Just Creepy: Scary Stories - The Most TERRIFYING Scary Stories You've EVER Heard!

Episode Date: July 17, 2024

Get Magic Mind today at: ⁠https://magicmind.com/creepy ⁠You have a limited offer you can use now, that gets you up to 48% off your first subscription or 20% off one-time purchases with code CREEPY20 at checkout. Get ready to be scared out of your mind with "The Most TERRIFYING Stories You've EVER Heard!" This video is full of spine-chilling tales that will leave you sleepless for nights to come. From scary encounters to unexplained mysteries, these are the SCARIEST Stories You've EVER Heard! Watch if you dare... 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 00:09:03 Story 2 00:44:43 Story 3 00:52:13 Story 4 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 #redditstories #deepwoods #privateinvestigator 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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And the winner, by knockout, is Hatternay. Paraday, bring it on. The story I'm about to share takes place on two different occasions. My grandparents live in rural Southern Ohio. near the edge of the Appalachian Trail. Growing up, you always heard ghost stories about what happens out there when the sun goes down. It's vital to describe the layout of my grandparents' property

so everyone understands this story. My grandparents' house sits on five acres, surrounded by thick woods. On the property, seven different trails lead around my grandparents' house, which we usually use for hunting and other activities. One day, my brother and I decided to walk the trail, trails. We enjoyed riding a four-wheeler and taking in the scenery that we always loved.

My grandparents' property was incredibly secluded. There were no neighbors for miles, and the only property that backed up to theirs was owned by the government, and was used for tree sanctuaries and nature preserves. There was a trail that we often used that split into two other trails. The trail to the left loops back around to the house, and the trail to the right takes you down to the creek where you can sit and watch all kinds of wildlife. My brother and I decided we wanted to go down to the creek and watch for animals, while also looking for remarkable rocks that I love to collect. The only way to get down to the creek at the split is to walk, as the four-wheeler is too big to fit through the thick brush and trees

on that specific trail. So we ditched the four-wheeler and took off on foot. The trail down to the creek is about a mile long. The sun shone through the trees, and it was a crisp fall evening with a slight breeze. My brother and I wasted no time until we finally reached the creek. As I said, we walked alongside the water for about 15 minutes, looking for cool rocks. As we were walking, we stumbled across a broken down shed that neither my brother nor I had ever seen before. It's important to mention that my grandparents' property has markers letting everyone know where their property begins and ends. Standing on the left side of the creek, the shed was on the opposite side.

My brother and I looked at each other with confused looks, but eventually, my brother got distracted by something else and continued his walk down the creek, but not me. I felt myself fall into some sort of trance and felt as if I needed to go inside. I yelled for my brother to return and said, Jay, I think we should check this out some more. Something inside me wants to go inside. My brother has never really been a fan of anything remotely scary. Seeing this run-down shed that looked to be falling apart did not interest him.

My brother told me, honestly, dude, this one just screams one of those scary movie situations, and I want no part of it. We are not going in there. I chuckled because he was right. Something was telling me to go in there, but I also knew it probably wasn't the best idea as the sun was starting to set. my brother and I collected our rock findings and returned to the house.

This next part happened the following weekend. My boyfriend came out to visit. While he was there, I mentioned that my brother and I had stumbled across a creepy shed on the property that we had never seen before. He became highly interested as I described my desire to go inside. I told him how compelled I was by the building. That's all it took before we were out the door and returning to the creek. My brother stayed behind saying, If you guys don't come back, I told you so.

My ex-boyfriend and I laughed. Yeah, right. We had overalls and flashlights as we didn't take the four-wheeler and decided to walk the whole way down. We had flashlights because when we left, we knew we only had about two hours until the sun went down. Eventually, we made it down to the creek. We walked the same way my brother and I did the previous week,

and to my shock and disbelief, there was no shed there. I started frantically looking around saying, what, how? I swear it was here. My boyfriend at the time, and I decided to walk a little further, venturing away from my grandparents' house. Still, there was no sign of the shed anywhere. We hadn't realized how long we had been out there, and the sun maybe had 15 more minutes of light left for the day. I was so determined to prove myself right that I had seen this shed with my own eyes. We pulled out our flashlights, jumped across the bank on the other side of the creek, and began walking back the way we came.

I hoped I had just missed it on the way down as my ex and I were talking. The sun was completely down at this point. As we were walking and talking, everything fell silent, including my ex. We were mid-conversation, so I did the same when I heard him stop dead in his tracks. I started asking questions. What is it? What's going on? What he said next sent chills down my spine.

I want you to listen to me very closely. When I count to three, we are going to jump to the other side of the creek, and we are going to run as fast as we can and not stop at all until we get back. But don't look back. Don't say anything, okay? My heart fell to my stomach, and I just didn't question him. I just prepared myself to run. One, two, three.

We sprinted as fast as we could. I was in front of my ex, and I could hear him wincing in pain, but I heard more than just our running. There was something chasing us. We ditched the idea of running a mile back to the trail, and ran straight through the woods. When we returned to the house, we were gasping for air, covered in scratches from running through thick brush.

We walked through the front door, and I was so shocked that I could not answer my grandparents' questions. My boyfriend was gripping his back and wincing in pain. My grandma lifted his shirt and looked at his back. There were three long lashes stemming from his shoulder down to his lower back. It looked like something had swung at him or something and scratched him. I was in a shocked state, to say the least. From one Appalachian to another, don't go looking for something that you don't want to find.

If anyone knows what this could have been, please let me know in the comments down below. This occurrence still keeps me up at night when I think about it. Hey everyone, it's been a whole month since I started the Magic Mind 30-day challenge. And wow, do I have some updates for you? 30 days ago, I began my mornings with Magic Mind, hoping to boost my focus and manage stress without the usual caffeine crash. And let me tell you, the journey has been eye-opening. Here's the scoop.

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description or go to Magicmind.com forward slash creepy. You have a limited time offer you can use now that gets you up to 48% off your first first subscription or 20% off one-time purchases with code Creepy 20 at checkout. Trust me, see if you can feel the difference it makes. It's risk-free with their 100% refund policy so you have nothing to lose. Thank you, Magic Mind. Now back to the stories. I used to work for a private investigations firm called AIS, which stood for Atlas' investigative solutions. At the time, they were probably the most highly regarded private investigation firm in the UK. They only hired ex-military and former police officers, and even then, they were selective.

They invited you for an interview, discussed your service record and credentials, and were very thorough. They wanted the best. In return, they offered extremely generous wage packets. In 1991, an old pal of mine received a call from one of their recruitment officers not long after we had been discharged from the Army, since he had promised to be more family-oriented post-discharrow. He turned the roll down in favor of a local 9-to-5 job. Knowing I was a single guy more interested in patting my bank account than living an easy life, he put me in touch with the recruiter. I should tell you right now that about 60 to 70% of private detective jobs are extremely boring.

AIS might have been one of the most reliable and well-respected firms in the UK, but that didn't mean we were all off playing 007. The majority of our clients were upper-middle-class professional types. with the occasional celebrity or high society member requesting some discrete information gathering. The kinds of jobs we did for that lot were, for the most part, the same as any other type of people. Only instead of sitting in a car in a council estate waiting for someone's secret lover to turn up at a block of flats, you were sitting in a car outside some fancy three-story Victorian manner, waiting for someone's secret lover to turn up in a Rolls-Royce.

The only difference was the location. But what were fairly unique to the upper classes were what we at AIS used to call non-vulnerable missing persons cases. I personally dealt with half a dozen separate cases involving kids of wealthy parents going missing. I use that term very loosely because nine times out of ten, they were just going through a bit of a rebellious period and had run away from home. One girl ran off to live in an all-vegan commune in Hackney. The police went and found her, but she didn't want to go home. Since she was newly 18, there was nothing they could do about it. As long as she wasn't breaking the law, she was free to do as she pleased.

But that didn't wash with Mommy and Daddy. They wanted to know where their little girl was. So we'd tail them, keep tabs on them, hack their phones, and all sorts. Their parents would be shelling out tens of thousands every week for the privilege. Like I said, I must have worked six or seven of those jobs just on my own. So, when I was informed there was a missing person's kid. case up for grabs, I thought it'd just be more of the same. But then, right away, I could tell this one was going to be different. The clients were based in my native Scotland, in a wee village

called Crossley near Glasgow, and this is partly why I was offered the job in the first place. I thought that since they were paying big money to have their missing person found, they'd be living in some country house with a range rover sitting out front, but I was wrong. They weren't in poverty or anything. They obviously led a relatively comfortable life, but they weren't anywhere near the class of client that I was used to dealing with at AIS, nor was their missing person some spoiled brat who'd run off with their dad's credit card. What they were was desperate. The missing person they wanted tracking was their son, a 21-year-old up-and-coming boxer who, for the sake of his family's anonymity, I will refer to only as Robbie. After he'd first gone missing,

His parents had reported it to the police, but after months of investigation, the case hadn't gotten anywhere. It wasn't like they made a bit of progress, questioned a few suspects, and then the leads just dried up. Robbie's parents said officers had been met with a complete wall of silence. No one had seen him, no one had spoken to him, and it was like he just walked out of his parents' house and disappeared into thin air. By the time I was called on to the job, a campaign set up by local volunteers had just run out of funding, with the local police having only one officer working on the case, and only on a sporadic basis at that. Robbie's parents then managed to collect enough cash donations to get AIS involved, which I can promise you was no small feat. And that's where I entered the picture.

The first thing I did was get all the background information on the case, which included a fairly intimate profile of the missing person. Usually speaking, people who go missing have had something go wrong in their lives, be it drink, drugs, infidelity, or some other kind of addiction that either results in big debts or even bigger mistakes. But Robbie's parents insisted that he wasn't involved in anything like that at all. He never drank, he never smoked, he was religious about his diet. Everything in his life seemed to revolve around his potential career as a professional boxer. He kept himself out of trouble and had even gotten himself a job at a local pub so he could save up some money to move to Glasgow, where he'd have access to some of the best boxing gyms in Scotland.

What I'm trying to say is, there were no obvious warning signs with this young man at all, not until I asked if there had been any sudden changes, or if he'd met anyone new in the weeks or months prior. Robbie's mom told me that there was something she told the police very early on in the investigation that she felt they'd overlooked. They asked her the same question about new people appearing in Robbie's life before he disappeared, and this is what she told them. One evening, in the days just prior to his disappearance,

Robbie had received a telephone call from someone his mom didn't recognize. This is back when a family tended to have just one large telephone, which was usually kept in a fairly communal space. For young lads like Robbie, there was no such thing as privacy when it came to telephone calls. So when the phone rang that evening, his mom was the first to pick it up. She thought that she knew the voices of all her son's friends and trainers. He was a popular young lad and got a lot of calls from the likes of friends, coaches,

teammates, and training partners. But his mom always asked who was calling and made patter with them anytime they called back. She knew a great many of them by voice or demeanor, but she didn't recognize the man who called that evening. When she asked, the man simply told her, I'm calling from the pub. He didn't give a name. He didn't sound particularly friendly either.

He just asked for Robbie. His mom called him to the phone, and after a brief conversation, Robbie thanked the caller and hung up, but not before addressing him with the name Tony. Robbie's mom had never heard him mention anyone called Tony, and that immediately struck her as unusual. Like I said, she thought she knew pretty much everyone in her son's life.

She even knew most of the people he worked at the pub with, along with the names of a few regulars, because Robbie would often come home and chat about his shifts with her. He'd mentioned his boss and a few of his colleagues by name. He even had special nicknames for some of the regulars who came in. But at no point had he ever mentioned anyone named Tony, and if they were close enough that Tony was calling him at home, she found it very strange that he'd never mentioned him before. Robbie's mom had mentioned this to the police not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions,

and each time they told her the lead was a dead end. No one called Tony worked at the pub. None of the regular patrons recognized the name, and in the end, the police told her it was an insignificant detail, and they were taking their investigation in a different direction. Robbie's mom said that at the time, she accepted their decision, but as time went by, it started to bother her more and more. And it bothered me too. To me, the Tony-shaped piece of the puzzle wasn't a dead end.

It was a loose end. The Tony thing wasn't the only loose end, because from what I learned, the whole pub angle had been completely overlooked. Robbie had been due to work that night, but he never made it to the pub, and the police decided whatever caused his disappearance occurred during the 30-minute walk between his home and his place of work.

I understand why the police focused. on that one stretch of road canvassing nearby houses for any potential witnesses, and why they only saw the pub as a place to gather information. But to me, it was definitely something we needed to take another look at, especially since the pub and this mysterious Tony character seemed to be connected in some capacity. After talking to as many of Robbie's friends as I could reach, which I'd initially thought would be my primary path of inquiry, I decided to move on to the pub.

but I couldn't just walk in, declare myself a private investigator, and expect people to give up previously undisclosed information. Instead, I'd have to set myself up as an unremarkable publican, so I could gather as much information as I could as covertly as I could. The money Robbie's parents raised had bought them two weeks' worth of my time, so knowing I'd be spending a lot of time in the pub he used to work in, I moved from the Glasgow Travellage that I was staying in, to a small bed and breakfast within water. walking distance. Then, over the next few days, I started showing my face around the pub.

My cover story was that I was a recently divorced dad of two, who was staying in a cheap bed and breakfast nearby, while trying to get back on my feet again. That way, it made sense for me to be hanging around the pub all day, nursing pints, and maybe putting a few quid on a horse race or two while I was there. It was that kind of lower-end country pub, pints, pies, and the odd punt from the compulsive gamblers sat in their wee corners, clutching the racing papers. And as much as I hate to say it, I actually fit right in. Having spent so long in the army, I was used to hanging around a dodgy pub or two, and being perched on a bar stool nursing a few pints was probably the best time on the job I've ever had.

It was actually quite a good laugh at times. The bar staff and regulars seemed like decent folk. But still, I kept my mind on the job. and did as much listening as I could. I popped in and out for a few days, a pint around lunchtime, one in the late afternoon. Then I'd usually head back in the early evening

when it was busiest. By my fifth day, I was getting quite a warm welcome from some of the regulars, and even the moody-faced barman seemed to soften up a bit. They were obviously getting quite comfortable with me, which suited me loads

because it meant that I could start asking the odd question without ruffling anyone's feathers. But as it turns out, I didn't need to ask any to hear Tony's name being mentioned. I was sat there Thursday night, pretending to watch whatever football they had on the telly when this scruffy-looking bloke in a green parka walks into the pub. He says hello to one or two people, but only in passing, as he walks straight up to the bar with a very serious look on his face. He ends up standing right next to me as he gets the barman's attention.

But then, thinking that he's just going to be. to put in a drink order, the barman just looks at him as he's pouring a pint, as if to say, What are you having? The scruffy bloke then shakes his head, beckons him over, and then asks him, is Tony going to be in tonight? He didn't whisper it by any means, but he clearly didn't want to broadcast his question to the whole pub. The only trouble was, he was saying it right next to the one person who had a vested interest in overhearing him. And as you can imagine, the second I heard that name, my ears pricked up. The guy asked after Tony, and in a similarly muted voice, the barman told him that Tony would be by later on that evening. The scruffy guy then asked

the barman to pass on an apology to Tony if he saw him first. The barman just replied, Save it, I'm not the one you've got to impress. And the way he said it, it was like his scruffy acquaintance was on the way to the gallows. After the quiet scolding from the barman, the scruffy fella scuttled out of the pub, looking very, very worried. And right away, I'm beginning to get an idea of who this Tony guy is. But again, I've changed his name to protect the innocent. He was obviously someone people were afraid of, which meant that Robbie's mom had no idea how right to be concerned she really was.

Having heard Tony was stopping by later that night, I finished my pint, then ducked out for a few hours to eat something, neck a few cups of coffee, and generally sober up a bit so I'd be fit to work. A few hours later, I was back on that very same bar stool, eyes peeled for anyone who even looked like they might be Tony. I was halfway through my second pint, and becoming increasingly worried that the barman's tip might have been incorrect, when in walks a bloke that looked as wide as he was tall.

He's got this massive gold watch on, all kinds of rings, a gold chain around his neck. He's obviously got a few quid, and he doesn't mind showing it off either. He also looked like he'd spent most of his life lifting weights, and not without a bit of help from the pharmacist, if you catch my drift. I had to wait until he got to the bar before I got actual confirmation. But as he strode through the bar, the way everyone looked at him behind his back told me everything I needed to know. He gets to the bar, and I hear, You all right, Tony?

From the barman. Tony orders a Guinness, takes a seat down the bar from me, and then he and the barman start talking in low voices. But this time, because the pub is in a wee bit busier state and they're further down the bar, I have no idea what they're saying. I got the feeling that I was missing out on something I wanted to hear, but then again, I wanted everything that came out of his bloody mouth. So I stayed put, kept my eyes forward, and tried to pick up on what I could. which sadly wasn't very much. But then, after finishing his pint of Guinness, I heard Tony tell the barman,

See you Sunday, then off he went. I kept up my cover and popped in over the Friday and Saturday just to keep up appearances. Then come Sunday I was in the pub from the moment the doors opened, waiting for Tony to show up again. He walks in just after three, plants himself at the bar, then asks the barman to put the boxing channel on

after ordering his pint of Guinness. The barman does as he's told right away. Then for the next few minutes, Tony's glued to the TV above the bar, riveted by whatever boxing highlights were playing. Now, I happened to know a thing or two about boxing, enough to be able to use it as a means of striking up a conversation. But the thing that really struck me in that moment

was when I reminded myself that Robbie, my missing person, had been a passionate and dedicated boxer. I simply cannot overstate how much of the same thing. a rush it is when it seems like a lead is coming together like that. And again, it proved how right Robbie's mom really was to be concerned about him. Her son and this Tony bloke were now connected in two ways. And considering the kind of esteem people held him in, I realized just how much of a balls-up the police had made in not following up the lead.

So as I'm sipping my pint, I start making comments on the boxer's form, on their striking ability, stuff like that. I'm not directly addressing the Tony character. I'm just invoking that ancient publican tradition of talking loudly until someone joins in the conversation. It probably sounds a bit mental now that I've typed it out like that, but it worked, and before long, me and Tony were having a bit of sporadic back and forth. I introduced myself, not offering up my real name but a variation on it, then bought him a pint when I'd finished off my own.

He asked how I knew so much about boxing, and I told him another variation on the when I said that I used to help a friend train for fights back when I was in the Navy. It turns out he too was an amateur boxer back in the day, and he retained a huge passion for it throughout his life. He then asked what I was doing out in Crossley, and I gave him the whole sob story about being freshly and bitterly divorced. Tony looked fairly disinterested by the end of my explanation, so in an attempt to keep his interest, I asked him if he ever bet on matches, what with him knowing so much about boxing. He made a bit of a face and then said something like, that rubbish? No, not anymore. To keep the conversation going, I made out that I used to be quite

a big-time gambler before I got married, and then I was planning on getting back into it now that the wife didn't have a grip on my finances. He sort of rolled his eyes, but he was still with me when I asked him if he had any tips or anything, like any talented young boxers that he might know of. He then told me that the best piece of advice he could ever give me was not to gamble on professional boxing at all. According to him, it was all rigged, the refs were all paid off, the fighters all took dives, and were working from scripts, all to funnel money into the hands of the bookies. Maybe it's the cynic in me, but I can't say I didn't agree with him a wee bit. So, I asked him a very genuine question, and quizzed him on what combat sports were fit to bet on.

He just sort of looked off at the telly for a while, not saying anything, then got this very sinister look about him. Tony was smiling, but he had this look in his eye, this wolfish, almost bloodthirsty look. He started telling me about these small-time kickboxing fights in Thailand that he'd been to, and how if he knew the sport, he could win thousands of US dollars a night betting on these tiny, 100-person spectator events on the outskirts of Bangkok. He said big fighters just do it for the money, but the smaller, up-and-coming lads who put way more emphasis on honor and skill, they quite literally fight for their lives. A few wins in the lower divisions could mean getting their names on bigger and better cards, and the money they earned could end up catapulting their families out of poverty.

That, according to Tony, was the purest form of fighting there was. Everything else was just theater. He seemed to know an awful lot about boxing outside of the actual sport. He knew about the gambling side, but he seemed to know a wee bit about the promotional side too. I then asked what he did for a living, as in if he was involved in that promotional side, or if he ran a gym or anything. He said he visited a gym, which was only too obvious from the looks of him, but that he hadn't been involved in organizing events for years and years. According to him, it was a lot of stress, not too much money, and then added,

I'll stick to the side of the TV screen, thank you very much. I took two things away from this part of our conversation. Number one, Tony didn't answer my question in that he danced around telling me what he did for a living. And number two, he was lying. I know it's a bit of a detective story cliche at this point, but you really do get a sense of when people are lying to you, and when Tony told me that he hadn't been involved in boxing promotions for years and years, I knew that wasn't true. Everything else he told me was correct, but that part wasn't.

He was still involved in some capacity. He just didn't feel comfortable telling a stranger, which to me was basically like striking oil. I had my number one person of interest connected to my missing person in more than one facet, and not only did I have a strong suspicion that he was lying to me, But I was 90% sure that he was involved in some kind of organized crime. Robbie needed money to move into Glasgow, and if Tony was involved in loan sharking, then that might well account for his disappearance. And by that, I don't mean like when he couldn't pay, they rolled him up into a carpet and chucked him in a lock.

I mean, a lot of people get themselves into debt, then just voluntarily disappear, mainly because they're so afraid of the previously mentioned carpets. People do it with big banks too. They try all sorts of scams, they disappear, change their names, even fake their own deaths. So when some big former boxer is threatening to break your legs if you don't get his money to him on time, voluntary disappearances are surprisingly likely. I wasn't 100% certain that Tony was loan-sharking, but I wasn't about to ask him during that first conversation.

When you're working with a cover story, those first contacts are all about winning trust, push too hard and you push them away. I had to wait until the next day to see Tony again, but when I did, I had a plan waiting. I told him that I'd love to buy him a pint, but I was skint. My soon-to-be ex-wife wouldn't let me into our joint account because we'd already signed the divorce papers, so until I could sell off some possessions, I was brassic.

Any loan shark worth his salt would have seen that as a clear business opportunity, but all Tony did was offer his sympathies before offering to buy me a pint instead. I accepted his offer, quietly taken aback that my Lone Shark theory had potentially been ruled out. Then I asked him if he just so happened to know anyone who might be interested in lending me a bit of short-term cash. Again, he shook his head and told me that he didn't know anyone who could help me. But then, after a pause, he asked me, Have you definitely got some money coming in on Friday? It was a very loaded question, but the thing that really got my attention was how Tony suddenly

seemed to have a bit of that wolfish look about him, like the one he had earlier. I told him that, yes, I definitely had some money coming in that Friday, which by that point was only the day after next. He then asked me, you definitely know your boxing, eh? Enough to put money on it? Again, I told him yes. I knew my boxing, and most definitely enough to put a few quit on. At which point, Tony's gaze became very intense.

He looked me over for a few moments, then told me, If you want to make enough money to last you a good few years, be in the pub, closing on Saturday night, with a couple of grand in cash. And at that, he finished off his pint of Guinness and said his goodbyes, then walked out of the pub. I immediately informed my bosses that I had a huge potential lead regarding a person of interest, and then told Robbie's parents that their suspicions regarding the mysterious Tony character had most definitely been warranted.

The only problem was, I had no physical evidence that Tony's criminality was connected to Robbie's disappearance, only strong suspicions. We knew Robbie needed money. That was the only reason he was working in the pub. It was a stepping stone to something greater. So what if Tony had been the one to offer it to him, via some kind of illicit gambling operation? Robbie could have gotten in too deep, made a bet that he couldn't honor, or he could have threatened to expose Tony's criminality after being duped out of his wages. There were a ton of possibilities, but like I said, I didn't have evidence for any of them.

However, what I did have was a golden opportunity to gather said evidence by meeting Tony back at the pub at come closing time on Saturday. I didn't have any kind of secret or hidden cameras I could use, but I did have one of those small, old-fashioned dictation machines that I could place in the chest pocket of my jacket. That way, I could record any conversations we had, and potentially obtain audio that would be of huge interest to the police. And that was the only surefire method that we had to get the investigation into Robbie's disappearance back on track, and to make sure that it was headed in the right direction. It was an exciting moment, the first time in my career that I felt like a proper secret agent. But unfortunately for me, that midnight

meeting would result in my second brush with almost certain death. As instructed, I made sure that I was at the pub before closing time on Saturday night. It was a nervous wait, but eventually, Tony showed up. However, instead of coming inside and sitting down at the bar like he usually did, he just caught my attention from the doorway, and then beckoned me to follow him. I walked out of the pub with Tony to my front, and as we walked to his car, he turned his back to me, giving me the perfect opportunity to reach into my chest pocket and switch on my dictation machine. The tapes were tiny and only had about 45 minutes worth of recording time to them, but there'd be no switching it on in his car without raising suspicion, and he had eyes on me as we walked out of the pub, so I had to do it there and then,

or not do it at all. As we walked to his car, I saw two blokes sitting in the back seat of a gray Mercedes. I'll be honest, this did ring some alarm bells, but there was also a chance that wherever we were going to gamble my cash, Tony thought it best to take some muscle with him. So, I walked over to his car, climbed into the passenger seat after giving the heavies in the back a nervous greeting, and then off we went towards our mystery destination. Obviously the first question I had for Tony was, where are we going? He gave me one of those wolfish smiles and told me, you'll see. We kept on driving for a minute or two, and since I didn't know the area very well, I had no clue where he was taking us. And then, after the silence got a bit too uncomfortable, I asked him,

are we going to bet on a boxing match? And he told me, could be, and then asked if I had it on me. Assuming he meant the cash, I lied, told him I did, patting a bulge in my jacket pocket that had a pair of rolled-up socks in it. Not exactly a Hollywood prop, but little bluffs like that can be very effective. I then asked him what kind of fight we were going to. Tony paused before speaking, and then asked if I remembered what he'd said about those Muay Thai fights in Thailand. I remembered exactly what he'd said about those young, hungry fighters, and how ferociously they fought.

Tony had also mentioned that some of those fights were unsanctioned events, sometimes organized between towns or villages, your best fighter versus ours, for honor, glory, and untold riches for those with the stones to risk their hard-earned money. And that's when it clicked. Tony wasn't taking me to a boxing match he knew was rigged. He was taking me to an unsanctioned, illegal boxing match that he had organized himself. I had to remind myself that I was recording the whole conversation, and since he was feeling talkative, I decided to ask some much more direct questions.

Questions I remember asking him with this sort of feigned horror. It's not going to be bare-knuckle, is it? Tony didn't say anything. He just nodded. I then asked if the fighters ever got hurt. He told me, Combat sports can be dangerous. Sometimes people go down and they don't get back up again.

Sad fact. And it was my turn to stay quiet. Not so much because of the brutal honesty behind Tony's words, but because I suddenly realized what had happened to the missing Robbie. A clean-cut, square-go lad like him would never have gambled his wages away. But what he might have done is accept an offer to fight in one of those matches, if it meant walking away with a king's ransom and prize money, enough to move to Glasgow, enough to kickstart his dream sooner rather than later.

I thought I had the perfect opportunity to ask, and considering what Tony had just said, I felt like I was on the cusp of him admitting to being involved in Robbie's disappearance. But when I asked him if anyone had died in the ring recently, he told me, I think that's enough questions for now, don't you? And as he said that, I started to recognize some of the buildings we were passing, but they didn't make any sense at all. They would have meant that Tony had just driven us around in circles for maybe 10 to 15 minutes, only for us to end up right back where we started. I asked Tony again, where are you taking me? And once again, he told me, you'll see. And seconds later, we pulled up outside a building that I recognized in an instant. It was the B&B that I'd been standing.

in. We sat there in the car for a second before Tony slowly turned in his seat to look at me. I kept up the act for as long as I could, asking if he was pulling some kind of wind-up on me, and his response made my blood run cold. We know who you are. I was scared, but I knew from my training that I had to stick to my story no matter what. I told him I had no idea what he was talking about, that I was exactly who I said I was, but it was no good. I was still trying to reason with him when one of the fellas in the back seat reached over my shoulder, grabbed the dictation machine out of my pocket, and then held it up for Tony to see. He took it, and then asked me, How many more of these have you got? And the heavy in the back seat must have seen me fiddling

with something in my jacket pocket as I walked to the car. But at the time, all I was thinking in my fear-addled mind was, how the hell did they know? Seeing as it was most likely pointless, I decided to stop lying and told Tony that the dictation machine was the only one I had with me. He then told me that we were going up to my room to have a chat, and if I said a word to anyone in the B&B, anyone who might be awake at that time, then he'd burn the whole place down with me in it. We went up to my room, and while Tony's heavies ransacked the place, it was very surreal seeing them do it quietly.

He told me to take a seat on the bed. apparently he and his boys had decided to do a bit of research on me before they committed to taking me to an illegal fight and whoever Tony was connected to was a lot more capable and powerful than I could ever imagine Tony started explaining that I'd caused him an awful lot of trouble his routines would have to change he wouldn't be able to go to the pub anymore all because he knew he couldn't trust me not to tell my boss is everything He said he might not have been able to stop me talking in the past, but he'd certainly be able to stop me from talking in the future. And at that, one of his heavies pulled out a length of electrical cord from his jacket pocket, as the guy started to fashion an improvised noose from the cord.

Tony explained that killing me would bring a lot of unnecessary attention down on him and his business partners. But faking a scene where I had ended my own life, that would cause a lot less of a fuss. I remember him saying something like, A lot of ex-squaddies end up that way. No one would bat an eyelid if they'd found you hanging in a cupboard, would they? I can't overstate just how chilling that was, knowing that Tony and his partners somehow had access to my service records. But ironically, it was that little detail that may well have ended up saving my life.

Back when I was in Northern Ireland, one of my sections Land Rovers was caught in an IRA ambush near a place called Cross Maglan. I was wounded as we fought our way out of it, but two of my section mates lost their lives. The injuries I sustained resulted in my eventual discharge from the army, and apparently Tony had read all about it. He'd been ready to have me killed. He'd been ready to fake a tragic, self-inflicted end, but after reading about the incident in which I'd received a mention in dispatches, he decided it was bad form to kill someone who'd already cheated death once. He gave me some big speech about how we were both soldiers and then war. Honorable soldiers don't just kill each other

when the battle ends. The winners and the losers come to an agreement, and according to Tony, that's exactly what we were going to do. We didn't so much come to an agreement as Tony imposed terms. The only reason he mentioned young boxers getting killed in those illegal fights was that he accepted certain people deserve to know what happened to their missing family members. They needed to accept that their loved ones weren't coming back, so that their hearts could mend and they could move on with their lives. But that said, Tony was all I was ever going to get out of him, and if any of my colleagues decided to visit Crossley in the future, it was me that was going to pay the price. Tony and his boys didn't just know about my service record and who I worked for. They knew where my

mom lived, any further attempts to interfere with their operation, and it'd be her that ended up hanging in a cupboard with a wee note saying that she couldn't stand the arthritic pain anymore. That was obviously the bit which terrified me most, the idea that he might hurt my own mother. But the thing that really broke me was the fact that he knew her name, where she lived, and he knew about the medical condition she'd been struggling with for the better part of a decade. And even as someone who was immersed in the world of information retrieval, I was astounded at how Tony had been able to get his hands on all of that, information in just a few short days. That's round about the time that I realized Tony couldn't

have been running the illegal boxing ring on his own. He must have had some very wealthy and very powerful partners to get his hands on all my personal information so fast. For all I know, they hired one of AIS's competitors, which let me tell you, would have set them back an astonishing amount of money if they wanted to get their info in that kind of time frame. Then, after we shook on our little agreement, Tony and his heavy heavy, I've left me in a ransacked bedroom, having taken all my notebooks and dictation tapes with them. I left Crossley with my tail between my legs, having been dramatically and unexpectedly outmatched. I told my boss is everything, that I'd been compromised, that my family was at risk, and to their

credit they made arrangements to ensure their safety. But more importantly, to me, I told Robbie's parents everything too. That hadn't been part of the deal between me and Tony, as I think he knew good and well that it was a term that I'd never accept. I told them that although I had no evidence of it, I knew for certain that Robbie had been manipulated into taking part in an underground boxing match. And I also told them that there was a very good chance that Robbie had sustained fatal injuries during one of those fights, and that the events organizers had then covered up his death. In all probability, his body would never be found, and his killers would never be brought to justice. And even with

all the information I was able to forward to the police, Tony would be on the run, knowing full well that his part in the operation had been compromised. I apologized to Robbie's parents over and over again for not being able to bring their son home, but they showed patience and strength of spirit, and that was the closest evidence I've come across for there being a big man upstairs. They told me what I'd done was enough, that I'd brought them more answers and more closure than the police had in almost a year of investigating. It didn't matter to them that Robbie's killers mightn't face justice in life, because in their opinion, the justice they'd face in the great thereafter would be far greater than anything

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third year at college when I started to really understand the lay of the land. This was no ordinary college town. Nestled deep in the Appalachian Mountains, the crisp frost-bitten air of winter seemed to seep right into your bones. And the locals, or townies as well, we students called them, carried a chill in their demeanor just as biting. The school was a speck of academia in a town that hadn't changed much in decades, a place where the mountains loomed over every shoulder and eyes followed you a bit too closely at the local stores. Most townies didn't care much for us students. We were interlopers, seasonal invaders in their steady, slow-paced world. They viewed us with a mix of suspicion and disdain, an undercurrent that was always

there, though rarely spoken out loud. There was one place, though, where our worlds collided, the club. It was an old bar with a battered wooden sign and windows so fogged up with age and cigarette smoke that you couldn't see inside until you pushed through the door. On any given night, it thrummed with a mix of Johnny Cash and the latest pop hits, a bizarre cocktail of old and new that somehow defined this town. It was frequented by both students and locals, a neutral ground, or so it seemed. I'd heard stories about one particular townie, a rugged guy who looked like he'd been chiseled out of the mountains themselves. He had a reputation. Saturday nights, he'd walk into the club with a storm cloud over his head, looking for trouble, and he almost always found it. Last weekend

he'd plopped down uninvited at a table of students. The air had thickened, heavy with the imminent threat of violence that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Words were exchanged, none too friendly, and it didn't take long before fists did the talking. The students ended up in the hospital. And the townie? He walked away Scott Free. The owner, a burly man with a graying beard and wary eyes, never interfered.

Business as usual. As I sat in my dorm room, a small cramped space I shared with a buddy from back home, the story replayed in my mind. My dad, a stern man with a moral backbone that could withstand any storm, always told me, Son, don't you ever let yourself be a victim.

Stand up for what's right. Stand up for your friends. His words were a constant echo in my thoughts, a mantra that I couldn't shake off. That week, as the temperature dropped and the winds howled like the lonesome cries of the mountain, I made a decision. No more.

We wouldn't cower. We'd confront. Preparation was key. I wasn't just going to walk into the lion's den without armor. I gathered old magazine. bagzines, stacking them thick around my torso, securing them with electrical tape until I resembled a makeshift night. Into my jacket pocket, I slipped an empty Coke bottle, just a piece of trash to anyone who saw it, but in the right hands it was as good as a baton. Saturday night came

with a vengeance, the cold biting harder than usual as if it too sensed the brewing storm. We headed to the club early, claimed a table with a good view of the door, and waited. The place filled up fast, the air a mix of laughter, chatter, and the undercurrent of music that was too loud to allow for easy conversation. My heart beat a rhythm against the magazine armor, anticipation mixing with fear and a stubborn, unyielding resolve. Tonight's the night, I whispered to my friends, my voice steady. We teach that jerk a lesson. The door swung open, letting in a gust of icy air, and there he was, silhouette framed like a gunslinger in an Western, Showtime. The moment he stepped through the door, the club's atmosphere thickened,

like the pressure drop before a storm. He scanned the room, his eyes hard, unsmiling, a hunter gauging his terrain. My grip tightened around the beer glass, the cold sweat of it mirroring my own. He ambled over and without an invite dropped into the chair next to me. The old wooden seat groaned under his weight as if it too protested his presence. I kept my eyes on the amber liquid in my glass, watching the bubbles rise and burst, a momentary distraction from the tension building at our table. Well, look who decided to join us, I murmured, my voice edged with feigned cheerfulness. My friends stiffened, the banter dying on their lips as they eyed the intruder.

He didn't say a word. His hand found my thigh, squeezing tight, a grimace of a smile on his face, as if enjoying the discomfort he elicited. The club buzzed around us, but at every. At our table the silence was suffocating. You certainly aren't shy, I commented, laughter forced and hollow. The bar quieted, the sudden drop in noise making my next move feel like a spectacle. With my free hand I pretended to adjust my cap, and as my hand came down, I flicked a pinch

of Copenhagen snuff from my cheek right into his eye. He recoiled, cursing as his hands flew up to his face. Seizing the moment I drove my fist into his throat, an action as shocking to him and as it was to me. He stumbled back, toppling the chair, a look of bewildered pain on his face. Take it outside, the owner barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Outside the cold hit us like a wall, but adrenaline kept the chill at bay. The townie was on his feet, fury etched across his features as he lunged at me. I dodged, the magazines taped to my chest absorbing the brunt of his poorly aimed punch. My hand found the coke bottle in my jacket as he came at me again.

This time I didn't dodge. I swung, the bottle connecting with a sickening thud against his skull. He staggered, dazed, and that's when my friends joined in. The alley echoed with the sound of our boots against his body, the grunts and curses filling the air. He fell then, his cries cutting short as he curled into himself defenseless. The brutality of our actions, the rage and fear, mingled into a potent, toxic rush.

We kicked until our breaths came heavy and harsh, until the distant wail of sirens pierced our fury. Let's go, I shouted, and we scattered the taste of violence bitter in my mouth. Months later, I saw him again. He was by the bar, in a wheelchair, his body smaller, broken. Our eyes met, his flinching with a vulnerability that punched me harder than any fist could. I looked away, haunted by the memory of that night, by the justice and revenge we thought we saw.

served. Sitting there, staring into my drink, I felt the weight of my father's words, of the lessons on right and wrong. Had we crossed a line, the victory felt hollow, the lesson bitter, actions and consequences, they follow you, echo back in ways you can't predict. And as I left the club that night, the chill wasn't just from the mountain air, it was from the realization of what we'd become, of what I'd become. A protector, A perpetrator. The lines had blurred, and the reflection in the glass wasn't one I recognized anymore.

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He was often away on business and had harbored suspicions for some time. To gather solid evidence, he called us. Some of you might wonder why he didn't just set up nanny cams or go through her phone. The explanation is simple, digital literacy. The client was in his 60s and his wife was in her 20s. He knew she was unfaithful, but he couldn't secure a clean break divorce without evidence to contest the prenuptial agreement. When he first suspected his wife of having her boyfriend over,

he installed nanny cams to catch them in the act. Somehow, they figured out the cameras were there and there and changed venues to avoid getting caught. Next, he tried to sneak a look at her phone, hoping to guess the password and sift through her emails and such. She had it bricked before he even had a chance, and some tech kid wanted a hefty fee to bypass the security and retrieve the data. We charged him half that amount to obtain photographic evidence of an intimate rendezvous, nothing salacious, of course, but incriminating enough to facilitate a swift and inexpensive of divorce. The wife was clever. She avoided her boyfriend while her husband was in town,

but, as the saying goes, when the cats away, the mice will play. To catch her, the husband planned a fake business trip, didn't leave the city, and stayed in a nice downtown hotel. He paid us to tail his wife while demanding updates every five minutes. That was me for five nights, following this woman and her boyfriend around the city, while my partner sat in the passenger seat taking pictures. Each night he'd take her to his condo in the suburbs, and every morning he'd drive her back home. They had no clue they were being followed,

especially at night when it was dark and they visited high traffic areas. I was on the night team, from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m., since the boyfriend drove the target home so early, my partner and I would be there to see it, bleary-eyed and wired on Duncan coffees. But then, one morning, the boyfriend came out alone, looking like he hadn't slept a wink all night but was somehow headed to the gym early, dressed in a hoodie in shorts. After tossing a suspiciously full gym bag into the trunk of his car, they took off. At first, my partner and I joked about it. I woke him up, pointed to our guy,

and probably made some inappropriate joke about how he and the client's wife had been up all night. We didn't grasp the significance of this deviation until much later that day. After spotting the red-eyed boyfriend walking out of his condo alone, we handed over to the day team and went home for some rest. When we were ready to start again, I checked in with the day team, amazed to learn they were still parked outside the boyfriend's condo. He hadn't returned home from work, and as far as they knew, our client's wife hadn't left the condo either.

Our day team thought the pair had a heavy night of drinking and dancing, among other things. But by 8 p.m., with neither the wife nor her boyfriend spotted, they began to suspect something was amiss. They informed us, but we only really understood the situation, at about 8 p.m. I remember telling my partner, $20 says he's back before dark. The guy must be running on fumes already. A few hours later, I was handing over that $20, still still. staring at the guy's empty parking spot. We didn't have anything else to do, but sit there, watching the condo for any sign of the wife. She was our target, not her boyfriend, and if at any

point we felt we needed to track him to find her, we'd deal with that as it came. So for the second night in a row, we sat outside the boyfriend's condo, bored out of our skulls. We were almost constantly in touch with the client, and obliged to be frank about the status of our investigation. We had to level with him. There had been no sign of his wife or her boyfriend for 24 hours. He told us to keep him updated and left us to our work. We waited all night, but still, there was no sign of either the target or her boyfriend. By that point, we suspected the wife had tricked us into waiting there while she sneaked out a back door.

We called our boss, who agreed we should check out the client's home for any activity. There was no sign of anyone there, but soon after it was no luck. longer a problem. The day team took over for the next 12 hours, and it was our turn to rest. Come 8 p.m. at our handover, we learned there had been no activity at the client's house, or the boyfriend's condo. The day team had tried several other regular hangouts of the boyfriend and our client's wife, but there was no sign of them anywhere. That meant 36 hours of no contact, which is not what our clients pay us for. But then, right as we were trying to think of a way to get back on track, we got a call from our boss. The client had reached out with some concerning news.

His wife had been due to meet a friend for a dinner date but hadn't shown up. Equally concerned, her friend had called her husband, our client, saying that she hadn't sent any cancellation and wasn't answering any calls. Obviously the loss of contact was concerning, but having one of her friends on the verge of reporting her missing, suggested a whole other level of urgency was required. We had to make sure she wasn't still in the boyfriend's condo. Since it was only a few minutes past nine, I figured I might catch the building superintendent to run an old scam on him and try to get a look inside.

I told my partner to stay put, got out of the car, and walked right up to the apartment building. I tried to open the door without a key, and as soon as I started loudly trying, the superintendent came running to see who I was. I explained that I was looking for a friend of mine, how I hadn't seen him in a few days, and how I was worried about him. The guy started giving me all that,

I can't let you in without prior permission, but I turned the Hollywood up to 11, and started giving him a whole sob story about how my friend had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and was taking it really hard. I added that his mom was in the hospital with a busted hip, having fallen down the stairs when she heard the news and fainted. I laid it on thick for the guy,

said whatever tear-jurking from him. thing came to mind, and in the end, he agreed to show me into the boyfriend's apartment, so long as it was under his strict supervision. Mission accomplished, right? If the wife was in there, I could say that I was mistaken, and that I must have given the wrong address. Sure, that was getting a little too close to the target for comfort, but these weren't your regular circumstances anymore. The client wasn't just concerned for his wife's fidelity anymore. He had a bad feeling that he might have stolen a bunch of jewelry from him, then ran off with her lover after losing their tail. He hadn't told us that was a possibility before, but when he did, it made the situation time

critical, so to speak. Anyway, we headed up the stairs to the second floor, and the guy let me into the condo that we had been staking out. He opened the door for me, reminding me that he was about to tail me everywhere. Then off we went into the TV room, the kitchen, and eventually the bedroom. I went to open it and found the door was locked. I called out, not specifically to the wife, just to anybody, but no one replied. The guy then started saying how no one was home, but I started explaining how we definitely needed to get that bedroom door open, because I was scared that my buddy had done something terrible, either to himself or someone else. He said he didn't have the keys to the doors inside of these units, which was understandable. But then,

As he was talking, he suddenly stopped. His eyes went wide, and he pointed down at my hand. There was blood, like old, half-dried stuff, smeared across my lower fingers and palm, all from where I'd gripped the door handle. My adrenaline started pumping. I told the guy to call the cops, because either they were going to have to arrest me for criminal damage,

or they were going to want to see whatever the hell was behind that locked bedroom door. I knew I'd have to stay anyway. I had freaking forensics all over my hands. So when the guy agreed to go get the cops, I just hung out in the hallway outside and called my partner to let him know things had taken a real dark turn up there. We suspected the worst, but having it confirmed didn't make it any easier. The cops arrived with the whole team. They got the bedroom door open, and there she was, lying on the floor, strangled.

We didn't find out until much later on, but the wife had actually tried to break it off with her lover after a night on the town. She thought one last blowout would soften the blow, but after too many cocktails, the guy wasn't anywhere near as level-headed as she figured he might be. Somehow, he came to the decision that if he couldn't have her, no one could. That morning, when we saw him wearing his workout gear and looking like he hadn't slept, he'd murdered our client's wife less than an hour before we were sat there in our car, having no clue that a murder was happening less than 100 yards away.

It makes me sick to think about, even all these years later, knowing that we were so close, but there was nothing we could have done to stop it. I heard lover boy went to prison for first-degree murder, and that the rich client remarried not long after. I have a ton of stories from my time as a private investigator, but that's by far the one that haunts me the most. at San Manuel is California's number one entertainment destination for today's superstars. Catch the Jonas Brothers return to the Yamava Theater stage on April 30th, the powerful vocals of Demi Lovato on May 17th, and the signature Southern Country Rock of Eric Church on July 19th. Tickets on sale now at Yamavat Theater.com, only at Yamava Resort and Casino, celebrating its 40th

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