Just Creepy: Scary Stories - TRUE SCARY STORIES FOR SLEEP | HORROR STORIES TOLD IN THE RAIN

Episode Date: September 14, 2024

These are 3 TRUE SCARY STORIES FOR SLEEP | HORROR STORIES TOLD IN THE RAIN Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Intro 00:00:18 Story 1 00:20:22 Story 2 00:34:14 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 #truestories 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

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Just share your size, style, and budget, and your stylist sends personalized looks right to your door. Stitchfix. Get started today at stitchfix.com. To my stylist. This look is dedicated to you. Thank you. Thank you. I've been a subscriber for about a year now, and I've been meaning to write to you for quite some time. It's taken me months to finally put pen to paper, so to speak, and write this. You see, I used to be a YouTuber, and I had quite a lot of subscribers, too. Since this story is about some of the perils of being a big YouTuber, I think you're the perfect person to tell it to.

One rainy summer evening back in 2013, I was browsing YouTube to combat some pretty severe boredom when I came across a video called something like Hellboy comic book page turning. The user who uploaded the video was named Ephemoral Rift, and it consisted of him doing something incredibly boring, or so I thought. He did nothing more than exhibit a hardback compendium of Hellboy issues, and if memory serves me well, he didn't say a single word throughout the entire video. He also delicately turned the pages of the book at a rate which, while not fast by any means, was too quick to read what was written.

Under any other circumstances, I might have been asking myself why in God's name this person felt the need to upload this, but under those particular circumstances, I got an immediate sense of the video's purpose. The man's slow, graceful movements and the sound of the pages being gently turned were somehow phenomenally relaxing. I sat there practically mesmerized with my headphones turned up to 100 for the entire 15-minute duration of the video. When it was done, I actually was done.

wanted more. That's how I discovered autonomous sensory meridian response, or, as you might know it, ASMR for short, the light, tingly sensation certain people feel whenever they're experiencing a relaxing interaction with someone or something. From that day forward, I was hooked. I soon discovered gentle whispering ASMR, or Maria, as she's known to her legions of fans. Then I moved on to ASMR requests and heather feather ASMR, but ephemeral rift was and remains my all-time favorite. It's crazy to think that I still watch his videos more than a decade after I first discovered them. I enjoyed his videos so much that he inspired me to create my own channel. Anyone who wants to start a serious ASMR channel will tell you it's not easy, and it's not cheap.

A decent camera is important, but by far the most essential piece of equipment is a top-of-the-line microphone. For that, I had to wait until my 18th birthday. My mom thought it was a rather odd gift request, but being the wonderfully generous person she is, she honored it, and I was in business. I made my first video in mid-January of 2014, and with the help of all my ASMR Twitter mutuals, my account had a few dozen subscribers by the end of that week.

My first video was a simple, softly spoken poetry reading, but I tried to get more creative with each other. upload. After a while, one video in particular seemed to get way more views than any of my others. It was called something like, Sleep Fairy Conjors Pleasant Dreams, and it was about 17 minutes long. The video consisted of me suggesting pleasant, relaxing things for the viewers to dream about. I put quite a lot of effort into the script and my costume, and I was over the moon to see that the video was actually gaining traction. One night, when the view count of my video was around 2000. I woke up the next morning to find it had over 15,000 views. Not only that, but the number of

subscribers I had jumped from a few hundred to several thousand. My new viewers left dozens of comments. Love the video, one said. This video helped me finally get some sleep, said another. The flattering comments went on and on until I found one that wasn't so flattering. How am I supposed to relax when someone so ugly is talking, said one person. You're so annoying. Delete your account and apologize for thinking anyone wants to look at you, said another. I was definitely taken aback. I wasn't expecting anything so rude or confrontational,

but I was also very aware of the internet phenomenon known as trolling. For anybody unfamiliar, trolling is when someone posts deliberately offensive or provocative messages online to incite emotional responses. adversely affecting the target's well-being. Essentially, they don't mean what they say. Their only goal is to hurt your feelings and demoralize you. The trouble is, it can be very difficult to discern genuine criticism from trolling.

I thought encountering trolls marked my first big test as an online creator, or ASM artist, as we sometimes call ourselves. In reality, it was nothing compared to what I would eventually face. The sad fact of being a female creator online, especially if you show your face on camera, is that you're going to get all kinds of horrible comments from both men and women alike. Female trolls say things to undermine your confidence and self-esteem, but the male trolls say things that make you afraid for your physical well-being. At first, it can be alarming to realize just how many sad, nasty people there are out there. But like most things in life, you can get used to it,

if you remain headstrong. Over time, the negative comments bothered me less and less. By the time I was on the verge of hitting 100,000 subscribers, I could read venom-filled comments and emails all day without feeling a thing. People talk about haters a lot because they're easy to address, and most make it obvious they're not to be taken seriously. If someone puts, you suck, I hate you, in the subject line of an email, you learn not to read it and delete it right away. If someone emails you a suspicious-looking file, you know not to open it unless you want your entire day ruined. But what no one warns you about when you wade into these online spaces as a forward-facing

creator is your fans. You can plaster F the haters on your timeline all day, and no one will bat an eye. But complain about people calling themselves your fans, and you might as well delete your videos and burn your channel. That's why many trolls masquerade as fans. You never really know who has actual concerns and who's just concerned trolling. But even then, they're still trolls, and for the most part, their harassment starts and ends at their keyboard.

Fans, especially the less mentally stable ones, frequently cross that fine line between being welcome supporters and becoming stalkers. Just over a year after I started my channel, my subscriber count was around a quarter of a million. I was producing videos at a rate of roughly one per week. I had thousands of regular viewers, all of whom left encouraging comments. I'd even rented a PO box at the local post office so that fans could send gifts and letters without me giving away my actual address. At first I was apprehensive about what people might send me, but as I said earlier, trolls tend to favor minimal effort. They also don't commit to paying high shipping fees. Since most of my

viewers were in the U.S., the cost to send something overseas meant I only received the occasional postcard, a package of foreign snacks, or in one case, a hand-knitted purple octopus. Things went on like that for quite some time, and it was one of the happiest periods of my life. I was getting paid for doing something I loved, not quite enough to live on, but I didn't care. What made it worthwhile was the people who said I helped them sleep, calm down, or feel less depressed. I started to wonder how far I could go in turning my channel into a full-time career. Around this time, PewDie Pye was starting to make serious money, so it was an exciting time. I felt like I had a bright future ahead of me. Then, I got a letter from Will. Will, who said he

was 37 and also from the UK, wrote me a beautiful letter, waxing lyrical about how much I had helped him in his day-to-day life. He said I helped him with his anxiety. that I'd helped him sleep for the first time in years, and that he was so grateful, he wasn't sure how to repay me. I always made a point of replying to people who took the time to write to me, so I wrote Will a brief response thanking him for his love and support. It wasn't a long letter, not by any means, which made me feel a bit guilty, considering he had written an entire page of A4, along with a postscript that spilled onto the reverse side. But at the risk of sounding cold, I didn't want him to think I was interested in having a pen pal.

It might sound ungrateful to some, but being so heavily followed and scrutinized by people you don't know and can't see can be nerve-wracking. I wanted to grow my following and interact more with my viewers, but at the same time, I didn't want a fan who would obsess over me, and then turn on me. That probably sounds a bit arrogant,

assuming that anyone would become obsessed with me, but the longer I operated my channel, the more aware I became that there are some very loose cannons out there, and Will was one of them. I posted my reply to Will on a Monday morning, on my way to work. Most of the people I wrote letters to didn't reply, and some wrote comments on my videos, saying things like, I got your letter, it means the world to me. Most were socially adept enough to understand that I wasn't looking for a pen pal, but Will didn't seem to understand that.

I got another long letter from him in my PO box the following week. It was another long letter, thanking me for my reply and expressing what a pleasant surprise it had been to hear back from me. He went on to say that many YouTubers simply see their audience as a means of making money, and that I must have a good heart if I took the time out of my busy day to indulge those who, and I quote, worship me. When he used the word worship, I started to feel a creepy discomfort. I disliked the idea of people worshipping me. Being grateful that I helped them relax or sleep was one thing, but anything more extreme than gratitude made me feel uncomfortable. Yet, an attached drawing made me feel a lot better. Will had drawn a picture of me, with a note saying he was completing an art course at the Open University,

and couldn't think of a more beautiful subject to practice sketching with. Credit where it's due, it was a very good drawing. Maybe that's just my ego talking. but it was so touching that it washed away the discomfort from his use of the word worship. I know it might sound hypocritical, disliking scrutiny, but being flattered by a drawing of myself. But it was such a beautiful sketch, from such a talented artist, that I couldn't help but be overwhelmed with gratitude. No one had ever drawn a picture of me before or been so flattering. So against my better judgment, I wrote Will a very short reply, thanking him for the picture, and posted it the next morning. I expected a reply. I'm not naive, but I didn't expect it to be so unhinged.

Curiosity drove me to open the letter when it arrived. I recognized his handwriting from the peculiar way he wrote the A and I in my username, so I knew who it was from before I opened it. This time it was even more flattering with him talking at length about his art projects and the artists who inspired him. But then, towards the end, Will wrote that he had a confession to make. He told me that, since we'd started exchanging letters, his feelings for me had grown stronger than those for a friend or sister. He said he had to face facts, and the biggest fact for him was that

he was more in love with me than he ever thought possible. The final paragraphs were all about this love, how it had started, how it had developed, and how it burned inside him until he couldn't contain it anymore. I skim read the rest, feeling a sinking sensation, as I realized, just how unwell Will was. Towards the end, he mentioned he'd included another picture. I dreaded looking at it, but I did. Will had drawn me again, only this time, I was naked, with a very large round pregnancy protrusion around my stomach.

Standing behind me with his hand cupping my belly was a man he claimed was himself. At the bottom of the page, he titled it Our Future. I threw the picture and letter in my parents' kitchen bin. At the time, I still lived with them. Then I sat at the table and cried. My mom came to see what was wrong,

and we had a big heart to heart about the situation. Her advice was not to let people like that ruin a good thing, and to stop reading letters from this will character, who clearly belonged in a loony bin. Famous people attract weirdos, she said. They always have, and they always will. It's just something you have to get used to while keeping yourself as safe as possible.

So that's what I did. I carried on with what I was doing, uploading videos once a week. I didn't reply to Will's letter or his comments. I just hoped for the best. Well, things didn't turn out for the best. One day, I noticed Will had commented on my latest video, and his comment had gotten more than two dozen replies from other users. Will was complaining that I hadn't replied to his letter,

how he'd included a sketch of me, and how he was upset that I hadn't even bothered to express my gratitude. Some of my other subscribers jumped in to defend me, saying they'd personally received replies for me, and that he should just be patient. Will replied to each one, highlighting how long it had been since he wrote to me and how unfair it was that others got replies, but not him. He did this in a way that was clearly designed to cause conflict. Not once did he mention that I'd written to him, not once, but twice, nor did he mention that he'd sent me a naked, drawing of myself with him cupping my belly. Just thinking about it made my skin crawl.

Knowing what Will was up to made me furious, but instead of replying to his comments to correct him, I consulted an ASMR creators group I was a part of. They advised that I simply block him. You can't fully block people from seeing your videos, at least not that I know of, but you can restrict them from commenting. They're not informed of the restriction. And from their perspective, it looks like their comments are being posted normally, but in reality, they're filtered out.

All I had to do was find Will's username, click the icon by it, and select, hide user from channel. And just like that, he was gone. It was stunning how quickly the problem seemed solved. Will kept commenting occasionally, oblivious to the shadow ban. Then one day, I noticed he hadn't commented in a while. stretched into weeks. Since I'd already blocked his email, his only means of contacting me became the P.O. box. I thought he'd moved on, or I'd eventually get another letter from him.

It turned out to be the second option, though this time it wasn't a letter. It was a postcard. Since he wasn't in the habit of sending postcards, I picked it up and read it out of curiosity. The picture was pretty, but when I turned it over and read the message, a shiver ran through me. All it said in Will's telltale handwriting was, I know what you did. It made for a deeply unpleasant discovery, but it wasn't remotely surprising. Like I said earlier,

I had already expected I might receive further correspondence from him. I just didn't think he had it in him to be so direct. It was mildly intimidating, but it was only a matter of time before Will realized I'd filtered his comments. I felt somewhat relieved that all he chose to do, was send me a postcard with a mildly menacing message. He could have sent me another letter or creepy drawing. He could have sent something worse. Instead, he sent a five-word message, and that was that. To be honest, I thought I'd gotten off lightly. I knew he could create a new

YouTube account or email and harass me, but I could block him. I was a mix of scared, angry and tired, but I felt safe. I thought things were pretty much over, but they weren't, not by a long shot. About a month later, I checked my PO box a few times. Each time there was nothing from Will, and I assumed he'd moved on. More time passed. I was still making videos, doing my thing, and planning on starting a Patreon account. ASMR doesn't really run a lot of ads, so my income wasn't great, but my subscriber base was growing. I was discussing collaborations with big ASMR artists that would boost my channel. One of my subscribers had even knitted me another toy, an orange octopus to go with the purple one. The day came when I got a text alert saying a package had arrived

for me. I hadn't heard from Will in about seven to eight weeks, so I had no reason to think he'd sent me anything. I had errands to run, so I zipped around town, then stopped by the post office to collect my octopus. I walked up to the counter, said hello to the lady, and gave her my P.O. box number while showing her my ID. Normally the person would retrieve my mail, and that would be it. But on this occasion, the woman gave me a nervous look and asked me to confirm my P.O. box number. I'd never had to do that before, but I didn't want to make a fuss, so I repeated the number. The woman had a big smile when I first approached her, but after just a few words, she looked serious, almost frightened, and asked if she could have a private word with me.

I knew it had something to do with Will, but I wasn't sure what. My first thought was that he'd sent me something disgusting, maybe a letter or package they'd had to destroy due to health and safety regulations. But that wasn't the case. What she told me was worse. The postmistress explained how, not a letter. not even a few hours earlier, a man had come to the counter and asked about my PO box. He had a letter to deposit but started asking questions,

who owned the box, how often they collected mail, and what days of the week they usually came in. She told the man it was against policy to divulge personal information, but he insisted, claiming the box belonged to a close friend. When she pointed out that if they were close, he should know their name, the man became aggressive. He only left when he was a close. she threatened to call the police. Instead of putting his letter in my PO box, she kept it to give

to the police, knowing it likely had his fingerprints on it. I felt sick as I realized what had happened, and who had visited her that day. I also felt like an idiot for not realizing that PO boxes can be traced to a location, not just a number. I'd looked into opening a private PO box with better security, but it was too expensive at the time. There's still a shred of sheds, shame when I say this, but I gave up. I wasn't cut out for dealing with psychos like Will, even if it was on an infrequent basis. I deleted my videos, deleted my channel, and although it felt like a weight had lifted, I still harbor some regret for giving up. I've thought about getting back into it from time to time. I could start a new channel, keep my face and location off

camera, kind of like this channel, but every time I think about it, I remember that picture Will drew of me, the one where I was pregnant. Every time that memory snuffs out any desire I have in an instant. I've been playing country music for almost 40 years now, in bars and honky-tons from Shreveport to Kalamazoo. Music has always been my first love, but my second is people. Part of the fun of playing music is getting to meet folks who appreciate it so much. After all, their hard-earned dollars keep gas in our tanks, food in our bellies, and strings on our guitars. So, I figured the least I could do is accept a beer or two when they offer to buy, and let them tell me all about their favorite Hank song.

Every so often, you meet a truly great American. There are some folks out there I'll remember for the rest of my life. But then, sometimes, you meet someone who makes you glad to be leaving town the next morning. We were in a college town called Brookings, up in South Dakota. Nice place, and for the most part, nice people too. We played for three and a half hours at a joint called The Wild Hair. They had a good bar, a good crowd, and served alcohol until two in the morning. So after the show, we pulled up a stool, ordered some bar food,

and nursed a few beers with the locals until closing time, selling CDs and shirts and whatever else we could hawk to them. But it wasn't just about making a few extra bucks. You shake a guy's hand after playing his favorite song, and he's twice as likely to come back and see you the next time you're in town. Anyway, around 1.30 in the morning, most of the bar's patrons were steadily making their departure. Even some of the band had called it a night and headed back to the bus. In the end, it was just me, sitting on a bar stool, and our drummer Larry, trying to convince

people to play a round of pool with him. I was getting ready to head out when an old timer slumped down on the stool next to me and started telling me how we played a damn good show. I told him I appreciated it, and then we got to talking about music. and what it's like touring the country and living on the road. I remember how, after ordering us the last couple of beers, the stranger asked me if we ever broke down in the middle of nowhere. I told him, sure, once or twice, but that sleeping at a truck stop could sometimes be way scarier

than sleeping on some dirt road outside of Nowaresville, USA. He then asked if we carried any protection on the bus with us. And by protection, I don't mean the kind you keep in your wallet. I told him our driver, who doubled as security on an informal basis, was usually packing a pistol of some kind. And sure, there was occasionally a gun or two on the bus, depending on where we were and who was touring with us. I made a joke about how I hoped he wasn't an ATF agent.

The guy laughed before swearing on his mama that he wasn't no fed. He then asked if our driver had ever had to use his pistol. I told him we'd been in some sticky situations. and had some real close calls, but that by the grace of God, I'd never seen anyone shot. He then started telling me how, not only had he once been forced to defend his life and property, but he had taken the lives of three men who tried to kill him. I asked if he was a veteran, because he looked about the age to have served in Korea, or maybe World War II, but he shook his head.

Never served a day in my life, he said. It had been a home invasion, and according to him, it was the most significant event of his entire life. The old-timer said that he lived in a big house he'd bought many years before to house his wife and five children, but after a car accident claimed her and their two daughters, and his sons grew up and moved elsewhere, he was left all alone. That kind of lifestyle suited the old-timer for a while, but then Crystal Meth got a hold of a lot of the folks around that county, and everything changed. Theft and violent crime went through the roof.

Once all the gas stations, liquor stores, and credit unions had been hit, the tweakers started targeting people in their homes. The first time the old-timer was robbed, the tweakers took one of his air conditioning units while he was at work. They must have figured it was just him living there alone because they started targeting the guy's house at least once, sometimes twice a week. He took to staying up on his porch with a pot of coffee,

and a shotgun, just waiting for them to show up. Depriving himself of sleep like that damn near made him sick, but one night he saw lights at the end of his driveway. Minutes later, two tweakers were sneaking up the path. Then, just as they came close enough, he fired off a warning shot over their heads. But instead of just taking off like scared jackrabbits, the tweakers started shooting back as they ran off. The old timer ducked for cover as bullets came flying at him. The last thing he heard, he heard, heard before the tweakers drove off was, We'll be back, you dumb son of a, and when we do, we're going to kill you.

The old-timer went to talk to the town sheriff, who told him that while he had every right to use lethal force to defend himself against deadly threats, it might not be such a good idea if he was outnumbered and outgunned by a bunch of jacked-up tweakers. Under any other circumstances, the sheriff might have placed two of his boys on a nearby highway to act as a kind of quick reaction force.

But given the recent meth-fueled crime wave, he didn't have the bodies to spare. The sheriff told him it might be best if he made himself scarce for a few days, once he made sure he was up to date on his home insurance payments. He was entitled to stand his ground and put up a fight. But he had to ask himself, was that old, empty house worth dying for? The old-timer said he told the sheriff that he was right. He'd head out of town for a few days before returning home, picking through whatever was left and spiking a for-sale sign in the front yard.

He even stopped by the sheriff's department to let him know he was leaving, but not before making a few arrangements and tending to some unfinished business. A few days later, this guy rolls back into town to find bullet holes all over the rear doors of a moving truck he'd rented before heading out. The house was fine. Everything was in its place, but someone had shot up the moving truck. This guy checked things out and saw no one had tried to break into the cab, but after opening up the back of the truck, he found three dead bodies.

A short while later, the sheriff arrived. The guy said everyone was almost gagging from how bad the smell was inside the truck, but it didn't take long to figure out why it smelled so bad. Before shooting and stabbing the hell out of each other, three local tweakers had decided to use the rear storage of the truck as a bathroom. Then, after relieving themselves, the tweakers had closed the truck's door and proceeded to cut each other up and blow each other away. The sheriff said he'd never seen anything like it.

But then again, all kinds of weird things had been happening since meth took over the narcotics scene. The old-timer said that once the scene was cleaned up, the sheriff told him the tweakers had accidentally locked themselves in the back of the moving truck because, by the looks of things, the lock had malfunctioned and couldn't be opened from the inside. According to the sheriff, if it weren't for the triple murder, the truck company might be liable for damages, but they might well have proof of maintenance, meaning they could prove the malfunction was due to consumer fault. The old-timer said

the sheriff then asked him real plain if he had anything to do with that lock not working, and he said no. So that was just about the end of it, only that wasn't strictly true about the old-timer not doing any lock tinkering. Not only had he heavily tampered with the truck's lock, but he'd never even left town in the first place. The old-timer told me he'd rented the most secure hauling truck possible, one that was almost impossible to break into from either inside or outside. He then tinkered with the interior lock, tested it out on an unwitting friend of his to make sure it wasn't functional from the inside,

then got busy with the next stage of his plan. He made the back of that truck look like it was loaded up with electronics. He used all the old TV, radio, and television, VHS boxes he kept up in the attic, stuffed them full of junk to make them feel fuller, then left the rear doors to the truck wide open, like it was bait. And sure enough, the next night, those tweakers showed up just like they promised, three of them, all armed to the teeth. They showed up to get revenge for that old timer having fired that warning shot, which I'm guessing they thought was just a missed shot and not a warning. But upon seeing that

big old moving truck with what looked like thousands of dollars worth of appliances in it, well, they just couldn't resist. All three climbed inside, looked through all the boxes, and were grinning like they'd just won the state lottery. Then, out comes you know who from his hiding place to slam the truck's rear doors shut, locking them inside. At first, the tweakers were spooked. What with the doors slamming closed on them like that? Then they got frustrated when the interior door handle wouldn't function, each of them saying something like, here, let me try, and then cussing the thing out when it wouldn't budge. It took them a while to realize they were trapped in the back of that old moving truck,

but once they did, they started to panic. The old timer said they tried shooting the lockout, and when that didn't work, they tried shooting holes in the doors, hoping their boots might do the rest. He said they spent hours trying everything they could think of to get themselves out of that truck, but it was no good. There was no way out. The old timer and his buddy had tested out just about everything, with the buddy being none the wiser, of course,

until the old timer was satisfied that the truck was inescapable, at least without some serious industrial equipment, and unless they'd just up and stole it, no meth heads are out there driving with industrial strength cutting equipment. It took those fools hours and hours before they figured out they were trapped, and when they did, they started calling for help. Then, and only then, did the old-timer call out to them and tell them exactly what had happened. He said they were furious and tried firing shots in his direction through the side of the truck,

but, as his presence there before me that night confirmed, those shots flew wildly astray. He told those foolish sons of, exactly how he'd trick them into walking into their own tomb. And he said it was only when he used that word, tomb, that it really dawned on them what was happening. He said they begged and pleaded, swearing they wouldn't hurt him if he'd only let them out. The whole thing had been a big old misunderstanding, they said.

Some people were not to be messed with. They just didn't know he was one of them. They went from promising not to hurt him, to promising him hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands of dollars as a reward. The old-timer said he knew it was all bull crap. They'd have said just about anything to get out of that truck. And unfortunately for them, it was way beyond forgiveness.

See, most people would have trapped those tweakers in that truck, called the sheriff, and then laughed their asses off while the deputies dragged them out of the back in cuffs. But that's not what the old-timer had in mind. He let those tweakers sweat it out in that truck with no food or water for three years. whole days. By then, they were drinking their own pee and eating the cardboard from the TV and VHS boxes to stave off hunger. After that, he didn't think it would be much longer before they turned on each other. And when they did, it went off like the Fourth of July in there. I'm not saying that those boys didn't get what they deserved. They're sure something poetic about them getting stuck in a kind of

man-sized rat trap, but what really sent to chill through me was how proud that old-timer was of himself and how he laughed until he weezed, thinking about them begging for help. He said they were praying, crying for their mamas, and he was grinning like a madman, telling me the things he'd say to them. He used to talk about them eating each other, wondering who was going to draw the short straw. He did his best to make sure they went slowly crazy without any food or water until they finally just snapped. As I mentioned already, I'm not saying those tweakers didn't get what was coming to them. But it was the way that old-timer described the whole thing, how proud as a peacock he was of what he did. That's what I found so chilling. If he wanted to deal with them in a permanent

way, he could have shot the truck full of holes, or set it on fire, or driven the thing into a lake. But instead, he let those boys starve, dehydrate, and slowly lose their minds until the thought of eating each other drove them over the edge. At first, that old-timer seemed like a good man, and I guess he was in so many ways. But to think that he had that kind of cruelty in him, that kind of darkness, I'm not ashamed to say it terrified me. I also know that if those tweakers had gotten their hands on that guy, they would have done equally terrible things to him, but you expect that kind of behavior out of those kinds of folks. I didn't expect that guy to have ever done something like that, and certainly not to find it all so hilarious. I mean,

He laughed himself into a coughing fit after mimicking one of the tweakers wailing, Mama, Mama, I'm so sorry. And I shuddered just imagining it. Again, I'm not saying that guy didn't do the right thing. I'm just saying I think he went about it the wrong way and lost a piece of his soul in the process. Ryan Reynolds here from Mint Mobile. I don't know if you knew this, but anyone can get the same premium wireless for $15 a month plan that I've been enjoying. It's not just for celebrities, so do like I did, and have one of your assistant's assistant's

since switch you to MintMobil today. I'm told it's super easy to do at mintmobile.com slash switch. Up front payment of $45 for three-month plan, equivalent to $15 per month required. Intro rate first three months only, then full price plan options available. Taxes and fees extra. Seeful terms at mintmobile.com. In the winter of 2016, Donnie Ray, a 34-year-old hairstylist, found himself living in Brighton, a bustling, culturally rich city along the southern coast of England.

The vibrant atmosphere of this seaside town had become a second home to Donnie, who originally hailed from the fast-paced sprawling streets of New York City. Over a decade earlier, Donnie had crossed the Atlantic and fallen in love with an Englishman, sparking a whirlwind romance that led him to split his life between the two countries. His deep passion for hairstyling, which had driven him since childhood, had made this transatlantic lifestyle not just feasible, but lucrative. But Donnie wasn't just any hairstylist, He was one of the most sought after in the world.

His remarkable talent and creativity had earned him a glittering clientele that included household names like Haley Baldwin and Sigourney Weaver. With his unparalleled skill, Donnie's career thrived on both sides of the ocean, allowing him to seamlessly float between the fashion-forward salons of New York and the edgy, artistic spaces of London and Brighton. His name was synonymous with style, innovation, and a sense. certain kind of magic only the most talented in his field could possess. However, by the close of 2015, Donnie's life took a dramatic turn. The end of his 12-year relationship with his partner, a relationship that had been at the center of his world, left him devastated.

What followed was a turbulent period in his life, one that would spiral into a series of painful and life-altering events, shaking the foundation of everything he had known. It's not exactly clear how Donnie's relationship came to an end, but by his own admission, it sent him into a deep and debilitating depression. Donnie was prone to such bouts of melancholy, having already suffered his fair share of personal tragedy. When he was just a boy, both of his parents passed away after contracting HIV, which led to the exceptionally deadly acquired immune deficiency syndrome, AIDS.

Donnie's father was a heroin addict and contracted HIV through share. wearing used needles, then unwittingly passed it on to Donnie's mother. When young Donnie learned that his parents were going to die, it terrified him. Watching them slowly slip away had a profoundly terrible effect on him. Separating from his boyfriend during the winter of 2016 resulted in similar feelings of grief and loss, which brought back terrible memories of his parents' passing. Donnie knew he had to do something to shake the depression he was feeling, so after a period contemplation, he downloaded a dating app known as Grindr. Donnie was no doubt looking for what

is commonly referred to as a rebound, a brief love affair believed to boost the recently rejected self-esteem. In doing so, he matched with a 24-year-old Scottish man named Dave Sayer. Dave, a native of Edinburgh, Scotland's historic capital, endured a tumultuous and difficult childhood. The specifics of his early years remain somewhat obscured, but what is certainly certain is that he was adopted at a young age by his foster parents Jackie and Harry. This couple, who lived in the quaint seaside town of North Barrack, took Dave in with hopes of giving him the stability he had long been denied. Jackie, reflecting on those early days, once described Dave as a really lovable boy, who was enjoyable to be around. Yet beneath this surface, it was tragically

evident that the young boy they welcomed into their home carried deep emotional scars. Physically, the signs of Dave's troubled past were impossible to ignore. His small frame was covered in scars, hinting at a life marked by trauma and hardship before he ever stepped foot in North Barrack. But what perhaps concerned Jackie and Harry even more was the peculiar collection Dave brought with him, 120 Barbie dolls. These weren't mere toys in his eyes. Dave exhibited a fierce, almost obsessive, protectiveness over them.

The dolls were the one constant in his eyes. constant in his life, and he clung to them with an intensity that spoke of unresolved pain. Despite these unsettling signs, Jackie and Harry did everything in their power to give Dave a normal, loving upbringing. They spared no expense, emotionally or financially, in their efforts to turn his life around. Through the years, they hoped that their support and care would help him heal from whatever had scarred him so deeply, both physically and emotionally. As Dave grew into adulthood, he remained somewhat of an enigma. Then, in his early 20s, he made an unexpected announcement.

He was leaving Edinburgh. With little explanation, he informed Jackie and Harry that he was moving to Brighton, a city on the southern coast of England. This sudden decision marked a significant turning point, as he sought to leave behind the place where he had experienced both the turmoil of his childhood and the care of his foster parents. Although an educated guess, it's easy to assume that Dave moved to Brighton due to its being a historical haven for young gay men. Oscar Wilde was a frequent visitor to the city, with one local historian explaining that Brighton has long been a refuge for those seeking freedom from the strictures of conventional society.

Dave thanked his foster parents for everything they had done for him, promised to stay in touch, and ultimately relocated in April 2016. Around eight months later, Dave and Donnie formed a connection on Grindr. After an initial period of flirtatious conversation, Dave proposed they meet. At first, the prospect of meeting him excited Donnie. Dave was ten years his junior, and knowing that he could attract someone so young and handsome, made the older Donnie feel much better about his recently dissolved relationship. In fact, Dave seemed to be in awe of his new match's age, experience, and glamorous profession. But the pride Dave's charm allowed Donnie to rekindle may have seriously clouded his judgment

when it came to what happened next. Dave and Donnie texted back and forth for a few days, toying with the idea of meeting up for a date. But then one day, Dave made a suggestion that made Donnie feel deeply uncomfortable. When the subject of physical intimacy arose, Dave seemed to flippantly dismiss the idea of using a prophylactic. In other words, he flat out refused to wear any kind of protection. For Donnie, this was a definitive red line, and although he and Dave had already swapped phone numbers, he took such offense that he began the process of blocking him on various social media platforms.

It was only at the very last second that Dave managed to salvage his attempt at romance when he gave a categorical promise to wear protection if they became intimate. Dave might have saved himself from Donnie's blocked profile section, but he was still on thin ice. Over the next few days, he worked to regain Donnie's trust by swapping a series of innocuous selfies with him. His efforts paid off, and it was around this time that Dave convinced Donnie to share his home address. Later, Donnie said the exchange of information was simply part of getting to know his prospective date, but just hours later, Dave showed up on his doorstep. Naturally, Donnie was surprised by Dave's sudden appearance,

especially since he called his cell phone using a withheld number before. announcing, I'm outside your door. Somehow, Dave managed to talk his way into Donnie's home, most likely through sheer force of flattery and possibly with a dash of emotional blackmail. Perhaps there was talk of a miscommunication, with Dave saying how he'd come an awful long way just to turn around and go home again. There's no doubt that Donnie made a sizable error in judgment by allowing a near stranger into his home, and by his own admission, it was an extremely regrettable decision. Yet the price he paid was the stuff of nightmares. After a few hours of drinking and flirting, the two men climbed into bed together and at Donnie's insistence, Dave swore

that he'd wear a prophylactic. Once their lovemaking concluded, the prospective couple engaged in deep conversation, with Dave sharing his passion for veganism and juicing. Donnie then attempted to share some of his own passions, but shockingly, Dave tried to convince him of the benefits of drinking your own urine. Things got a little weird, Donnie later put it, and I was like, okay, this was nice, but you need to go now. Donnie made it clear that he wasn't rude to Dave. He simply informed him of some very real dinner plans he had made for that evening, thanked him for a lovely time, and then politely asked him to leave. On the surface, Dave respected Donnie's wishes, but in the days that followed, he made it clear that he'd felt deeply disrespected.

Dave not only complained bitterly to Donnie, but he also became increasingly erratic when he felt he wasn't being given the proper amount of attention. To Donnie, it was clear their budding relationship had no future whatsoever. After informing Dave of his wish to part ways, Donnie blocked his number, preventing him from calling or texting. About a week later, Donnie received a call on his cell phone from an unknown number. Curious, he answered, only to hear Dave Sayer's voice on the other end. How dare you block me, he demanded. Do you honestly think that you can get rid of me so easily?

You'll never get rid of me, ever. You're going to burn, Donnie, you're going to burn. Once it was clear the sole purpose of the call was to unleash a torrent of abuse. Donnie Ray ended the call and blocked the number. He believed it was nothing more than the work of abuse. bitter former lover, lashing out in spite. Little did he know, Dave's words held a horrifying significance. Two weeks later, Donnie woke up one morning feeling a little under the weather. He figured he'd simply caught a cold, and with the proper rest would most likely recover in a

matter of days. But when days turned into an entire week's worth of malaise, Donnie visited a pharmacist to purchase antibiotics. However, after describing his symptoms, the pharmacist strongly recommended that he visit a hospital for a more in-depth diagnosis. Donnie did as he was asked and underwent a full checkup following a visit to his local GP. Then when the results of various tests came in, Donnie received a call from his doctor, one that would change his life forever. Donnie, who believed that he was suffering from nothing more than a stubborn strain of influenza, was told that he was HIV positive.

I felt like that was it. My life was over, he later said. I was crushed. Following the death of his parents, Donnie had moved in with his older cousin, who he later came to regard as his adoptive father. He was devastated. He felt like he'd failed to protect me from the very same thing that killed my parents, and he promised my mom I'd never suffer like she did, Donnie said. I had to tell him it wasn't his fault, over and over, but he still cried. He still said he felt like a failure. In the weeks following his diagnosis, Donnie made repeated trips to a local medical clinic to receive medication and examinations. Being the social butterfly that he is, Donnie often engaged the clinic's nurses in casual and sometimes not so casual conversation.

In one case, he shared intimate details regarding the events leading up to his diagnosis. As he spoke, the nurse Donnie was talking to turned ashen-faced and at first appeared hesitant to speak before saying, I really shouldn't be telling you this, but you're the fourth person this has happened to in the last six months alone. Donnie couldn't believe his ears. Assuming there had been some kind of miscommunication, Donnie reiterated that in his deepest, darkest thoughts, he wondered if a former lover had deliberately infected him with HIV. There had been no miscommunication. The nurse confirmed that in the recent past, three additional men had reported being deliberately infected with HIV by a recent lover,

Not only that, but the same malevolent person had actually taunted them via phone call following their infection, hinting cryptically at the ordeals that awaited them. The first was a man in his early 30s, Stan Roger, who made contact with Dave using the dating app Grindr back in July 2016. In a very similar fashion to his interaction with Donnie, Dave was insistent that he and Stan meet at the first available opportunity. He insisted that Stan stopped by his Brighton apartment, and when he did so, Stan found the front door open and unlocked. Just come on in, Dave said via text message. I'm waiting for you. Shortly after Stan's arrival, he and Dave became intimate, and as far as Stan knew, Dave had warned the appropriate protection.

However, once their intimacy concluded, Stan noticed that a prophylactic device had been removed from its packet yet appeared completely unused. Concerned that Dave had somehow deceived him, Stan sought assurance that protection had been used. Dave flippantly dismissed his concerns by asking, Are you one of these paranoid people? Yes, I wore protection, so chill out. Once sufficiently reassured that Dave had complied with his wishes, Stan began attempting to engage his new lover in conversation. Yet when Dave seemed much more interested in showing Stan his favorite Pokemon videos on YouTube,

Stan suggested they part ways and arranged to see each other again soon. Again, Dave seemed to take the polite dismissal in stride, but not long after his departure, he called Stan on his cell phone. Stan assumed the purpose of the call was to arrange a second meeting, but when he answered, Dave remained silent. Stan asked if he was okay, but again, Dave chose to stay silent until he eventually ended the call without a word. Having demonstrated himself as unsuitable for a mature,

relationship, Stan opted for no further contact with the increasingly erratic Dave. But just eight days later, Stan received a flurry of text messages from an unrecognized number. You're a revolting idiot, one message read. Ha, I took the protection off. Stan was stunned, but he didn't understand the message's true significance until a few weeks later, when he began to feel gravely ill. The second of Dave's more recent victims was a man named Peter, who matched with the young Scotsman after realizing they frequented the same gym. He was a good-looking guy, Peter later said.

He was also very charming at first, but that all changed very quickly. Dave repeated the pattern of insisting he and Peter meet as soon as possible, and when they did, he told Peter that he would not be wearing any protection during physical intimacy. Peter was hesitant. He knew the risks involved, but Dave swore on all that he held dear that he was clean, and that any intimacy they shared would be safe. However, afterward the same post-coital pattern played out. After displaying a shocking level of immaturity, Peter proposed that they part ways. Yet just days later Dave sent him a terrifying text message. I lied, the message said. I'm HIV positive. Peter was horrified. He asked Dave if he was serious or merely trying to psychologically terrorize him

in revenge for discontinuing their trist. He's made. Making this up, Peter told himself. He's just being childish. But Dave wasn't making things up. He had deliberately infected Peter with HIV. A third man named Andrew shared a similar story. He matched with Dave via the same dating app as the others. And at first, there was a great deal of chemistry.

He was hot and seemed like a nice person, Andrew later recalled. At the same time, I didn't have any reason to question that. When Andrew and Dave met for the first time, neither of them had any kind of protection, but they decided to become intimate regardless. Andrew ended up staying overnight at Dave's place, and later claimed that at that point, he believed they might kindle a long-term relationship. But this time, it took less than 24 hours for Dave to turn on him. The following morning, as Andrew traveled by bus to his home,

he decided to check for any new messages on the Grindr app. However, when a user activates the app, it notifies connected users of their activity. This is how Dave discovered that Andrew was still using the dating app, less than an hour after they had parted ways. The discovery sent Dave into a rage. I can't believe you're online already, Dave told Andrew via text message. Andrew later said he believed Dave was kidding, thinking it was flirtatious banter. Yet when it became evident that Dave was genuinely furious, Andrew bled.

blocked him on all platforms and resigned himself to moving on. But just over a month later, Andrew was out drinking with a co-worker when a series of text messages were sent to his cell phone. I hope you enjoyed yourself, the first message read, while the second came with a smiley emoji and said, I have HIV, and now you do too. It should be noted that the timing of Dave's text messages is extremely significant. Today, if someone is exposed to HIV, they can obtain a drug known as post-exposure prophylaxis,

which has the power to stop an infection if taken within 72 hours. Dave could have easily informed his lovers of his status as an HIV carrier, but deliberately waited weeks to drop the bombshell that he had knowingly exposed them to one of the deadliest diseases in modern history. Obviously, when each of Dave's four victims realized his claims were legitimate, They experienced a mixture of disbelief, confusion, and fear before rushing to medical services for testing. In some cases, the weight was just 24 hours, but every second of gnawing uncertainty

was nothing short of psychological torture. Andrew sat alone, guzzling a bottle of wine and praying that the results would come back negative. The next day, when the call from the doctor came, he trembled with fear as he went through the formalities of confirming his identity. Andrew had almost resigned himself to the prospect of living out what little time he had left, as a carrier of HIV, and eventually as a sufferer of AIDS. Yet once the security formalities were out of the way, the doctor told Andrew that his test results were negative. He almost collapsed with relief, and the same could be said for Peter,

who also received the all-clear after a brief but agonizing weight. Stan Roger, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. When informed by his doctor that he had contracted HIV, Stan was devastated. But he swiftly informed the police of Dave Sayer's actions. Stan provided them with a detailed description of Dave, along with his phone number, home address, and several screenshots of the text messages they'd shared. From the moment I got my diagnosis,

I was acutely aware that I would have to report this. he later said, adding that Dave was obviously an exceptionally dangerous person who urgently needed to be stopped. Thanks to the information provided by Stan Roger, the police were able to track Dave to the nearby town of Salt Dean before placing him under arrest. To ensure that he couldn't escape, police executed a dawn raid rather than a regular door knock. After smashing their way into his apartment, officers discovered Dave in bed with another man. later revealed to be his eighth known victim of deliberate transmission. Yet after seizing Dave's phone and attempting to get to grips with the extent of his criminality, police discovered hundreds of potential victims spread across his multiple social media accounts,

many of which had been established under false identities. Each and every one of these men had to be contacted by police and informed of their potential diagnosis. Following his arrest, police interviewed. Dave under caution. The number of charges rapidly ballooned from one to four to seven in the space of just a few hours. During the interview, which was recorded, Dave claimed he wasn't aware of his status as an HIV carrier, but this was an outright lie. By the time of the interview, he had been explicitly aware of his diagnosis for almost 12 months. The police were well aware that Dave was attempting to deceive them. On paper, he could have been tried in England, but since

the majority of his known offenses had been committed in Scotland before his relocation to Brighton, he was transferred into the custody of Scottish police and then transported to Edinburgh. For some reason, once safely across the border, Scottish police released Dave on bail into the custody of his foster parents. Almost immediately after the emotional reunion, he attempted to escape justice by hiding among the Pentland Hills, which loom over Edinburgh. When he heard Dave had escaped police custody, Donnie was furious. I couldn't believe they released him, he said, especially since he kept saying that he was going to do it to other men. He was obviously sick in the head. I used to wonder, with all that time that he spent in Edinburgh and Brighton, how many more

victims could be there. During a search of the Edinburgh countryside, police eventually found an abandoned tent containing a carton of prescription medication. It was antiviral medication used by HIV carriers and the name written on it was Dave Sayer. Police already suspected Dave was hiding in the Pentland Hills, but what was particularly alarming about the discovery was that all the pills remained untouched in their blister packets. The medication's purpose was to make his infection less contagious. Refusing to take it made his intention to infect others chillingly evident. By November 2017, the hunt for Dave Sayer had entered its 11th month, and around 25 additional victims had come forward to report physical interactions with him. Naturally, the police focused their searches around

the cities of Brighton and Edinburgh. Yet little did they know, Dave had made his way to Newcastle using the pseudonym, Gary Cole. He attempted to keep a low profile, but continued to use dating apps to infect additional victims, the first of whom was a man named Tim. It's always been nearly impossible for me to approach a man. Tim later confessed. I guess that's probably why I've been quite gullible. Dave managed to convince Tim that he was in love with him, and then spent a grand total of three months living under his roof completely rent-free.

He said that I had nice eyes and that he liked older men. I was very flattered. Tim admitted. I might have fallen in love with the guy, but Dave's behavior soon shifted from charming and thoughtful to manipulative and malevolent. Let's just say that he was able to control me in a way that I won't ever allow again, said Tim. Meanwhile, police forces in both Scotland and England were busy trawling the internet for any trace of Dave Sayer.

Their search led them to an escort website, where a detective noticed stark similarities between the body of an advertised subject and Dave's. They also had a cell phone number connected to it. When police attempted to triangulate its signal, it was determined to be in the home of Dave's unsuspecting lover, Tim. Officers rushed to Tim's home, but when Dave realized that he had once again been tracked down by the police, he attempted to escape. Trapped on the upper floors of the house, he leapt from a third-story window into the garden of one of Tim's neighbors. But when he landed on the wet grass of the lawn, he slipped and fell on his back so hard that he smashed several vertebrae in his spine. The police found him lying in a lot of pain, Tim said. He couldn't

move or walk properly. Assuming Tim was an accomplice who knowingly harbored a criminal, police took him into custody for around five hours. However, once Tim discovered who Gary Cole really was, his arrest became the least of his worries. Thankfully, the police were able to issue him a 30-minute HIV test, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief when the results came back negative. That was obviously good news, Tim said, but I didn't really feel any better. I felt felt used. As Dave was brought to trial, it marked a watershed in British legal history. Never before had anyone been tried for the crime of spreading a dangerous pathogen. After viewing a catalogue of damning evidence, including the texts in which he taunted his victims,

a jury found Dave guilty on five counts of causing grievous bodily harm and five of attempted grievous bodily harm. The presiding judge sentenced him to life in prison, telling Dave, You waged a determined and hateful campaign of violence. The messages you sent make it crystal clear you knew exactly what you were doing. As well as the physical offenses, it is clear that the psychological effects upon the victims are immense." The judge continued, It should be known that this sentence is not about stigmatizing anyone living with HIV,

but I cannot envision a day when you will no longer be a danger to gay men. It's reassuring to think that Dave was jailed for his actions. But what he inflicted on his victims will stay with them for the rest of their lives. When I first got the diagnosis, I was terrified, Donnie later shared, his voice heavy with the weight of the memory. I kept thinking, this is it. I'm going to be that person, the one nobody will ever want to be with. I was consumed with fear, believing the stigma would leave me isolated and alone.

Even though there's still some prejudice within the gay community, I've come to realize that a lot of people don't care as much as I thought they would. Yes, I had one bad experience with someone I was seeing, but in the end it didn't define me, it didn't break me. Donnie paused, his expression shifting as he reflected on how far things have come. It's no longer the death sentence it once was, not even close, but what's hard to come to terms with is when someone else takes away your power, when they decide something for you without your consent. That's the part that's tough to move past. It's a harsh reality to face, especially when you sit with it for a while. And honestly, that's the hardest thing for me to deal with day in and day out, the cruelty of it.

How could someone do that to another person? How can someone be so heartless?