind pillar, and these little alcoves. Finally, we found the next train that we needed to be on. Chaz was seriously badass at reading trains.

I don't even know what he was looking for, whether it be icons or serial numbers of some kind, but he found us the right train every time, without fail. We continued to repeat the process, hiding in a car, then waiting for the train to depart. This station seemed to have much more in the ways of employees, though, as we could hear boots crunching on the gravel outside, occasional voices, shadows passing over the crack in the door.

My heart was slamming at this point, terrified that we'd be discovered. Not only were we traveling illegally, but we also had heroin, which I suspected would land us in even deeper crap. We stashed our stuff deep in the cart and hid out in the back corner. Eventually, somebody came over and pulled the hatch open, took a look into the car. With the new light, I could see a little better. When I looked over to Chaz to see what we should do, I found him loading up another bullet full of heroin. I couldn't believe it, but I was honestly relieved.

I wanted all this nonsense to dissolve the second that needle hit my vein. He had us both dosed up by the time the train was rolling down the railway, and I could tell it was a higher amount this time. I was swimming, teetering on total detachment from myself and the world. around me. This time, though, we nodded off again, the most stereotypical junky behavior on the chart I know. I don't know how much time went by at least a few hours, and then our lives were messed up forever. Our peace was shattered when we awoke. We were being dragged off the train by rough hands, our bodies collecting a healthy array of splinters of various sizes, burying themselves

deep all over our hips, stomach, chest, and neck. As I'm being dragged, my head is bouncing off every pallet corner around me, taking me out of that heroin delusion right into a concussive state. What the hell? I protested. My words met with a punch to the gut. I tried to kick out, but someone caught my legs, and another person started drilling me in the groin with a closed fist. I lost all steam after that, could hardly breathe from the pain shooting through my body. Next, a boot found my face, and somebody did the favor of kicking my head in. Chaz and I were beaten mercilessly, our cries for help ignored by any and all that could hear them. They continued to drag us until we fell five feet onto the hard ground below, that further

knocked the wind out of me as I felt like I was drowning. Then came more fists, more boots. I looked up to recognize our assailants were the railway workers. They kicked our asses inside and out for another ten minutes before throwing all of our stuff into the dirt and telling us to get lost. We gathered up as much as we could and just limped our way out into the woods. Neither of us spoke as we stumbled into our next little town. We found a dingy bar where we bought some beer and cigarettes, then wandered the streets,

searching for a place to hide. It was pretty much our only option since getting removed from the train, just trying to recover as much as possible. We didn't know anyone in the town we were in, didn't even know the name of it, no cell phones, no tablet no nothing, just clothes, drugs, and instruments. Eventually, we found an alley, dark and narrow. We wandered down a bit to get away from the businesses near the front of it, found a pretty dingy-looking dump in the back. We collapsed onto the ground, our body's aching. It was pretty dark back there, even had a dumpster to help get us out of sight of everything else. You want to

jam a bit? I said. Chas shook his head at me, his eyes dark. Rather get a hi, he said. My heart skipped a beat as I watched him load up the needle. I didn't want to do this, but Chas reassured me, his voice low and persuasive, play music after we got that good and got that magic in us. I can now see how much of a toll this was taking on him. Chaz had been using maybe a little longer than he let on, was gone, vainy, super pale. We shared that needle, the drug coursing through our veins like fire. I felt myself drifting away, my vision blurring again. We talked for a bit, but I really don't remember any of it.

Again, he must have up the ante, because I was absolutely blasted to hell in that shot. We never even pulled our guitars out, never played a single note on that trip, just did heroin three times, passed out in our own mess in the back of some crappy alley. When I awoke eight hours later, Chaz was still beside me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. focused, his chest was still, and he was unnaturally pale. Chaz? I whispered, shaking him. How long you've been up? He didn't respond. I thought maybe he was still high, so I shook him again. That's when I noticed how cold he was, the paleness, the chill on his skin. Something was wrong. Then I noticed the dried vomit on the side of his face,

a touch of blood underneath his nose. I was looking at my best friend's dead body, literally. the syringe still in his lap that sent us to the moon. Panic set in. I scrambled to clean up all the drug paraphernalia. I couldn't be caught with this stuff. I didn't know what could happen to me, but I knew how much more heroin Chaz had in his stuff, and I would definitely test dirty if this turned into some kind of investigation.

There's no way I was getting caught up in anything crazy like that. So I just did the only honest thing I could think of. I stumbled out of the alley, with my heart racing, reported Chaz's body to the proper authorities. I did it anonymously, just saying I saw a young man laying in the back of the alley between such and such bars. I was in total shock, teetering on losing my grip on reality. I had the jitters from all the heroin, and I was absolutely starving for some kind of real food. I got a meal somewhere with my last few dollars and found a place to spend the night. I got my stuff together, slept in a park

hidden away in the dark and cried the entire night. I knew I only had one option, to go back home. This was the worst-case scenario. The music festival wasn't even on my radar. Chas' overdosing was not part of the plan, and now I was thrown to the wind. He and I had courted chaos for the better part of three years, so that kind of thing catching up to us was partially expected. Still, it was a brutal thing to endure in a town I didn't even know, with zero access to any of resources or any kind of support. I hitchhiked home, morning Chas every mile of the way. I didn't even know who to call to tell. We traveled together as companions, but I didn't know anything about his home life or his family. I wasn't even sure of his last name or the town he actually lived in.

I wish I could tell you that I got myself together after this whole experience, but I didn't. I actually got much, much worse for the next few years. I stopped traveling around as much, stayed home getting plastered every night. I gave up music, just started partying and getting tanked with my buddies. It was the only way to cope with the reality that I met out there. I did clean myself up, but only within the last couple of years, with the help of podcasts and YouTube channels like this one.