Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - 9 Hours of Chilling Tales from Beyond

Episode Date: November 25, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #hauntedtales #ghoststories #darkhorror #supernatural This compilation offers nine hours of immersive horror, blending ghostly encounters, supernatural phenomena, and eerie urban legends. Each story is designed to send shivers down your spine, from abandoned houses to mysterious voices in the night. It’s a must-listen for anyone seeking the ultimate paranormal experience and tales that linger long after the lights go out. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, paranormal, hauntedstories, ghosttales, spookyencounters, supernaturalhorror, darkhorror, scarytales, nightmarystories, creepmystery, hauntedplaces, terrorstory, chillingtales, ghostencounters, mysterioushappenings

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That's gofundme.com. Gofundme.com. My grandparents' house is mine now. They passed within a year of each other, and as the only grandchild, the small, quiet house on the edge of town fell to me. I wasn't ready to sell it. It's a time capsule, filled with their 60 years of shared life. The faint scent of my grandmother's lavender soap still clings to the bathroom towels. My grandfather's worn-out paperback westerns are still stacked on his nightstand.

Moving and felt less like a fresh start and more like becoming the new live-in caretaker of a museum of memories. And in the center of the living room, like a king's throne, sits the chair. It's a massive wingback armchair, upholstered in a dark, ox-blood red leather that's cracked and worn smooth in all the right places. It's a piece of furniture from an era when things were built to last forever. It's imposing. It commands the room. and it was my grandfather's favorite place on earth. Every memory I have of him in this house, he's in that chair. Watching the news, reading his books, falling asleep with his mouth slightly agape,

a gentle snore rattling in his chest. It was his. When I first moved in, I saw it as a piece of him I got to keep. A comforting presence. After a long day of unpacking boxes and sorting through a lifetime of trinkets, I'd sink into it. And that's when the feeling would start. It wasn't a bad feeling, not at first.

It was just, heavy. The moment my back hit the worn leather, a profound, almost unnatural wave of exhaustion would wash over me. My eyelids would feel heavy. The deep cushions, which my grandmother was always plumping, seemed to sigh and settle around me, hugging me a little too tightly. The soft leather would creak like a contented groan,

It was easy to let go. My thoughts would turn to mud, my focus would blur, and the silence of the house would be replaced by a low, humming drone in my ears. The first few times, I'd catch myself just as I was about to nod off, shaking my head and pushing myself out of the chair's deep embrace. It felt like surfacing from underwater. I'd stand up, feeling disoriented and strangely weak, my heart beating a little too fast. I chalked it up to stress, to the emotional and physical toll of the move.

But it kept happening. Every single time. I could be wired on three cups of coffee, but the second I sat in that chair, the sleepiness would hit me like a tranquilizer dart. It started to feel less like comfort and more like a strange, invisible force. I started to describe the sensation to myself as drowning. It felt like the chair was a pocket of deep, still water, and sitting in it was like. like stepping off a ledge. It pulled you down, into the quiet, into the dark. I began to avoid

it. I'd sit on the stiff, uncomfortable sofa instead. I'd eat at the kitchen table. But the chair was always there, in the corner of my eye. Watching. Waiting. Its deep red leather seemed darker in the evenings, absorbing the light in the room. I felt, judged by it. A piece of furniture. I know how insane that sounds. About a month after I moved in, my mom came over to help me finish sorting through some old photo albums. She saw me perched on the edge of the sofa and smiled sadly. You're not sitting in the chair, she said. It wasn't a question. Nah, I said, trying to sound casual. That thing's dangerous.

I sit in it for two seconds and I'm out for the count. It's like a black hole for consciousness. Her smile faltered, just for a second. A strange, shadowy expression passed over her face before she smoothed it away. Your grandfather was the same way. He could fall asleep in that chair in the middle of a marching band parade. He used to say it was the most comfortable thing he'd ever owned. said it just fit him it's more than comfortable i found myself saying the words tumbling out before i could stop them it's heavy it feels like it's pulling you in my mom was quiet for a moment her gaze fixed on the chair

the look in her eyes was one i'd never seen before it was a complicated cocktail of love grief and something else something darker fear maybe he loved that chair to-day he loved that chair to Death, Honey, she said, her voice soft and final. She turned back to the photo album and changed the subject. The conversation was over. Her words stuck with me. He loved that chair to death. The incidents got stranger. One Saturday, I was exhausted from a long week.

I made the mistake of just dropping into the chair for a moment to take my shoes off. Just for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was a little bit. was waking up. The room was dark outside. My neck was stiff, and a line of drool had dried on my chin. I checked my phone. It was 10 p.m. I had lost seven hours. Seven hours, gone in an instant. I felt groggy, but more than that, I felt drained. Not like I'd had a restful nap, but like something had been siphoned out of me. My whole body ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. I stood up, my legs unsteady, and looked at the chair.

In the dim light from the street lamp outside, I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A dark stain. It was deep in the seat cushion, near the back, almost a part of the leather's natural pattern, but not quite. It was a large, irregular shape, a few shades darker than the surrounding Oxblood red. It looked, organic. I spent the next day trying to clean it. I used leather soap, conditioner, everything I could find. But the stain wouldn't lift.

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That's gofundme.com. Gofundme.com. It was like it wasn't on the leather, but in it. The more I scrubbed, the more I felt like I was just polishing a scar. And as I worked, a smell began to fill the room. It wasn't just the familiar scent of old leather and my grandfather's pipe tobacco. It was something else, buried deep within the fibers of the chair. A faint, sickly sweet, coppery odor.

The smell of old meat. I recoiled, my stomach churning. I started to feel a real, tangible fear of the chair. It wasn't just a piece of furniture anymore. It was a place where I lost time. A thing with a stain that wouldn't wash out and a smell that reminded me of a butcher's shop. The breaking point came last week. I was cleaning out the hall closet, a task I'd been put.

putting off for months. It was full of my grandmother's old coats, boxes of holiday decorations, and at the very back, a small, sealed cardboard box labeled, personal papers, dad. My mom must have packed it away after the funeral. My curiosity got the better of me. I figured it was just old bank statements and tax returns, but I felt I should go through it before tossing it. It was mostly what I expected. But at the bottom, beneath a staff, of old utility bills, was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon. They were letters my mother had written to her sister, my aunt, who lives across the country. They were dated from the summer two years ago.

The summer my grandfather died. I knew I shouldn't read them. It was a violation of privacy. But I was drawn to them, I needed to understand the weirdness my mom had shown, the feeling of wrongness that permeated the house, a feeling that was concentrated in. in that damn chair. I untied the ribbon. The first few were about his declining health, his refusal to go to the doctor. Then I got to the last one. The letter that explained everything. My hands began to shake as I read my mother's familiar cursive. Dearest Sarah, I'm sorry I haven't

been able to call. I haven't been able to speak about it. The funeral was, it was what it was. But you need to know what actually happened. You need to know how we found him. The police report will say he died of a heart attack, and that's true. But that's not the whole story. He hadn't answered our calls for over a week. It was that awful heatwave in July, and I was so worried. We kept calling in calling.

Finally, I used my spare key and went inside. The smell, Sarah. Oh, God, the smell. I'll never get it out of my head. I thought an animal had died in the walls. I found him in the living room. He was in his chair. He had been there for the entire week.

In the heat. I don't want to write down the details. You don't want to know them. Just, picture it. He was, he had become a part of it. The coroner said it was the worst he's seen in twenty-year. years. They had to, they had to practically peel him off the leather. So much of him had, soaked in. They took him away, and I was left in the house with that, that thing. The chair.

It was ruined. It was horrifying. It was covered in, him. I should have thrown it out. I should have burned it. Any sane person would have. But I couldn't. It was his favorite chair. It was his favorite chair. He spent half his life in it. It was the last thing that held him. It felt like throwing him away all over again. I know it sounds crazy. I know you'll think I've lost my mind, but I called one of those specialty cleaning services. The kind that deals with crime scenes. They took it away for a week. They used chemicals, ozone treatments, I don't know what else. They told me it was completely sanitized, completely clean. They said you'd never even know.

So I brought it back. It's still there. Sometimes I look at it and all I can see is him, happy and reading his book. And other times, all I can see is how he was when I found him. I think keeping it was a mistake, Sarah. I think it holds more than just memories. I dropped the letter. My blood ran cold.

I felt the bile rise in my throat, the stain, the smell, the drowning feeling. It wasn't my imagination. It wasn't a metaphor. My grandfather had died in that chair. Have you ever had a moment where you think, man, someone should really do something about this? Then you realize, maybe that someone is you. Well, with the help of GoFundMe, you can change someone's life. You could start a go-fund me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition.

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world's number one fundraising platform, trusted by over 200 million people. Start your GoFundMe today at gofundme.com. That's gofundme.com. Gofundme.com. He had laid there for a week, in the sweltering summer heat, and his body had putrified. It had decomposed. It had liquefied and seeped and soaked into the cushions and the leather and the very frame of his favorite chair. The drowning sensation wasn't just sleepiness. It was the chair, saturated with the finality of death, trying to do to me what it had done to him. It was the memory of decomposition, a physical echo of a body breaking down. The chair hadn't just held him. It had consumed him. I stumbled out of the closet, my legs like jelly, and stared into the living room. The

chair was no longer a piece of furniture. It was a tombstone. A monument to decay. A predator disguised as a comfortable place to rest. The dark red leather looked like dried blood. The worn arms looked like grasping limbs. The deep cushion was a waiting mall. It had had a taste, and it had been sleeping ever since.

Now I was here. I was its new meal. I had to get it out. Now, I grabbed one of the arms, intending to drag it out the front door. The moment my hand touched the leather, the feeling hit me, stronger than ever before. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion so profound my knees buckled. The air in the room grew thick and cold. I heard a sound, a low, wet, sighing sound, that seemed to come from the chair itself.

It wasn't the creak of leather. It was the sound of a lung emptying for the last time. My arm felt impossibly heavy, glued to the chair. I felt a phantom weight settle on my shoulders, pushing me down, urging me to just sit. To just rest for a minute. To give in. To drown. No, I gasped, wrenching my hand away as if from a hot stove.

My mind raced. I couldn't just drag it out. It wouldn't let me. It would drain me, pull me in, and finish me right here. I needed to destroy it. I needed to desecrate it so thoroughly that there was nothing left. I ran to the garage. My hands found my grandfather's old wood splitting axe.

It was heavy, the handle worn smooth from his grip. I walked back into the living room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The chair just sat there, waiting, radiating a palpable aura of hunger. and death. I didn't hesitate. I raised the axe over my head and brought it down with a scream of rage and terror. The axe blade bit deep into the top of the wing back with a sickening, wet thump. It didn't sound like hitting wood and leather. It sounded like hitting flesh. A foul, sweet stench billowed out from the gash, a concentrated version of the smell I'd noticed before. It was the smell of the grave. I didn't stop. I had to be a little. I had to bellowed. I was a

hacked and I tore and I ripped. I was a man possessed. With every swing, I felt the chair's influence weaken. The sleepiness receded, replaced by a frantic, liberating energy. I splintered the wooden frame. I shredded the leather upholstery. I tore out handfuls of the deep, stained batting inside, which felt damp and spongy to the touch. It took an hour. When I was done, the chair was gone. In its place was a pile of shredded, stinking refuse. I dragged the pieces, armful by armful, out into the backyard, onto the concrete patio. I doused the pile in lighter fluid and threw a match on it. It went up with a roar.

The flames burned a greasy, black-orange color. And the smoke, the smoke was thick and black and carried that same, horrific, sweet smell of decay across the entire neighborhood. It was the chair's final, dying breath. I stood there until the pile was nothing but a scorched black circle on the concrete and a pile of glowing red embers. The house feels different now. It's lighter. The air is cleaner. The profound silence has returned, but it's just empty now. It's not waiting. But I can't stop thinking about it. Was it just a chair? Just an object. so saturated with a horrific event that it held a kind of psychic, toxic residue.

The end. Back in 2008, way before adult responsibilities slapped me in the face, I lived in this super rural corner of Pennsylvania where cows outnumber people and the biggest thrill was choosing between McDonald's or Taco Bell. It was one of those towns where boredom didn't just creep in, it kicked down your door and moved in permanently. One night, my friends, and I hit peak boredom. We were desperate. for something, anything, that wasn't the usual Friday night rerun of our miserable small-town routine. Somehow the topic of the seven gates of hell came up. Yeah, real subtle right? There's this urban legend tied to York County that says if you go through all seven of these mysterious gates

hidden deep in Hallam Township's woods, you go straight to hell. No round trip. No refunds. Just a one-way ticket to eternal damnation. Sounds like a fun-way. evening, right? There are two flavors of the legend. One blames a burnt-down insane asylum and the other centers around a crazy doctor who allegedly built the gates to hide some horrific secret. Honestly, we didn't care which version was true, we just needed something that might scare us out of our boredom. Plus, there's always something intoxicating about doing something you shouldn't be doing. So off we went, packed into my buddy Kurt's rusted sedan like a clown car heading to Doom. We parked near the first gate, right by a tree line marked

with angry, no trespassing, signs. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I felt it. That gut tightening, cold sweat kind of feeling. I tried to brush it off, blaming it on the creepy stories we told in the car, but it clung to me like wet clothes. Getting past the first gate. Easy. Just a hop over a rusted fence. The second and third weren't much harder. Just some careful maneuvering through brush and old wire. But when we got close to the fourth gate, that weird energy hit me again, only stronger. Like walking straight into a thundercloud full of dread. I told the other something felt wrong, but naturally, they laughed it off. Classic move. I was the paranoid one, the buskill. But when we reached the fifth gate, something happened.

We heard footsteps. Not ours. Not animal-like. Just, deliberate. Crunching leaves. Someone, or something, was there. Out of the woods stumbled a man. Mid-50s.

Torn white shirt, muddy jeans, cowboy boots. He looked like he just crawled out of a horror film. What the hell are you kids doing here? he growled. Kurt tried to play it cool. Sorry, man. We're not from around here. Just got a little lost. The guy's face twisted.

Don't people listen anymore. Then he turned around and walked back the way we came. No explanation. No threats. Just those parting words. None of us said a word. We just silently agreed, this was our cue to get the hell out. We followed him back, but here's where it gets truly weird.

As we retraced our steps, I heard giggling. Faint, but distinct. It sounded like children mocking us from the dark. When we got back to the first gate, two cops were waiting for us. Flashing lights, arms crossed, full, we've been expecting you, mode. They took our IDs, did the usual scolding. Kurt spun a half-truth about not knowing it was private property. Then we asked them about the guy who let us out.

What guy, they asked. We described him. The shirt. The boots. The warning. The officers looked at each other, confused. We watched you go in. We watched you come out.

No one else was with you. Yeah. That cold sweat feeling came right back. That was the last time I even thought about chasing thrills like that in the woods. Flash forward to 2014. My world got flipped upside down. My mom was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer and I spiraled. I stopped talking to people at school, lost interest in everything.

I found a weird kind of therapy in graffiti. There was something liberating about tagging walls and leaving behind a piece of myself, ugly or beautiful didn't matter. In the NYC graffiti scene, everyone knows about King's part of it. psychiatric center. An abandoned asylum on Long Island that closed in 96. A place with a nasty reputation. Soldiers dumped their post-World War II, tortured by outdated treatments like electroshock therapy and lobotomies. The kind of place that smells haunted before you even walk in. I'd been there before. No big deal. You see stoners, some edgy photographers,

maybe a runaway or two. But never anything supernatural. That changed one rainy afternoon. My crew and I were bored and figured we'd throw some tags, mess around, maybe grab some creepy photos. We slipped in through a hole in the chain link fence and climbed through a busted window. Inside, it was dead quiet. No cars and a lot. No distant footsteps.

Just layers of decay and silence that press. on your ears. We explored room after room. Empty. Dusty. Nothing worth noting until we pulled out our phones for light. That's when things shifted. My phone, 100% charged when I left, just died. Boom. Gone. Wouldn't turn back on. I laughed it off. Cheap phone, probably just old. But then every phone in the group started dying, one after the other. No one panicked. Weirdly calm. We just kept exploring until we hit the top floor.

I had this idea to get a picture of me sitting on the roof's ledge with my legs hanging off, fresh graffiti behind me. Super dumb in hindsight, but I was into rooftop photos back then. Without phones, though, there'd be no photo. Bummer. So we started to do it. heading back down. Then we heard it. Slam. A door somewhere below us. We froze. Then another door. Slam. And another. We hadn't seen anyone else. We had checked the rooms. They were empty. We ran. Through debris, over puddles, through halls that felt narrower than before.

We made it to the small solitary room we'd entered through, the one with the broken window. Everyone lined up to escape. Naturally, the slowest guy was in front of me. He got stuck halfway out the window, panic setting in. I turned around to look at my friend behind me. He was pale. Like, paper pale. His pupils wide, mouth slightly open like he was trapped in his own head.

Dude, you good. I asked. Then the steel door, one we'd never been able to move before, slammed shut like a gunshot. I didn't even see it open. Finally, my buddy squeezed out. I was next and slipped through like a fish. The rest of the group bolted. But the pale guy, the one behind me, was still standing inside, staring at nothing.

What the hell are you doing? Get out of there. I yelled. He snapped out of it and climbed through. We made it back to the car. My legs were jelly. Thanks for waiting, jerks, I said. But most of them were already laughing it off like it was a Halloween attraction.

Not me. And definitely not the guy who zoned out. We just sat in silence, staring at the floor of the car like it might open up and swallow us. That night, I couldn't sleep. And get this, next morning. morning, both my parents told me they'd had nightmares about me going missing. Neither knew what I'd done the night before. Coincidence. Maybe. But too strange to ignore. I've learned my lesson. Don't risk your life for Instagram

likes. Don't chase legends just to kill boredom. And definitely don't break into abandoned asylums thinking you'll just get a cool story. Because sometimes, something's waiting for you. And sometimes, if you're lucky, it warns you before it's too late. And if you ever find yourself near King's Park Psychiatric Center, don't go in. Whatever's in there. It's not finished. And it never sleeps. The end.

It was a small, unsuspecting bedroom, the kind that wouldn't stand out in any grand way. A modest space with soft purple walls, white trim, and a built-in dresser with drawers on either side. The full-sized bed sat high in the center of the room, perpendicular to a small, crowded closet and a single window. There was just enough space to walk around, nothing more, nothing less. The room was tucked into the corner of a second-story brick house. Through the window, you could see a gentle rolling hill, bisected by a two-lane road that stretched into the horizon. Behind the house, within 50 feet of the sloped, uneven backyard, lay a dense forest that seemed, seemed to stretch on forever. The trees stood tall, their thick trunks gnarled with age, their canopy

a dark mass of tangled leaves and shadows. It was the kind of forest that seemed to watch you, even when you weren't looking. Inside this small room, I found my refuge. I was a typical teenager, rebellious, moody, and deeply frustrated with my family. I preferred to be alone. Each night, I would retreat into my sanctuary, shut off the lights, and dial into my laptop. It was my escape from everything, the noise, the pressure, the feeling of not quite belonging. The laptop was more than just a device. It was a portal, a window into countless worlds. Movies had become my obsession.

Inspired by a film class I had taken in school, I began watching everything I could get my hands on, old classics, for and films, underground indie flicks, blockbuster hits. The room would darken and the screen would glow, and for a few hours, nothing else existed. Just me and the stories unfolding in front of my eyes. Weeks passed, and my routine became a ritual. The bed, the laptop, the stories. Sometimes, after getting up for a bathroom break or a snack, I'd return to find my cat, Emmy, had snuck in behind me. She was a sleek black cat, impossible to see in the dark. But I could feel her. The light weight of her tiny body as she leaped onto the bed, the soft vibration of her purring as she curled into a ball at my feet. It was a quiet kind of companionship, one that didn't

need words. One particular night, I went to bed earlier than usual. I pulled my laptop into my lap and cued up a movie, letting the sounds of the opening credits fill the silent room. It wasn't long before I felt the familiar weight settle at the foot of my bed. Smiling, I shifted slightly to give her room and turn my focus back to the screen. Then, the door whipped open. I jolted, my heart nearly leaping out of my chest. My mother stood in the doorway, looking visibly confused. Did you just walk into your room?

She asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. I frowned. No. I've been in here for a couple of hours. She took several steps inside, her eyes scanning the corners of the room. Do you have a friend over? No, it's just me and Emmy, I replied, glancing toward the bed. Why? What's wrong? She turned on the light, and I blinked against the sudden brightness. That's when I saw it, the empty space where Emmy had been. The weight I had felt, the warmth against my feet, was gone.

The indent in the blanket, still creased from the pressure of something sitting there, slowly lifted until the fabric was smooth once more. My mom's face changed. Her confusion twisted into something else, something closer to fear. I watched a girl walk into your room, she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I saw her in the hallway. Are you sure it wasn't you? No one else is in here, a chill ran down my spine.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. A trick of the light. A shadow. My mom was known to be a little superstitious, but she wasn't the type to outright hallucinate. And she looked genuinely shaken. I'm sure, I answered, though my voice didn't feel as solid as I wanted it to be. She stood there for a moment longer before shaking her head. Okay.

Never mind, then, she muttered, shutting the door back. behind her as she left. The room felt different now. The air had shifted, grown thick and heavy. The space that had once felt safe now felt, watched. My heart pounded in my chest as I sat frozen in the darkness, the dim glow of my laptop the only source of light. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. Maybe my mom was just overtired. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe my cat had just slipped out without me noticing. That had to be it. Right? But then, it happened again. Ten, maybe 20 minutes later, I felt the weight returned to the bed. The exact same spot. The same gentle press into the mattress. Relief washed over me. There you are, I whispered, reaching out to stroke

Emmy's fur. But my hands met empty space. I patted the blankets, my fingers searching. Nothing. My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, my eyes drifted toward the door. It was closed. Emmy wasn't in the room. The realization hit like a freight train. My skin prickled with goosebumps as the air around me seemed to grow colder.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I shot up, scrambling for the light switch, my fingers trembling as I flipped it on. The indent was still there. as if someone, something, had been sitting at the edge of my bed. But I was alone. I don't know what possessed me, but I shut the lights back off almost immediately. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was denial.

Maybe I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. Diving under the covers, I squeezed my eyes shut, pulling the blanket over my head like a child hiding from the monster in the closet. If I don't see it, it isn't there. If I don't acknowledge it, it can't hurt me. That was the rule, wasn't it? But then, the bed creaked. My blood ran cold. My breath hitched in my throat.

I felt it. The slow, deliberate shift of weight behind me. The mattress dipping, as though something was crawling closer. I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. I forced myself to stay still, to stay quiet. quiet, to pretend I was asleep. Then, a hand. A cold, foreign hand on my shoulder. The grip tightened, fingers curling against the fabric of my shirt, tugging. Beckoning. My heart nearly burst from my chest. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, my entire body rigid with terror.

From the corner of my eye, I could see it. A shadow. A figure. Looming. Watching. I whispered over and over into the darkness, my voice barely audible. Leave me alone, leave me alone, you're not welcome here. I whispered until exhaustion won out over fear. Until my body gave in to the weight of sleep. When I woke the next morning, the room was still. Empty. Normal. But I never slept there again. That was the last night I ever spent in that small, purple room. New Zealand is a beautiful country. It has a very similar appearance to the United Kingdom, but the Southern Island in particular is so sparsely populated that it's almost creepy. Because the population is so small in the Southern Island, anyone can buy a mansion

surrounded by acres of land for the same price as the average American home. It was beautiful beyond belief but seeing so many massive homes with so few people or even cars on the road was chilling. When I went, it was purely for a friend reunion between my dad and his best friends from secondary school, and I wasn't sure what to expect when we got there, but it was, strange. We flew into Christchurch and one of my dad's friends my godfather lived only an hour outside of the city. It was more of a village than a city. He came to pick us up from the airport and we all drove to his house which I was expecting to be a standard three-bedroom two-bathroom home but instead it was a six-bedroom for bathroom house with a massive kitchen, two living

spaces, an octagonal foyer where the dogs slept, three patios, and a landscaped garden so massive that it would have taken me an hour just to walk the perimeter. He said they got it for cheap, but I definitely wouldn't complain. It was a gorgeous house. While all of the adults were settling into one of the living spaces, me and my brother decided to go explore the property. We get serious anxiety when we're not familiar with a structure we're staying in, so our first objective was to just map out the entire house and the surrounding gardens. It just makes us more comfortable to know where we can go in the event of an emergency. The house was mapped within 10 minutes, but the garden took me a lot longer. Because some of the bushes were planted at such

off angles, it took me a while to really navigate it and figure out where everything was. Some of the hedges were only up to my waist, but a few of them were as tall as the house and made for an eerily claustrophobic walk between them. I didn't think too much of it and once I had completely mapped the property in my mind, I returned to the house. My godfather's wife, technically my godmother, was just starting to make dinner and offered to let me make the dessert. I was pleased to help since it would be completely fresh and learning to make an apple pie seemed like a fun skill to have. We made the pie and by the time dinner was actually done, the sun had long since set, engulfing everything outside of the house

in a seemingly perpetual darkness. It was a little too dark. The adults were all having fun catching up with each other and a short time after dinner, they all decided that they wanted to go for a drink. My godfather has some good memories of drinking with my dad so they wanted to pull out those old memories again. My godmother wasn't particularly thrilled since that meant me and my brother would be left alone to take care of the house and the dogs, but I assured her that it would only be a few hours and that we could do it. It didn't take much convincing, but she did set a rule that we were not allowed to let the dogs outside at all. I was okay with that since it was below zero and it was so dark that even

with the motion-activated lights, it still had so many dark corners and blind spots that I wouldn't feel comfortable even if I had to let the dogs out. They left and the dogs retired to their kennels on their own. We figured that they would be okay, so my brother and I planted ourselves on the sofa. The TV was turned on, but neither of us were watching it since we were both on our phones. We didn't really talk that much since he was an onasty 13-year-old boy and I was the mature, 17-year-old sister messaging her classmates and friends on the other side of the world. It couldn't have been more than 30 minutes after the adults left that all of the dogs started aggressively barking in the foyer. There were four of them and all of them were snarling and snapping

at the front door. Naturally, the noise had caught both of our attention so we circled into the foyer to see what was up, and the largest dog, which I think was a great dane, was frantically scratching at the front door to get out. We were both confused and I went back into the kitchen to see out the window. If someone was at the door then it would have been obvious, but there was no one there. I didn't see anyone and since our family has never owned a dog, we just assumed they were barking at something small like a firefly or a moth. I went back into the foyer to help my brother put the dogs back in their kennels, but the Dane's paw flicked the door handle and the icy wind threw it open. My brother and I both stopped to cover our faces from the large

and sharp snowflakes now stabbing our skin and we both cursed as the dog ran out, but the other three stayed in the foyer, still barking a deafening warning throughout the entire house. Stay here. I'll get her. I called, shaking my phone so the flashlight would turn on and booked it into the snow-no shoes, socks, or anything even resembling winterwear. I was only wearing a thin pane of skinny jeans and an off-the-shoulder blouse. Over the wind, I could barely hear the dog already far in the distance, barking so loudly that it should have been easy to follow her. Originally I tried to stay on the lit gravel trails that surrounded the house, but I couldn't see the dog at all. I could hear her barking and I could see the trail in the snow that she had kicked up, but the snow was coming down so heavily that her trail was almost completely buried in a matter of seconds.

Looking at the hedges, I had a thought that if there really was someone out here that the dog was chasing, then there were so many places they could have been hiding that it would have been physically easy for them to sneak up on me, especially over the noise of the wind. The goose bumps I had gotten on my arms from the cold didn't hold a candle to the goosebumps I got from stepping off of the trail. Every part of my body was screaming at me to just leave the dog and go back inside, but I may have been more afraid to explain to my godmother that I lost her dog. A ridiculous thought after the fact, but in the moment, it was just as scary. Every step in the snow was colder than the last and with the greatest hesitation, I started looking between the waist-high hedges trying to listen in for the dog. but the wind was throwing the barking sounds all over the place. One moment he was in front of me, the next he was behind me. It was confusing me and looking all around me had stilled my sense of direction.

I could barely see the house and the barking was only getting quieter. My flashlight was dotting all of the place while my free hand held my hair back so it wasn't lashing at my face. Calling the dog's name did nothing to help and as I finished searching around the smaller hedges, the dreading reality hit me so hard. The dog had gone into the tall hedges. If my survival instincts weren't panicking before, they definitely were now. Even pointing my phone's flashlight down the straight trail between the bushes, I couldn't see the end, even though my earlier mental mapping told me that it was only a 7-10-meter walk.

It just narrowed into a black vortex that swallowed every ray of light from my flashlight. I swear when I took the first step forward, my heart physically rebelled against me, drumming through my ribs so fast and so hard that I was feeling light-headed at the very idea of going in there. Every part of my soul hoped to God that the dog was still somewhere closer to the house, but this prayer immediately shattered when the dog's barking turned to terrified whimpers, directly in front of me. Far to close for comfort and I knew that the dog was right in front of me but over the

blizzard-like weather, I couldn't see it at all. My hand pulled out of my hair to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest and I dared to step forward. The snow was already above my ankles and being barefoot, the immersion in this previously wintry paradise turned to an iced over hellscape. Never in my life had I experienced something that terrified me so much that the idea of even walking would rip my soul from my body. There were two conflicting trains of thought going through my mind, if I went forward to find the dog and someone was really was out here then I could get myself killed or kidnapped,

and if I went back to the house then the person or whatever the dog was barking it could see my light retreat and chase after me. Neither option was favorable. I couldn't tell you why, but even with the dog whimpering I forced myself to move towards it. I kept my light directed at every inch of those shrubs and their diverging paths. Any place that I thought someone could hide, I lit up with the best of my ability. And then a shriek so guttural yet so high-pitched that it caused the acid in my stomach to boil. My breathing became frantic as I shined the light around me, trying to figure out what had caused such an unnatural sound. It couldn't have been the dog.

It may have been the shriek of a woman, but even this would have been a stretch to claim. It didn't sound like any animal I had ever even heard of, but as I pointed my light into once of the shrub corners the bush curled back. Something was climbing on top of it. My light pointed at the top of the bushes, but I barely caught sight of a black shadow leap over the top of the hedges far bigger than any of the animals on the property, dog or otherwise. It was much larger than the dogs, but it was also bigger than any human I had ever seen. Breathing was suddenly labored and I regret it ever leaving the house, but as I followed where the bushes were moving, it stopped straight ahead of me. My light lit up the statue at the end of the narrow trail, a naked mermaid hugging her abdomen with her head cocked to the side.

This was the statue I had seen earlier. But it didn't look like that now. In the minimal light, somehow it more closely resembled a contorted and screaming face, its jaw dislocated and hanging only from one side with its neck snapped back at a critical angle. I swear I fainted on my feet. I couldn't hear the dog anymore. The snow was coming down harder than ever, but at this point, I didn't care about getting

in trouble with my godmother or my parents. The flashlight stayed on the statue for too many long seconds and the same shadow flew past right behind the statue. I screamed bloody murder and just turned to run, but the snow was disorienting and even as I tried to get out of the maze of hedges, I couldn't find my way. My light went every possible direction just trying to make sure that whatever I saw wasn't following me. It was impossible to tell. The blizzard wouldn't allow me to see even ten feet in front of me and it was so loud that even if that thing was following me, I couldn't hear it. And then a firm hand grabbed onto my arm. My heart stopped and an all too familiar voice played through my ear, you big Jesse. Get inside before you get

hypothermia. It was my brother. He was giving me his annoyed and irritated face as he moved moved to grab my arm, pulling me back towards the house. He couldn't see it either, but he remembered which route he took through the shrubs. It only took us about 30 seconds to find the trail again, at which point I just grabbed his hand and pulled him to run back inside, throwing the front door closed and locking it tight. What's wrong with you? He buzzed monotonously, crossing his arms. The Dane had run back to her kennel before we had arrived and was shaking violently. Please tell me you went out looking for the dog as well. What? Did you leave the house to go look for the dog? He could see that I was freaking out and just rolled his eyes. No. I've seen horror movies

before so I decided to stay back and not follow the dog into a blizzard. At this point I was freaking out, looking out of the windows next to the door to make sure that I could see nothing but almost as soon as I looked, the outdoor light automatically turned off, swallowing the entire garden in complete darkness. He sighed, I only came out when I heard you scream. Why did you scream? I tried to explain what I had seen, but he just said I was hysterical and dismissed it. He tends to not believe me when I tell stories like this, and it's not the first time I've seen something so unbelievable that nobody else even considered the possibility that it was real. I was called a drama queen and a fantasist, but I don't even like horror movies

or anything scary. I'm prone to nightmares. Why would I add fuel to the fire by coming up with something like this? My parents and godparents didn't believe me when I told them and my godfather specifically said, spooks tend to roam. That didn't help. I do believe in ghosts and spirits, but the ones, but the ones that I have seen personally never physically interacted with my surroundings like this one did. It was easily the most terrifying thing that I had ever experienced, and after this day I vowed to never get a dog. Dogs are cute and they're lovable, I admit it, but cats are infinitely smarter. If they see or sense danger, they run.

They don't chase it down. I can be satisfied with only having cats in my life. At least they won't give me a panic attack while trying to chase them down, and most won't run out into dangerous weather. To this day, I still don't entirely know what happened in those shrubs or what I saw, but my brother promised me that he was in front of the house almost the entire time, and my parents had taken pictures with my godparents at the pub that was 30 minutes up the road, sending it to us while they were still there, and still drinking.

If it was a person, I don't know who it was, and if it wasn't a person then I have no idea what it was. A part of me doesn't ever want to know. It all kicked off like some bizarre flashback you can't decide if you're supposed to hate or weirdly crave. One of those loops we spin ourselves into, where crime doesn't really feel like crime unless there's a neon glow and a crooked smile to light it up. I was sprinting down a street sliced with LED strips that buzzed like a nest of electric bees. The concrete jungle loomed above me, towering buildings that pulsed with power, breathing life into the night like gods with chest hair. I didn't belong in that scene, not really. But I was there. Running. Not from

guilt exactly, more like from the idea of being guilty. That kind of thing sticks to you if you let it. I could hear the slap of boots behind me, cop boots, stiff and certain. He wasn't far, but he wasn't close either. Just kind of hovering in my story, like a shadow that hadn't fully made up its mind yet. See, this guy knew I was smart. Not street smart. Real smart.

Like, open your mouth and dudes with P.H. H.D.S. get nervous smart. But he was rotten, you know. The kind of cop that bathes in corruption and uses justice as mouthwash. His presence wasn't just a chase, it was a statement. A living contradiction. A pagan a man sued who wanted to catch something more than a criminal. He wanted to rewrite truth to make himself look noble. Sick, really. I wasn't a violent guy. People knew that. My name floated through conversations like a maybe. He's into some shit, they'd say. But he ain't no threat.

And yet, this cop chased me like I killed his dog and mailed him the ashes. So either he knew something I didn't, or he was just real damn bored. Either way, I wasn't slowing down. If I ever stopped, that was it. No second chances. No explanation. Just cuffs, a cell. and a headline that didn't get the facts right.

Outside the chaos of my personal hurricane, life went on like it always does. Out there, lights didn't flicker. Roads had families instead of fugitives. People had stories they could tell without flinching. Me? Everything was about timing. Getting things right when it mattered. I never got a manual, but I knew if I ever hesitated,

the whole damn thing would come crashing down like a bad dream. on repeat. At some point, the cop shouted something. It sounded kind, maybe even forgiving. But I was past the light now. Hidden. Cloaked in shadows that didn't care who was chasing who. His voice went the other way, and I didn't follow. That was the last time I heard him. Prison doesn't hit like a punch. It hits like gravity. Constant. Heavy. unapologetic. The Mexican guy who had the top bunk leaned over and said, You're not so bad after all. His voice wasn't judgmental. Just real. Honest in a way that made you pay attention. He gestured for me to follow him,

and something in me said, yeah, let's see where this goes. Those bunk room lights were colder than I expected, like the place itself was allergic to warmth. There were too many bodies, too much silence stuffed with unsaid threats. I followed him through two rows of metal frame beds, out the door and into a space that smelled like sweat and boredom. A wreck room, if you wanted to be generous. He looked at me and said, you're going to need things to take care of yourself in here.

Once you know what that is, I don't think you'll have too much of a hard time. My brain was running every survival checklist it could think of. Are the Mexicans my protection now? Is this some kind of setup? Every instinct was sharp. The last time I trusted someone blindly, I ended up on the news with a mugshot that looked like it was taken mid-blink. Still, I followed.

Sometimes that's the only play left. The hallway he led me through was dim, like it had forgotten what color was. It smelled like rust and broken promises. Then I saw him. The cop. Not in uniform anymore. Looked like he'd grown straight out of the dirt, with a beard that hadn't seen a razor in months and eyes like expired milk.

He was behind a cage, watching me like I was the ghost of a decision he wished he hadn't made. I didn't stop. I didn't blink. I didn't care. Further down, things got weird. Real weird. Two Mexican guys were kneeling by a baby playpen, but instead of toys and diapers, it had water inside. And in that water? A freaking, crimson brown, cat-looking animal about the size of a

lion cub, flopping around and playing with Cheerios like it was born in a breakfast commercial. The dudes were laughing, feeding it like it was the most natural thing in the world. I looked away. Couldn't process it. My mind was still loading. We stepped into this half-ass canteen a slash trading post. Rustic didn't even cut it. It was downright feral. The air had texture, like you could rub it between your fingers and come away dirtier. Behind the counter stood two old white guys. One had a handlebar mustache so filthy it deserved its own cell block.

Dirt covered his face, his shirt, hell, even the air around him gave up trying to be clean. He looked me dead in the eye and said, You're going to want to get real kind with the shit bear. Now, I'm not exactly fluent in backwards riddles, so I just stood there blinking like someone smacked my thoughts out of my head. Then, without missing a beat, the man handed me a Ziploc bag full of toothbrushes, soap, and other personal survival gear. Prison treasure, basically. He raised his hand.

Like a wave or maybe a goodbye. But what caught me wasn't the gesture. It was the brown smear on the center of his palm. Not a smudge. A print. A tiny, Any paw, like a dog or a cat had dipped its foot in shit and pressed it there on purpose. A signature.

That's when I knew. This whole damn thing, it was all about the shit bear. Let me rewind a second. The shit bear wasn't some creature you saw on animal planet. It wasn't listed in textbooks or whispered about in schoolyards. No, the shit bear was a rumor. A myth that had taken root in places people forgot about. Places like the corner of your mind where nightmares hide when you're awake.

The shit bear, they said, shows up when you're at your lowest. When your dignity's been strip searched and your name don't mean shit anymore. It feeds on shame and confusion. Some said it was a spirit. Others said it was a mutated animal, a result of something bad spilled into something worse. All I knew was that the moment I saw that Paul, print, my stomach flipped like it recognized a threat I couldn't name. The Mexican dude nudged me. Come on, he said, like we were late for some horrible appointment. We walked deeper into the

facility, passed places that didn't feel like they belonged in a prison. At one point, we passed a mural, a damn mural, painted on the wall. It was the shipbear, towering over a mountain of bones, eyes glowing like rotten cherries. Below it, some inmate had scrawled in paint, he who pets the shit bear learns to smell the truth. What the hell did that even mean? We ended up in a room that looked like a chapel if churches were built from regret and broken tiles. There was a circle of people sitting cross-legged, each one holding something weird. One had a comb. Another had a spoon. Someone else held a dirty sock like it was a relic. They were all staring at a single bowl of water in the center. No one spoke.

And then, from the shadows, it appeared. The shit bear. Small, almost cute. But the kind of cute that makes you uncomfortable. Like a child with eyes too wise or a clown that doesn't blink. It waddled in, sniffed the air, and sat. No growls. No violence.

Just presence. The group began to hum. Low and strange. The bear blinked. Slowly, as if judging each person one by one. And I swear, the moment its eyes hit mine, I forgot what my voice sounded like. I forgot why I ran. Why I got caught.

Why I gave a damn at all. That night, I didn't sleep. Not because I was scared. But because something inside me had changed. Like the shit bear reached in and flipped a switch I didn't know existed. You don't leave that place the same. not ever the cop maybe he found his own shit bear maybe he didn't doesn't matter some people spend their lives chasing the wrong criminals others just want to matter me i stopped running not because they

caught me but because the shit bear showed me the one thing no cell ever could we all carry our own cages Some made of guilt Others made of lies But the worst ones They're made of stories Stories we tell ourselves so we can sleep Stories that let us think we're still free And once the shit bear shows up

Well You finally see just how full of shit those stories really are The end The story begins way back in February 1917 It was a time of chaos when the rush Russian Revolution started picking up steam. Protests erupted everywhere, and the ruling Tsar, Nicholas II, realized he couldn't hold on to his power.

On March 15th, he abdicated, which set off a chain of events that would spiral into full-blown civil war. After stepping down, the Tsar and his family were placed under house arrest. They were kept in Alexander Palace in Tsarskoycello. Things got worse when Bolshevik forces started moving dangerously close to the area. To protect them, or so it seemed, the family was moved to the Ipetive house in E. Cotterenburg. Negotiations for their release were underway, but nothing seemed to work. Their loyal supporters advanced toward E. Coternberg,

hoping to rescue them, but just as they were about to reach their destination, something chilling happened, the imperial family vanished. They disappeared without a trace, and no one ever saw them again. The most widely accepted theory is that the family was executed in the dead of night. Witnesses even came forward, claiming they had seen it happen. But like with any historical mystery, rumors and legend started swirling almost immediately. Some people believed that a few of the Tsar's daughters, or at least one of them, had survived the massacre. Of course, there was no proof. The mystery grew into a legend, and the legend fed a frenzy.

It wasn't just about survival, there were whispers of the Romanov's hidden fortune. Supposedly, the Tsar had stashed away massive wealth in Swiss bank accounts. Without the royal family to claim it, the treasure became a beacon for scammers and supposed long-lost relatives. Over the years, more than 23 women popped up, claiming to be Olga, the eldest daughter of the Tsar. A CIA agent even came forward, claiming he was Alexei, the Tsar's son. Another woman, Michelle Anches, swore up and down that she was Tatiana, one of the other

Romanov daughters. Michelle's story gained some traction in the 1920s. She was so confident in her identity that she even demanded a meeting with the Dowager Empress, Nicholas Tussmother. She wanted to talk to her face-to-face, prove who she was, and earn her acceptance. But the Empress wasn't having it. To her, Michelle was just another con artist. And then there was Anna Anderson, a woman who took her claim further than anyone else.

It all started on February 27, 1920. A young woman tried to end her life in Berlin. She was found on a Bendler bridge, ready to jump into the freezing waters below. A passing policeman spotted her just in time and pulled her back to her back to her. to safety. She was clearly shaken, and when he asked her to identify herself, she said nothing. No name, no family details, and no identification papers. She was a total mystery.

The authorities had no idea what to do with her, so they sent her to the Elizabeth Hospital for observation. Once there, she still refused to speak. Nurses and doctors tried to coax information out of her, but she stayed silent, staring into space. The hospital staff ended up registering her as Miss Unknown. As time passed, the medical team started to notice some unusual things about her. Her body was covered in scars, deep, ugly ones that hinted at a violent past.

She had a scar on her forehead near her hairline, another running across her abdomen, and a bayonet wound on her back. There was even a deep cut behind her ear. Her feet weren't spared either, marked by injuries and noticeable bunions. These bunions might seem insignificant, but they would play a bigger role later. Doctors also determined that she had given birth roughly six months earlier. Slowly, the woman began to talk, but her memory seemed patchy. She couldn't recall her name, where she was from, or if she had any children. She appeared to suffer from amnesia.

However, two things stood out, she had a distinct Russian accent, and she seemed deeply paranoid. She was constantly on edge, her eyes darting around as if someone might attack her at any moment. The question lingered, who was she running from? Eventually, she was moved to Daldorf Psychiatric Hospital. For the next two years, rumors swirled about her identity. Who was this woman? Where had she come from? And why was she so terrified?

In early 1922, a fellow patient named Clara Puth claimed to recognize her. Clara believed that Miss Unknown bore an uncanny resemblance to Grand Duchess Tatiana, the Tsar's second daughter. was so convinced that she reached out to a former captain named Nicholas von Schwab, who shared her suspicion. Together, they visited the hospital, where Nicholas declared that the woman was indeed Tatiana. Word spread like wildfire. Soon, people were flocking to the psychiatric hospital just to get a glimpse of this supposed royal. Some came out of curiosity, others to ask her directly if she was Tatiana. But the woman remained evasive, neither confirming nor denying anything. Among

her visitors were two women with ties to the Romanov family, Zinaida Tolstoy, a close friend of Tsarina Alexandra, and Baroness Sophie Buxoetan, a former lady in waiting. Both women dismissed the idea that she was Tatiana, pointing out that she was too short to be the Grand Duchess. When confronted with this, the woman simply replied, I never said I was Tatiana. Her cryptic response fueled more speculation. If she wasn't Tatiana, was she one of the other Romanoff daughters? This theory gained traction after a nurse named Thea Malinovsky made an intriguing discovery.

While flipping through a newspaper, Thia came across a photo of the Romanov family. She compared it to Miss Unknown and confidently stated, I know who you are. The woman's response. A sharp, shut up. From that point on, rumors exploded. People began to suggest that she wasn't Tatiana, but Anastasia, the youngest Romanoff daughter. After her release from the hospital, the so-called Anastasia was taken in by Baron Arthur von Kleist, a former Russian police chief. He offered her a place to recover, but his

motives weren't entirely altruistic. Hosting her gave him access to a revolving door of aristocrats eager to meet her. Some visitors dismissed her outright, claiming she didn't look or act like Anastasia. Others, however, believed she was the real deal. Supporters pointed out her resemblance to Anastasia, down to her playful personality and unique ear shape. They even noted her bunions, which matched those described in accounts of the Grand Duchess. Critics, however, argued that she didn't speak Russian, though her defenders countered that this was due to trauma. They believed she associated the language with the horrific events that had torn her family apart. Adding to the intrigue, the woman began sharing detailed

stories that only the real Anastasia could have known. She described childhood memories, the family's pets, and even private details about royal residences. For some, this was underemptory. reliable proof of her identity. Others, like Princess Irene of Prussia, remained skeptical. And then there was the issue of her supposed illegitimate child. Doctors had confirmed she'd recently given birth, and this scandal didn't sit well with those who wanted to believe in her royal lineage. Eventually, the woman shared her version of events. According to her, the Romanov family was held captive in the Ipetive house, where soldiers eventually dragged them into the basement and opened fire. She claimed she survived by hiding behind her

older sister Tadiana's body. Although she was injured, she managed to escape thanks to a soldier named Alexander Chikovsky. Together, they fled to Romania, where they fell in love, married, and had a son named Alexei. Tragically, Alexander was later murdered, leaving her alone and desperate. Struggling with grief and depression, she lost her son to an orphanage and tried to end her life. Her story captivated some and infuriated others. Skeptics dismissed it as too convenient, while believers pointed to reports. that corroborated parts of her tail. By 1925, the woman's health had deteriorated. She developed a severe infection in her arm and was shuffled between hospitals.

Despite her fragile state, she continued to attract visitors, including several people who had known Anastasia personally. Among them were Pierre Gileard, Anastasia's tutor, and the Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna, Nicholas II's sister. None of them believed she was Anastasia. Yet, her supporters didn't waver. One of her most devoted backers was Harriet Vaughan Rathleff, a woman of modest means who couldn't fully support her financially. Enter Prince Voldemar of Denmark, Anastasia's great-uncle, who funded her living expenses for a year.

But even his support waned under pressure from his family. By 1926, the debate over her identity was far from settled. Was she really Anastasia, or just a woman with a remarkable story? The question would haunt her, and the world, for decades to come. In the years between 1926 and 1927, the mysterious saga of Anastasia Romanov unfolded with twists, turns, and countless revelations. She had been living under the care and financial support of various benefactors, but at one point, those funds dried up. Among those who supported her was Tatiana Botkin, the daughter of Dr. Eugene Botkin, a physician who had

served the Romanov imperial family. Tatiana had been a childhood friend of Anastasia, and when she first saw this woman claiming to be the lost duchess, she was struck by the similarities. Though Anastasia appeared frail and emaciated, Tatiana couldn't help but notice her eyes, hair, and even some shared memories. However, there were undeniable differences. The Anastasia she remembered had been spirited, mischievous, and well-mannered, while this Anastasia often came across as crass and vulgar. Still, Tatiana's loyalty to her old friend kept her by Anastasia's side. After Prince Waldemar of Denmark withdrew his financial support, Anastasia's fortunes seemed bleak. But then, Duke George of Lichtenberg stepped in, providing her

with accommodations at Castle Seen. For a time, Anastasia lived comfortably again, with no shortage of care or resources. Yet, as always, whispers and rumors circulated. Supporters and detractors debated her true identity. Among her skeptics was none other than Ernest Lewis, Grand Duke of Hesse, and the brother of Tsarina Alexandra. Ernest Lewis was openly dismissive of her claims and took decisive action to discredit her. He hired a private investigator to delve into Anastasia's past, her origins, identity, and every detail of her life. What the investigator uncovered was startling. Around the time Anastasia was discovered, another woman had gone missing, a Polish factory worker named Francisco Shanskowska.

Francisco had endured a difficult life. Her brother recalled how, after their father's death, she had grown despondent. She worked in a munitions factory during World War I, where a tragic accident changed her life forever. A granade exploded in her hand, leaving her injured in her foreman dead. Francisco was hospitalized and later declared mentally unfit in 1916. She spent years moving between psychiatric institutions, and by 1920, she had vanished. Her family searched for her, but it was as if the earth had swallowed her whole. Not long after, Anastasia appeared.

Armed with this information, the investigator orchestrated a meeting between Francisco's brother and Anastasia. The encounter was designed to appear accidental, but Anastasia couldn't escape. Francisco's brother noted a resemblance but couldn't be certain. Anastasia, for her part, claimed she didn't recognize the man. In 1928, Anastasia traveled to the United States and began signing documents as Anna Anderson. With the support of Gleb Bodkin, Tadiana's brother, and a lawyer named Edward Fallows, she took her case to court, claiming her dynastic rights and the Romanov family's fortune. This legal battle became one of the longest and most bizarre in history, dragging on for 32 years.

Ultimately, the court's decision was inconclusive. They couldn't prove she was a fraud, but neither could they confirm her as the real Anastasia. DNA tests didn't exist at the time, so the case relied on photos and testimonies. Witnesses noted both similarities and discrepancies. Anastasia had gray eyes, while Annas were blue. Anastasia had a birthmark on her back, Anna had a deep scar in the same spot, which could have been caused by a bayonet. Both women shared scars on their foreheads and bunions on their feet. Even their ears were remarkably similar.

However, Anna's behavior cast doubt on her claims. She didn't speak Russian, something Anastasia had been fluent in. Her defenders attributed this to trauma, arguing she had repressed her Russian identity out of fear. Yet her conduct was erratic. She was disrespectful, prone to tantrums, and often lashed out without cause. Survivors of the Romanov family dismissed her as a fraud, accusing her supporters of seeking the Romanov fortune. Meanwhile, Anna's defenders leveled the same accusation at them. The dispute continued for decades, and neither side emerged victorious. In 1928, the Dowager Empress Maria Fyodorovna, Anastasia's grandmother, passed away.

Within 24 hours, 12 Romanoff family members publicly denounced Anna Anderson as an imposter. This fueled a media frenzy, with accusations and counter-accusations flying in every direction. Some claimed Anna was lying to extort money, others insisted the Romanovs were discrediting her to keep their inheritance. In 1929, Anna moved temporarily to Park Avenue in New York City, where she lived with Annie Jennings, a wealthy but controversial woman. Jennings was unmarried, childless, and eager to improve her social standing. Hosting that daughter of the Tsar seemed like the perfect solution.

For 18 months, Anna attended gala's and charity events, gaining publicity. But her volatile temperament quickly caused problems. She refused to follow orders, through tantrums, and even killed a pet bird in a fit of rage. The final straw came when she ran naked across a rooftop. Her erratic behavior led to her being committed to a psychiatric hospital. She resisted fiercely, locking herself in a room and screaming until the door was broken down. By August 1932, she returned to Germany under the care of a private nurse. Some accounts suggest Anna spent the following years moving between psychiatric institutions.

Others claim she lived in a small house, courting animals in what appeared to be a case of Noah's syndrome. Neighbors' complaints led to police intervention, and her home was cleared of the accumulated chaos. As World War II erupted, Anna remained in Germany, moving frequently under Allied protection. In 1968, she was found unconscious in her countryside home and taken to a hospital in Nobrandenburg. Gled Botkin then invited her to move to the United States, promising her a fresh start. Once in America, Anna seemed to find stability for a brief time. However, her visa was nearing expiration, and her supporters suggested a marriage of convenience to secure her stay.

Entered John Ecott-Manahan, a history professor and genealogist obsessed with the Russian imperial family. Marrying the woman he believed to be Anastasia was a dream come true for him. Despite being 20 years her junior, John married Anna in a civil ceremony on December 23rd, 1968. They moved to a farm in Charlottesville, Virginia, where their eccentricities became the stuff of local legend. John frequently boasted about being the son-in-law of the Tsar and the Grand Duke in waiting.

Their home, however, was in shambles. Despite John's wealth, they lived in squalor, surrounded by clutter and countless animals. Anna continued hoarding pets, and her mental and physical health deteriorated. On August 20, 1979, she was hospitalized with a gangrenous tumor and part of her intestine removed. She eventually succumbed to pneumonia on February 12, 1984. Even in death, debates about her identity persisted. She was buried at Castle Cian, where her supporters, continued to honor her as Anastasia. The truth, however, began to emerge years later.

In 1991, a mass grave was discovered containing the remains of Tsar Nicholas II, Empress Alexandra, and three of their daughters. DNA testing confirmed their identities, but two children were missing, Anastasia and Alexei. Speculation continued until 2007, when a second grave was found, containing their remains. Modern DNA analysis confirmed that all Romanov children had perished alongside their parents in 1918. But who, then, was Anna Anderson? Investigators turned to Francisco Shanskoska's surviving relatives. DNA samples from Francisco's family were compared to Anna's genetic material,

preserved in hospital archives. The results were clear, Anna Anderson was Francisco Shanskowska. For decades, a woman with severe mental health issues had convinced thousands that she was a lost princess. Her delusions had been documented by medical professionals, and her behavior matched the symptoms of her psychiatric history. The mystery of Anastasia Romanov captivated the world for much of the 20th century. Films, documentaries, and countless stories were inspired by her supposed survival. Yet the truth was far more tragic. The Romanov family's fate was sealed in 1918, and Francisco Shanskowska's tragic life became entangled in their legacy. So now, the question

remains, did Anna Anderson supporters truly believe she was Anastasia, or were they complicit in perpetuating a lie for their own gain? What do you think of this extraordinary case? What can I say, based on the evidence? We see, that is a house where many things happened, many negative things, many things from a psychopath. We begin, at 11 p.m. on Friday, May 7th. 2021, from a home in the municipality of Kaltzwapa, El Salvador, female screams began to emerge. They were heartbreaking screams, screams, calling for help, and neighbors in the area, were alerted in different ways. It is said that one neighbor did not hear the screams, but her dogs were, the ones who alerted her, they started barking, howling, scratching the door, and when she

looked, out the window, she realized what was happening. Another person did hear it, heard screams, and then silence. Finally, it said someone saw what, looked like a domestic fight, saw a young girl running through a yard and being, chased by a supposed husband. The girl was screaming for help, and the man was chasing her with an iron bar, in his hands. Once he caught up to her, he struck her in the head until she was, unconscious, then dragged her by her feet, back into the house. That's when the witness, grabbed the phone and called the police. The police arrived at the scene at 12.10 a.m. They took a very long time to arrive, but supposedly, according to El Farrow, the delay was due

to a malfunctioning, telephone. They called emergency services, emergency services alerted the police, and from there, communication issues arose because the police stations, phone wasn't working. El Farrow also explains that fresh blood, was emerging from the door of the house, so the officers called for backup and entered. Once inside, they found the lifeless, bodies of Myrna Cruz Lima, 57, and her daughter Jacqueline Christina, Palomo Lima, 26. The bodies were found in a horrific state, and depending on the source consulted, they were positioned in one way or another.

All sources agree that both, suffered severe head trauma. But the worst was yet to come, in the house's septic pit, there were two more bodies belonging to men. One of them was Alexis Palomo Lima, 24, son of Myrna and brother of Jacqueline. The other appeared to be Carlos Osorio, the brother of the homeowner. The entire scene was horrific, and, when the police searched for the culprit, they found a man pretending to be dead. The man had cut his wrists and was trying to pretend he wasn't breathing, but the officers were quicker, and immediately arrested him, taking him to the nearest hospital. From here, the story

becomes very chaotic, very chaotic and hard to explain, so let's try to go step by step. At first, four bodies were found in his home, two female and two male. But when police investigated further, they saw that in a pit where the male bodies were found, there could be many more. And not only that, according to the prosecutor's office, between this man's home and the adjacent land, around seven other pits could be seen, where more human remains might lie. It was such a striking story that, dozens of relatives of people who had, been missing for a very long time, and whom the police had not been searching for, came to the scene of the events and asked directly if their loved ones' bodies were there. But what police did was take

DNA samples from them, and asked for a little patience. Just like them, media outlets also came to the scene, they went directly to those working there, to ask questions, what was going on? How were they working? What were they finding? One of the people they questioned, was none other than the well-known forensic expert Israel Tickus. He had been overseeing the excavations, since the very beginning, and without any problem, he spoke to the press, talked about what they were doing, how they were working, what they were finding, and how they were accessing the main pit. The day of the arrest, police found two murdered women and a pit with two male bodies. But the discoveries continued.

The forensic expert from the prosecutor's office, Israel Tickis, explained that, an undetermined number of decomposing bodies were inside the pit. The degree of contamination was immense. He said the bodily fluids of, each of the corpses, still remained in the area. Imagine, what can I tell you, a large, number of bodies, one on top of the other. The muscles of one fused, with the muscles of the other. According to the forensic expert, at that point, the number of bodies, inside the pit could not be determined, because extracting the bones was a complicated job. I can tell you

directly, I can only say there are six skulls, and a large number of bodies, and I'm working downward, because it's necessary to clean, so that forensic medicine can come, and begin lifting the first, the second. He said, I've never seen a scene like this, the most I'd seen before was six bodies, but not so many young ladies, so many young women, likely they were raped, and then murdered. Were they raped? Well, what can I tell you, from the evidence we observed, This is a house where many things happened, many negative things, many things from a psychopath. Nine days have passed since, authorities responded to the complaint, in the Colonial Los Flores, of Couchwapa, Santa Ana. There are corpses ranging from, two or three months old, some from six months ago, others possibly older.

They are in different stages, of decomposition, some liquefied, some skeletal. There must be more bodies below. there are more in the pit. Today they're working on approximately 24 to 25 bodies, in addition to the ones already discovered. That day, it was known that more or less that number was inside the pit, but since they work pit by pit. Everything this man said was from his experience, and from what they were finding. But still, later on, several media reported that the Attorney General, Rodolfo Delgado, intended to open a disciplinary process against this man for talking too much. Supposedly, he had given unconfirmed information to the press. Apparently,

he gave an approximate number of the bodies to the media, based on his forensic experience. There was a main pit, a septic pit, and around it, seven more pits, seven pits where apparently, there were more bodies. However, the Attorney General declared at a press conference to the person who dared, to give this information, which only caused confusion. Among the press and the public, I instructed the fiscal audit unit to initiate the corresponding disciplinary process. Because this is not about someone, randomly giving descriptions of events, especially when they haven't even happened yet. Nevertheless, according to the magazine, La Nacione, the forensic expert said, he had not been censored nor, sanctioned. At no time have they asked me to be silent, or tried to censor

me, regarding the information being circulated. Saying they are restricting info to the media, is totally false. Starting a judicial process doesn't mean there's a gag order, it just means we must be careful, when speaking, so the investigation is not hindered. On June 7th, during a press conference, it was declared that they had found, 18 bodies. But in the following days, according to el Salvador.com, they found five more. However, it seems the government has not yet made that information public, so we will have to wait. What we do know is that they mostly killed women, some of whom were minors. Among the bodies were, the remains of four children, children between two and nine years old.

What we know so far is that this man would dig a pit and toss a victim's body in it, a body he would cover with a slab. When he killed someone else, he'd lift the slab, drop in the new body, and cover it again. In this way, the victims were piled up and each one decomposed at, a different rate. This detail might seem irrelevant, but it makes analysis, much more difficult. It's necessary to identify the bodies, know the data. death, how they died, and the condition in which everything is found, makes it all seem very, musical note, complicated. The owner of the house was, Hugo Ernesto Osorio Chavez, 51 years old.

This man was described by neighbors, as someone kind, who didn't bother anyone, and even seemed like a good person. He lived for years in that house, located at number 11 of, Estevez Alley in Calchwapa, and went completely unnoticed. The neighbors knew almost nothing about him. They didn't see him as aggressive, he didn't get into trouble, and there were never strange noises from his house. However, on May 7, everything was exposed, and police began investigating, investigating

what happened, and who this man really was. They discovered that Osorio had been, a member of the National Civil Police, from 1997 to 2005, until he was dismissed, because he was accused of statutory rape. This crime sent him to, a Pantio's prison for five years, after which he was released. Some sources mention other, possible crimes, but officially, we know nothing more. They talk about him publishing his phone, in public areas, about him speaking with minors, but the only official offense, was the crime he committed in 2020. On December 22nd of that year, an arrest.

warrant was issued against him for abusing a minor. This raises questions because from the moment the warrant was issued, until police actually arrested him, several months passed. And they didn't arrest him for what he did in 2020, but for what he was doing in 2021. He was actively ending the lives of young girls for sexual motives. At first, he lured the girls through social networks. He joined Facebook groups, where young people looked for jobs, messaged them privately, and said he had great offers, that he knew someone at a shopping center, that he had contacts. The victims, completely desperate, believed him, met up with him, went to his house, and once there, they were assaulted, and struck in the head, until death. To be continued.

Once there, they were assaulted and beaten in the head until death. He used to be assaulted. He used to beat them with a pipe or a metal bar, and then undressed the bodies and threw them into a pit. Another method he used to lure victims was, telling people that his brother Carlos, could help them get to the United States. You talked to the killer, he contacted. Carlos, you paid a certain amount of money, and a few days later, you'd go to the U.S. Unfortunately, this story was false, and it was exactly what he did with Alexis, Palomo Lima. Alexis was studying. his fourth year of medicine in El Salvador, but unfortunately didn't have the means, so Osorio approached his mother and, sister and offered the possibility of sending Alexis to the United States.

He said that his brother smuggled people, across the border, that everything would go fine, that the boy would have a great future, and that, in exchange for that, for doing that little favor, of getting to the U.S., he asked for $7,000. The only problem was, they didn't have that much. money, so Mirna asked her father Jose for help. The man owned a house, and if, he showed the deed to the bank, they'd, grant him a loan. It was the only way to get the money, so, the man accepted. With his daughter, they went to, the bank, got the loan, and then paid. Osorio, and Alexis went to the U.S. The trip happened in early May that year, but a few days later, Osorio, informed the family that

Alexis had been kidnapped. Supposedly, the man knew where he was and asked Mirna and, her daughter Jacqueline Christina to go to his house to discuss the matter. The meeting took place on the night of May 7, 2021. But sadly, we all know what really happened. For those $7,000, he killed my daughter, my grandkids, and his brother Carlos, the human trafficker, to whom he chopped off both hands. What really happened was that when Alexis, arrived at the house, he was murdered, and thrown into the pit, a pit where the lifeless body of Osorio's brother Carlos was found. On the night of May 7, Myrna Cruz Lima, 57, was, beaten to death. And then the criminal tried to do the same, to her daughter Jacqueline Christina.

But she knew judo, so she defended herself, and ran across the garden screaming for help. Several neighbors heard the screams, but Osorio was faster. When, he caught the girl, he beat her to death, and dragged her into the house. According to the media, this criminal enjoyed inflicting pain on others, both physical and psychological. In the first searches they found masks, and unimaginable tools. As in any horror story, this man kept trophies from some victims, lipsticks, shoes, ID cards, all of it hidden inside a gray sock. From here, there are three important points.

The press constantly repeats. The first is that they said this man, killed his victims in satanic rituals. This is completely false. It circulated online because inside his house, they found a small statue of, Santamwerite, masks, strange items, a figure of an owl,

and because of that, they thought it was ritualistic killings, but in reality, it was nothing of the sort. Secondly, considering his victim profile, and modus operandi, the police began investigating former residences, where the man had lived. When he lived in one of them, three young people disappeared in the same area, two girls aged 14 and 26, and a 28-year-old man. It's not yet confirmed, if they were his victims, but many media outlets keep it in mind.

Thirdly, at least at the beginning, it was said that this man committed the crimes completely alone, or that he did it for fun, or that he did it as a hitman, meaning he killed people on someone else's orders. Someone gave him a name, an address, he lured the victim, killed them, and got paid. This point would become important later. During a press conference held, on Friday, May 21st, it was stated that Hugo Ernesto Osorio Chavez would become a protected witness, since according to him, in nine of the murders, he didn't participate directly, he only helped hide the bodies. Mr. Osorio was granted partial opportunity, criteria exclusively for nine cases, where his involvement was, throwing the bodies into the well.

He is the only witness, to the people who were the main authors, of the homicides and femicides. Nine of the alleged accomplices, according to Osorio, were Juan Francisco Zarsino, Juan Alberto Gomez Escobar, Jose Ernesto Seguenza Martinez, Henry Eniboo Olaveris Prudomo, Nelson Roberto Alvarez, Lorena Patricia Miranda Vasquez, Ernesto Enrique Ramirez Alvarez, Cindy Gabriela Mendoza Godoy, and Ingrid Elizabeth Ramos Moran. According to the Attorney General's office, these nine people may be linked to 13 crimes committed between 2020 and 2021, crimes which could include a seven-year-old girl and two boys, aged nine and two years old. What's very interesting is that none of those involved belong to gangs, and some of them, at least officially, had never

committed a crime before. Because of this, some relatives of these, people came forward to the press, to say they are innocent. And here comes another very controversial, point in the case, on May 12th, Revista Factum published a very detailed article that made public, some details of crimes committed in 2020. A protected witness, nicknamed Estevez, revealed the truth behind these crimes. One of them was the murder, of a girl who worked at a kiosk. Another was the death of the ex-wife of a military man. Then came the case of two weeks. women and two small children. In some cases, Estevez claimed, he lent his house to some friends, so they could commit the crimes there. A clear example was a friend, who brought a 36-year-old

woman and her nine-year-old daughter to the house. This person raped both, and after doing so, killed them. The article was quite extensive. But when Revista Factum published it, the case was under seal, and the prosecutor's office believed that the article only served to re-victimize the deceased. They considered that, broadly speaking, the text was a disrespect to the victims, and their families. Therefore, they went to court, to request the removal of the publication, from the website and from any other digital platform. The attorney general made the first peace court of Santa Ana aware of the article about the Couchwapa, murders, where it revealed, Details of the crimes committed, even though the process was sealed.

The AG's office said it was obligated, to protect the honor and privacy, of the victims in compliance with, Article 53 of the law, which commands us to refrain from, providing any data that could, facilitate the identification of the victims or their families. Our goal is to avoid the instrumentalization of the violence, suffered by the victims of this killer. Revealing details of their suffering, re-victimizes them and violates the law. The text published by the Digital Magazine had not aimed at the integral reparation, of the damage caused to, the victims and their families, so the court ordered it removed, from the website and all digital platforms. Therefore, in June, Revista Factum's article, was removed from all platforms. However, it must be said that other magazines stood in solidarity, and

republished the same text on their websites. Some critics denounced this measure as a government attempt to censor the press. The Inter-American Commission on Human Rights states that this kind of information must not be censored, as it is of public interest, especially because these cases, relate directly to the effectiveness of public security policies. Statements from Wilson Sandoval, Director of the Salvadoran Anti-Corruption Group A-LAC, according to BCE.com, President naive Bucale pointed to shark drops in the homicide rate, with evidence that his administration's security plan was working. In 2015, El Salvador, with a population of about 6.5 million, suffered nearly 20 murders per day, making it one of the most violent, countries in the

world. But recently, there have been days, with zero murders, and the official homicide rate, is now one-fifth of what it was, at its peak. However, disappearances have alarmingly increased. Supposedly, in the first four months of 2020, 196 people disappeared. In 2021, during the same period, 416 disappeared. With this data, many sources say, maybe the government isn't doing as well, as it claims. Maybe its measures are insufficient, and maybe it's trying to, censor the case so that the public doesn't find out anything. Salvadoran security minister, Gustavo Villatoro said Thursday that genetic testing would begin, and excavations would continue, to move forward with the search.

According to local media, Osorio declared extrajudicially that in his house, more than 40, murder victims could be found. In statements made outside court, Hugo Ernesto Osorio Chavez said, his home could contain approximately 47 bodies. But currently, we do not have that number. More bodies keep appearing. The investigation continues. Even so, we know that, on May 22nd, he was transferred,

to the maximum security prison, of Zacatecaloca. President Naïbe Buckele of El Salvador, made the following statement. Investigators continue working. Today more bodies appeared. There may be more accomplices, but Hugo Ernesto Osorio Chavez will spend the rest of his life, locked in this cell, with sealed internal and external windows, where he will never again, see direct sunlight. Families of missing persons are still arriving at the crime scene,

people desperately searching, for their loved ones. They come with photos, names, surnames, and plead that the investigation does not stop. They offer their DNA, to be able to compare with the bodies. They ask for urgency, they ask for transparency. But even now, nothing has been confirmed. This case remains sealed. And to finish, I'd like to share what's currently happening with Myrna's father and Alexis and Jacqueline Christina's grandfather, Jose. According to the sources consulted, Jose is still waiting for Alexis's body to be returned. He wants to receive it, to bury him with dignity. But at least for now, there is no news.

And the most shocking part, is that this poor man still has to repay the bank loan that his daughter took out to send Alexis to the United States, and he doesn't even know how he'll manage to do it. So now it's your turn, what do you think of the case, and what do you think, about the fact that we still don't know, who the victims truly are? The end. On March 8, 2015, the Wisconsin Emergency Services received a large number of calls, calls that seemed to be coming from the same place but were not enough to pinpoint the exact location from which they were made. The person in question would dial 911, wait for a moment, and then hang up. So, there was no way to know who was calling or where they were calling from.

However, at some point, emergency services managed to speak with the caller and discovered that it was a little girl. With these simple moments, emergency services were able to figure out that the call was coming from Rhineland, specifically from a house belonging to Thomas and Jennifer Ayers. Upon arrival, they saw that the house was intact. There were no signs of robbery or murder, no indications of anything. But on the ground floor, they found three girls locked in a room, three girls terrified, saying that on the upper floor were the bodies of their parents. quickly, several officers went upstairs and discovered that what these girls had said was completely true. Right at the top of the stairs was the lifeless body of Jennifer Ayers, a body that had been

stabbed 35 times, 35 stabs to the legs, arms, torso, and face. Next to the body was the supposed murder weapon, a decorative knife. A few steps further, specifically leaning against a wardrobe, was the lifeless body of Thomas Ayers, a body with two gunshot wounds, one to the neck and another to the face. The weapon, once again, was next to the body, and this time it was a shotgun. This was when the officers asked the girls who could have done this, and all three confirmed it was their older sister, Ashley Martinson. This is when the whole case began. This story starts long before Ashley Martinson's birth, in fact, it starts with her mother, Jennifer Ayers. Jennifer was allegedly born into a dysfunctional family.

According to her first boyfriend, her parents were unfit to have children. It is said that Jennifer was a victim of domestic violence, that her parents fought constantly, and that, on occasion, her father would make inappropriate advances on her, advances that her mother allowed. Many people who experience these types of events in their childhood tend to repeat these patterns when they get older, unconsciously becoming involved with people who are no good for them, and that's exactly what happened to Jennifer Ayers. At some point, she married Jeremy Martinson. For her, the relationship wasn't toxic, it was simply full of ups and downs that she hoped would resolve one day.

Under this premise, on March 6, 1998, the couple brought their first and only daughter into the world, Ashley and Martinson. Ashley grew up subjected to ongoing violence, violence that her mother allowed. But at some point, Jennifer decided to divorce. After that, Jeremy made it clear that he didn't want anything to do with his only daughter, so the little girl would only live with her mother. Many of you might think that from here, Jennifer could have chosen to turn her life towards something more positive, that she could have rebuilt herself and started fresh, but even though she may have tried at first, it didn't take long for her to find another man

who wouldn't do her any good. On January 13th, a girl named Aniston Weber published a full video on YouTube talking about Ashley Martinson. She said that when they were younger, they were very good friends and practically neighbors. She shared that back then, Ashley was a very good girl who was very shy and had a hobby of hunting spiders. But another darker thing she mentioned was that there were rumors that her mother's new boyfriend might have been abusing her. Unfortunately, years later, Ashley would confirm this. Jennifer asked this man to put her daughter to bed and bathe her, and it was during these moments that he would take advantage of the situation to touch

Ashley. Over time, she convinced herself that her mother was aware of what was happening and was doing nothing to stop it. According to Aniston Weber, Ashley's family moved constantly, which didn't allow her to settle down anywhere. Still, there were many people spread across different states who came to know and love her as part of their family. A clear example of this is the Klein and Rogers' families. Carmi Klein, mother of Bilia, Ashley's best friend, had only good things to say about her. She said Ashley was very sweet and had no malice, and the same opinion was shared by the Rogers family. It was then that Jennifer met Thomas Ayers online. Thomas Ayers initially seemed like a good man. He was kind, gentlemanly, and very different from the men Jennifer had been with

before. He was also a father to three girls, two of whom were from his first marriage, and the third from his second. He treated them well and seemed like a loving father. However, in 2014, after marrying Jennifer, everything changed. Thomas became a violent, irritable, uncontrollable person, and Jennifer once again allowed it all. She observed three major issues with him. The first was extreme violence, he would hit Jennifer and the three girls and would constantly impose his views on them. On one occasion, he strangled one of his daughters and killed the family dog with a shot just because it irritated him. The second concern was that Ashley discovered Thomas was a former convict, convicted of assault, harassment, domestic violence, and drug

possession. The third troubling point was that this man had a large amount of weapons, guns scattered everywhere, loaded, unloaded, assembled, disassembled, even among the girls' things. Slowly, Ashley became more and more desperate. At the age of 14, she adopted the emo aesthetic, which was very popular at the time. As Aniston Weber mentioned in her YouTube video, Ashley was still the same sweet, friendly, pleasant girl, but now she was also drawn to darker things. Ashley wasn't comfortable in her home, and it was something ever. everyone suspected. It was something they all saw in her eyes, but now they could confirm it through her texts. When she turned 16, life for Ashley took a complete turn. Her mother allowed

her to start working. She would go to school normally, hang out with friends, study, do theater in the afternoons, and work with her colleagues and boss. Just at that age, she also started dating a boy named Ryan Sisko. This boy seemed like the perfect match. he was kind, attentive, treated Ashley well, and physically appeared to be her age. Jennifer and Thomas Ayers had no objections. For the first time, it seemed like life was smiling at Ashley Martinson. Her house seemed like hell, but the streets felt like heaven. So, unknowingly, Ashley began to imagine escaping.

But she didn't make the decision until March 6, 2015, the day she turned 17. That morning, Ashley woke up in the middle of a fight between her parents. Once again, Thomas had beaten her mother, and this time the blows were so severe that she thought he might kill her. So, she packed a bag, called Ryan, and told him that the next day they were going to run away. Unfortunately, what she didn't consider was that Thomas wasn't going to let her escape. On her birthday, after the fight, Ashley went to the computer, logged into Facebook, and posted the following. message, I want to kill him. I just want to take one of his guns and blow his brains out. Then, she grabbed a backpack, filled it with her clothes, and got it ready to run away the next

day. The next day, early in the morning, she left the house intending never to return. Sadly, what she didn't know was that Thomas was closely following her and had discovered that Ryan was actually 22 years old, not her age. So, shortly after leaving home, Thomas caught her, took her back, and once inside, he told her everything was over for her. First, she would quit her job, second, she would stop going to school, and third, her relationship with Ryan was over. Everything good in Ashley's life would end from then on. She wouldn't be able to go out, meet with friends, or even dream of escaping that house because, clearly, that idea was impossible. At this point, Ashley, completely devastated, locked herself in her

her room, and Thomas, seizing the moment, went outside. He had lost everything just for wanting to be free. So, he grabbed a shotgun from her stepfather, sat on the bed, and tried to take his own life. However, just as he was about to pull the trigger, he heard Thomas coming up the stairs. The man was very angry, and Ashley feared that if he reached her, he would hit her. So, fearing the worst, she grabbed the shotgun, aimed at the door, and just as Thomas turned the knob, she shot him in the neck. Jennifer, hearing the shot, left the little ones downstairs and rushed upstairs. When she found what was happening, a struggle ensued.

Jennifer grabbed a decorative knife, and according to Ashley, Jennifer wanted to kill her. After struggling, she took the knife and stabbed her several times. According to Ashley, after five stabs, she lost control, and when she realized it, her mother was on the floor, lifeless. Fearing Thomas would get back up, she dropped the knife, grabbed the shotgun, and shot him again, this time directly in the head. She then went downstairs and locked the three girls in a room, a room where she put enough food to last them 24 hours. After that, she grabbed her backpack and fled with Ryan. That night, the couple stayed at a friend's house, Jonathan Rasmussen, who lived down the road. They didn't tell him exactly what had happened, as Ryan didn't really know for sure.

However, the next day, on March 8, the sisters of Ashley called 911, and news of the crime spread like wildfire all over the internet. It was then that the couple, in love, left in the truck and headed to Tennessee. Unfortunately, at the Indiana border, a patrol intercepted them. Once at the police station, Ashley offered the police a version of the crime that was very different from what actually happened, a version that she apparently had told Ryan Sisko. According to Ashley, after trying to escape, her parents argued. It was the strongest argument they had ever had. At some point, the woman lost control, grabbed a shotgun, and shot her husband twice.

Ashley, hearing the shots, went upstairs and found her mother completely beside herself. She tried to talk to her, calm her down, but Jennifer blamed Ashley for killing her husband. In a moment of uncontrollable anger, Jennifer grabbed a decorative knife and attacked her daughter. After struggling for a few minutes, Ashley took the knife and stabbed her. After that, she locked her sisters in a room and escaped. Unfortunately, this version of events doesn't. quite add up. When someone is armed and trying to defend themselves, they usually stab between two and five times. But in Ashley's case, she stabbed her mother 35 times, leaving

her body practically unrecognizable. Another point against Ashley is that, if we remember, her three sisters witnessed everything. The three girls were downstairs when Ashley killed their parents, and one of them even peaked up the stairs at the moment Ashley was stabbing Jennifer. That's why, in the end, the girl had to confess the truth. You know how people say I'm a monster. I wish people had known Thomas Ayers, the way he was, the way he really was. Then people would know he was the monster. Ashley's sisters talked about the horrors Thomas Ayers subjected them to, about the beatings, threats, and humiliation. They confirmed that everything Ashley said was true, stating that, indeed, Thomas was a

a monster. In the trial against Ashley Martinson, even her best friend and the daughter of Thomas's second wife, Angela Kohler, testified. They confirmed that this woman was a victim of violence at the hands of Thomas. Sadly, the law in Wisconsin is a bit different from other states. If you commit a crime at 16, you're judged as a minor, but if you do it at 17, you're judged as an adult. Unfortunately, Finally, Ashley was 17 at the time of the crime. Ashley Martinson was facing the following charges, two counts of first-degree murder and three more counts for false imprisonment, meaning locking her three sisters in a room without authority.

Because of all this, the prosecution was asking for life imprisonment, but the defense did everything possible to appeal. First, they wanted to argue for a mental defense, but considering her blog in the fact that she tried to escape on the day of the murder, the judge rejected her. it. However, after reaching a plea deal in 2016, the girl was sentenced to 26 years in prison and 17 years of supervision. Since then, she has been serving her sentence at Fondelac Prison in Wisconsin. I'm happy, and I know this sounds crazy because I'm in prison, but I feel free. I can wake up every day and know that I'm safe. But now it's your turn, what do you think of

the case, and do you believe Ashley deserves to be free? The end. The bloody chronicles of Lena Labacheva, a dark tale from Moscow, they claimed she was the mastermind, the one pulling the strings, manipulating everyone else. The media painted her as the leader of a deadly group, but the truth? She was just another piece in a puzzle, a cog in a grim and gruesome machine. To understand the shocking case of Elena Labichiva, you have to start at the beginning. Let's rewind to Moscow in 1989, the year Lena was born. Not much is known about her early life. Her family was unremarkable, she was raised by her mother and stepfather. Neighbors saw her as a sweet, polite girl,

the kind you'd waved to on your way to work without a second thought. Her home life seemed peaceful, no shouting, no police visits, no signs of trouble. But looks can be deceiving. Behind closed doors, Lena was a storm waiting to be unleashed. Her parents struggled with her fiery temper. She didn't handle frustration well, a simple, no, could send her into a rage. Her outlet for this anger. Stray animals. Abandoned cats bore the brunt of her fury. By age nine, Lena had developed an obsession with horror movies, particularly bride of Chucky. She idolized Tiffany Valentine, Chucky's chaotic partner in crime. At first, her parents chalked it up to childish fascination. But as Lena grew older, her obsession deepened. She

She dreamed of becoming Tiffany, a dark fantasy that slowly crept into her reality. The transformation begins. As a teenager, Lena's appearance began to change. She experimented with military prints, then shifted to darker colors, and eventually shaved her head entirely. Her parents noticed more troubling habits. Her room was a disaster zone, littered with rotting food. She kept a rabbit as a pet, but its cage was perpetually filthy.

these quirks, Lena was still considered good at heart by her family. She had bouts of rage but was otherwise normal. Everything changed in 2013 when Lena met her first serious boyfriend, Pavel Voiv. Pavel was five years younger, with a troubled past of his own. Raised in a turbulent household, he had spent much of his childhood between his parents before they divorced. At one point, he even lived with his grandmother, a war veteran. Pavel wasn't just an average troubled youth. In 2012, he was arrested for vandalizing Jewish graves in a cemetery. After serving time, he re-entered society, seemingly unchanged. When he and Lena crossed paths, it was like pouring gasoline on an open flame. A shared obsession, the couple bonded over their mutual love for

horror movies and a shared fascination with serial killers. Together, they delved into the macabre, researching infamous murderers. Their favorite? Alexander Pichuskin, infamously known, as the chessboard killer. He had killed 49 people, aiming for 64, the number of squares on a chessboard. What intrigued Lena and Pavel wasn't just his body count, but his lack of remorse. This admiration turned into an unhealthy obsession. The pair frequented online forums where they connected with others who shared their morbid interests. This is where they met Arthur Narcissav, Maxim Pavlov, and Vladislav Karev, three individuals who would become their accomplices. Birth of the Sanitator 88, in these forums, the group often criticized Moscow's

growing homeless population, viewing them as parasitic and a blight on society. Around this time, a Siberian politician made a controversial statement suggesting that citizens should have the right to shoot homeless people. Whether this was a joke or not didn't matter, the group took it seriously. They dubbed themselves, Sanitator 88. Sanitator translates to cleaners, while 88 is a neo-Nazi Code 4, Heil Hitler. This sinister name reflected their twisted mission, to cleanse Moscow streets. Lena stumbled upon a step-by-step guide on killing humans while browsing the Internet and shared it with the group. They decided it was time to act on their dark fantasies. Pavel took the role of leader, delegating tasks and making decisions, while Lena became the group's

social media guru, documenting their crimes for the darknet. The killing spree, their first victim was a homeless man who approached Lena for money in July 2014. Armed with a knife, Lena stabbed him repeatedly as the others filmed the horrific scene. The man's pleas for mercy were drowned out by the sound of Lena's blade. This marked the beginning of a killing spree that lasted until February 2015. In less than a year, they claimed at least 15 lives. Their victims were all vulnerable individuals, homeless, isolated, and often overlooked by society. The police did little to investigate. These were people with no families to report them missing, no advocates to demand justice.

In the eyes of law enforcement, their deaths weren't worth the effort. Each murder was more brutal than the last. Victims were found with dozens of stab wounds and signs of blunt force trauma. One man had 44 stab wounds near Belaruski Station. Another near the Moscow racetrack had been stabbed 51 times and beaten with a hammer. The gruesome details painted a chilling picture of the group's sadistic nature. Lena's role, despite being one of many participants, Lena's role was unique. She reveled in a violence, describing it as euphoric.

She documented each murder meticulously, creating folders with titles like, tenderness, and, I need this. These weren't just photos and videos of the crimes, they included images she found inspiring, fueling her fantasies. She even kept a detailed word document cataloguing each attack, listing how many times she personally stabbed each victim. Her obsession with the murders was undeniable, and she openly compared the thrill of killing to sexual pleasure. A mistake that led to their downfall, the group spree came to an abrupt end in February 2015 when they killed Sergei Zippet, a banker. Unlike their previous victims, Sergey wasn't homeless. He had a family, a stable job, and people who cared about him. His murder forced the police to

take notice. The investigation stalled until the group made another critical error, they targeted a street cleaner, but he survived. The cleaner provided the police with descriptions of his attackers, and nearby surveillance cameras captured key footage. On February 19th, Lena and Pavel were arrested. A search of Lena's home uncovered damning evidence, photos, videos, murder weapons, and even a pistol. Soon after, the rest of the group was apprehended. The trial, the trial began in 2017. Despite overwhelming evidence, the media sensationalized the story, dubbing Lena, the bride of Chucky, due to her tattoo. They painted her as the mastermind, a narrative that overshadowed Pavel's role as the group's true

leader. The jury found all five members guilty. Their sentences remain unclear, but their guilt was undeniable. Yet, even as the trial concluded, questions lingered. What drove them to such cruelty? Could anything have stopped them? Curry-Taylor-Clinney was born on April 21, 1996, in Midland, Texas, a small, sun-soaked town known more for its oil rigs than anything glamorous. But for the Clinney family, life wasn't about drilling for black gold, it was about chasing dreams and indulging passions. Deborah and Kim Clinney, her parents, adored their two daughters and gave them everything they could ask for, often before they even had to ask. Kim, an economics graduate and successful financial advisor, ensured the family's lifestyle

was as comfortable as it was enviable. The Clinney household wasn't just about academics or financial plans, it was about action and adventure. Curry and her sister grew up with a love for sports. Whether it was scuba diving, volleyball, soccer, or gymnastics, they dived headfirst into all of it. Curry, though, always had a flair for the dramatic. Theater became her playground, and she excelled under the spotlight. She wasn't just active, she was a dynamo.

By her late teens, she'd earned a personal training certificate and snagged top honors in fitness and weightlifting competitions. University was supposed to be the next logical step, a box to check off the life planned her parents envisioned. But according to some accounts, Curry had other ideas. Some say she never made it to university, choosing instead to carve out her own path in the world of sports and social media. She dabbled in modeling, landing occasional gigs in music videos, but her real breakthrough came with Instagram. Each photo she posted seemed to catch fire, racking up thousands of likes in no time. Curry realized she didn't need traditional routes to success when she could build her own brand online.

Her follower count skyrocketed, eventually surpassing 2 million. With fame came opportunity. Brands lined up to have her endorse their products, everything from sneakers to makeup. TV shows, YouTube channels, and even radio stations clamored for her attention. By the time only fans launched in 2016, Curry saw the writing on the wall. She joined the platform and quickly turned it into a gold mine. By 2020, she was reportedly pulling in $1 million a year from only fans alone, and by 2021, that number had jumped to $1.8 million.

All told, she'd made an estimated $3 million in just two years across her platforms. Life was sweet. She partied with A-listers, wore designer brands, and shared every curated moment with her millions of followers. But despite the flashy lifestyle, something was missing. She craved connection, a partner who could share in her success. Enter Christian abumsily, better known as Toby. Christian, born April 12, 1994, in Dallas, Texas, was the kind of guy everyone liked.

With a contagious smile and an easygoing charm, he seemed destined for success. In high school, he was a standout football player, earning praise from his coach for his dedication and big heart. After graduating, Christian went on to Texas Tech University, where he earned a degree in communication studies and business administration. He worked his way up in the corporate world, taking roles at Snow Software and Entcom before launching his own business, Wiseman, and Patchstree. By the time he met Curry in 2020, Christian was a self-made man with a bright future. Their meeting was electric, instant sparks, as some friends described it.

Others say they'd known each other casually through mutual friends and simply decided to take things further. Whatever the case, they were inseparable from the start. Within weeks, they moved in together. On the surface, everything seemed perfect. Social media was flooded with pictures of the couple, all smiles and romantic getaways. But behind the scenes, their relationship was far from picture perfect. Christian's friends noticed he was changing.

The once carefree guy became tense, always glued to his phone. If he wasn't with Curry, he was texting her constantly, updating her on every detail of his day. Allegedly, if he didn't respond fast enough, Curry's temper would flare. Meanwhile, some of Curry's friends painted Christian as the jealous and controlling one, claiming he manipulated her. But others couldn't ignore Curry's public outbursts.

She was often seen yelling at Christian or even pushing him during arguments. Over time, friends noticed Christian showing up with injuries. He brushed them off as accidents, but the whispers of a toxic relationship grew louder. Things took a turn when Curry's career exploded further. The couple decided Christian would quit his job to become her full-time personal assistant. His new role involved managing her collaborations, handling logistics, and traveling with her. Essentially, his life revolved around hers. Their Instagram accounts painted a rosy picture of their jet-setting adventures, but the reality was Messier. As Curry's fame grew,

so did the invitations to parties and events. She often drank heavily at these gatherings, which sometimes led to volatile situations. Curry's drinking and temper landed her in trouble more than once. She was arrested twice for driving under the influence, and her public behavior became increasingly erratic. One particularly infamous incident occurred on July 27, 2021, during a supposed romantic getaway in Las Vegas. Hotel staff called the police after hearing loud arguments and glass-breaking. When officers arrived, they found the room trashed and Christian nursing injuries. Curry initially denied any wrongdoing but later admitted to throwing objects during the fight. She spent 12 hours in jail but faced no charges, as Christian refused to press any.

Despite these red flags, the couple decided to move forward. In January 2022, they left Texas for Miami, settling into a luxury apartment with a $10,000 monthly rent. It was a fresh start, or so they hoped. The apartment was stunning, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and panoramic views of Biscayne Bay. But the change of scenery didn't fix their problems. financially, Curry was the breadwinner, and she didn't let Christian forget it.

Friends say this power imbalance fueled many of their arguments. In Miami, Curry's social life took center stage. She attended endless parties, mingling with influencers and celebrities. Her online persona seemed to consume her real self, and the line between the two blurred. During a podcast appearance in 2022, she described herself as, toxic, with a laugh, admitting she hated being told what to do. She also made controversial comments about only dating wealthy black men, which some say reflected her treatment of Christian during fights.

Their arguments became more frequent and intense, with neighbors often hearing loud disturbances. Christian's friends revealed that he tried to leave multiple times, but Curry always managed to pull him back with promises to change and grand romantic gestures. Yet, the cycle of toxicity continued, leading to the tragic culmination of their story. to really get a grasp on what went down, we've got to rewind the clock a little, back to 2021. The summer of that year was intense, to say the least. Things happened that, in hindsight, seemed to set the stage for the chaos that would follow. Specifically, on September 9th,

2021, Christian found himself in a dangerous situation involving his partner, Courtney. During a heated argument, Courtney did something extreme, she stabbed him in the leg. Yeah, you read that right. And we We know this happened because Christian himself mentioned it in a series of messages. One of the most unsettling ones reads, Yesterday, when you stabbed me in the leg and saw how much it hurt, how I couldn't walk, couldn't do anything, you told me you wished you could take away my pain. You said you wished it was you instead of me. Despite being in pain and unable to walk properly, Christian said he still woke up the next morning,

greeted her with a smile, and tried to move on like nothing had happened. Even though my leg hurt like hell because my girlfriend stabbed me, I made you feel bad about it instead of making a big deal out of it. I just sucked it up and hoped tomorrow would be better. Reading these messages now, it's hard not to see the desperation beneath his words. You'd think an event as serious as this would serve as a wake-up call for Courtney, right? A moment of self-reflection, maybe? Well, it didn't. If anything, the situation seemed to spiral even further out of control. Christian's messages became increasingly frantic as the months went on. One chilling text read, She's Going to Kill Me.

February has been the worst month of my life. I've been cheated on, called horrible names, slapped on my stitches, which have reopened multiple times and are not healing fast enough. Opinions on the situation were wildly divided. Some people, including a neighbor, suggested Christian was the problem. The neighbor claimed to have seen Christian acting violently toward himself. On the flip side, others, like Ashley Bound, a close friend of the couple, argued the opposite. it. Ashley said, we've seen her hit him. I've never seen him lay a hand on her.

From what we've personally witnessed, we don't believe Christian would ever put her in a position where she'd need to defend herself like that. Adding fuel to the fire were photos of Christian's injuries and recordings of Courtney verbally berating him. It was painfully obvious that their relationship was toxic on every level. But the turning point, the moment that's impossible to ignore, came on February 21st, 2022. On that day, a secure camera captured something that sent chills down everyone's spine. The footage showed the couple entering an elevator mid-argument. Courtney was the first to step inside, visibly enraged.

She slapped the elevator panel, shouted something unintelligible, and then Christian walked in. As soon as he stepped inside, she started hitting him repeatedly while he did nothing but try to shield himself. By March of the same year, the situation had escalated to the point where the police were called a staggering 12 times in response to disturbances involving the couple. Neighbors complained about the constant yelling, threats, and physical altercations. Amidst all this chaos, Christian managed to record a haunting audio clip, but the details of its contents remain unclear.

At some point, Courtney developed a troubling habit of threatening to kick Christian out of the apartment. Since she was the one paying the rent, she believed she had the ultimate authority over who could stay. Their fights became a toxic cycle, they'd argue, break up, and she'd demand he leave, but Christian would refuse. According to some reports, no fight even preceded the final incident, though others claimed there was one last explosive argument. Either way, Courtney's mother, who had been staying at the apartment for a week, left on April 1st.

The next day, everything fell apart. On April 2nd, tensions boiled over once again. Neighbors complained about loud noises coming from the couple's apartment, and the building's concierge decided to step in. The couple had caused a scene in the elevator, and the concierge found Courtney screaming in pushing Christian, trying to prevent him from entering. When the concierge asked if she wanted him removed from the building, Courtney initially said no but continued making such a commotion that he eventually called the police.

When officers arrived, Courtney's behavior became erratic. She interrupted the concierge repeatedly, preventing him from explaining what had happened. The officers eventually had to ask her to remain quiet. When it was finally her turn to speak, Courtney claimed that she'd been asking the concierge to remove Christian all along. Her version of events contradicted both the concierge's account and her earlier behavior. Things only got stranger when the police went upstairs to the apartment. According to their report, nothing about the scene made sense.

Courtney's story was inconsistent, and she seemed to be spinning a web of half-truths and outright lies. At one point, she even whispered to the officers, asking to file a restraining order against Christian before he could do the same. Then came the next day, Sunday, April 3, 2022. Less than 24 hours after the police visit, a chilling 911 call was made by Courtney herself. During yet another argument, Courtney stabbed Christian again. The call was harrowing, to say the least. In the background, you can hear Christian repeatedly saying, I'm dying. Courtney, panicked and incoherent, is trying to manage the situation while a dog barks incessantly.

The recording is publicly available online, but its disturbing nature makes it hard to listen to. When police arrived at the scene, the apartment was a blood bath. Blood was everywhere, the living room, kitchen, countertops, bathroom, and bedroom. Christian was lying on top of Courtney, unresponsive, while she appeared to be in a state of shock. Several neighbors witnessed the aftermath from their windows, some even recording videos that quickly went viral. Christian was rushed to the hospital, but the damage was done. He'd lost too much blood and died shortly after arriving. Meanwhile, Courtney was taken into custody for questioning.

Her version of events was, bizarre, to say the least. She claimed that they had reconciled after the police visit the previous day. According to her, everything was fine until they started arguing again the next afternoon. Courtney said the fight started over Christian's decision to disable a location-sharing app that had previously allowed her to track his movements. She admitted she didn't like not knowing where he was at all times. The argument escalated, with both of them yelling and accusing each other of various things. At one point, Christian allegedly grabbed her by the throat and threw her to the ground. In what she claimed was self-defense, she ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and threw it at him.

The knife struck him, causing the fatal injury. Here's the thing, though, instead of immediately calling 911, Courtney called her mother. It wasn't until 15 minutes later that she finally contacted emergency services. Her lawyer later described her as a victim of domestic violence who had acted in self-defense, stating, Courtney is struggling with the trauma of being a survivor of domestic abuse. We ask that the public allow law enforcement to conduct an independent investigation. After the stabbing, Courtney voluntarily checked herself into a psychiatric facility for two days before being released.

Her attorney convinced the police that the stabbing was an act of self-defense, and no charges were filed at the time. Courtney had visible bruises, swollen hands, and appeared deeply distraught, fitting the profile of someone who had been through a traumatic ordeal. But the case didn't end there. Christian's family wasn't about to let things slide. They created a GoFundMe page to cover funeral expenses and began pushing for justice. Meanwhile, Courtney was trying to move on with her life.

In June 2022, she purchased a $1.5 million home in Miami and entered a rehabilitation center in Hawaii, reportedly to address substance abuse issues. She stayed off social media on her lawyer's advice, maintaining a low profile. But on August 10th, 2022, everything changed. Courtney was arrested and formally charged with second-degree murder. Christian's family had presented a mountain of evidence against her, including elevator footage, thousands of messages and letters, and accounts of prior incidents. One particularly damning piece of evidence was an autopsy report that contradicted

Courtney's version of events. The medical examiner determined that the knife wound couldn't have been inflicted the way Courtney described. If she had thrown the knife as she claimed, the injury would have been less severe or in a different location altogether. Furthermore, bruises found on Courtney's body didn't entirely match the timeline of events. Some were fresh, but others appeared to be older, raising questions about how they were sustained. Additional allegations against Courtney also surfaced. Friends and acquaintances came forward, claiming that she had a history of violence toward former partners. One ex-boyfriend even alleged that she had stabbed him twice in the past.

In another instance, Courtney reportedly punched a man so hard that she broke his jaw after discovering he was married. Despite this, Courtney's lawyer argued that these incidents were irrelevant. He maintained that she had acted in self-defense on April 3rd and that her past behavior had no bearing on the case. However, the judge overseeing the preliminary hearings wasn't convinced. Judge Laura Sharon Cruz denied Courtney's request for bail, stating, based on the evidence presented, the court finds the defendant's claim of self-defense to be lacking in credibility.

There is no doubt that the defendant killed the victim in this case. As of now, there is still no official trial date, but it is expected to take place sometime this year. So, what do you think? Was it really self-defense, or is there more to this story than meets the eye? Lacey Elizabeth Spears was born on October 16, 1986. at the Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. She was the youngest of three children born to Tina and Terry Pierce. Her father worked as an aircraft mechanic, but six weeks after Lacey's birth,

the base shut down, prompting the family to relocate to Decatur, Alabama. They moved into a ranch owned by Tina's parents, Peggy and Paul Florence. In Decatur, Terry became a welder while Tina took on the role of a homemaker. From the outside, the family appeared to be loving and hardworking. However, according to their children, things were much different behind closed doors. Lacey's parents were described as cold and distant. On top of that, they were frequently ill. Tina had type 1 diabetes, and Terry suffered from celiac disease and Crohn's disease.

This lack of warmth and connection left Lacey feeling isolated. To cope with her loneliness, she became deeply attached to her dolls. At first, no one thought much of it, but her obsession grew. Lacey treated her dolls as if they were her real children, her babies. She refused to let anyone else touch them. Over time, this behavior became increasingly intense. In elementary school, Lacey befriended a girl named Mallory Owen, and the two quickly became inseparable.

Mallory adored Lacey, but her mother felt uneasy about their friendship. Something about Lacey seemed off. Despite these reservations, Mallory convinced her mom to let her spend the night at Lacey's house. What happened that evening left a lasting impression? While playing in Lacey's room, Mallory picked up one of her dolls, and Lacey's demeanor shifted dramatically. Without warning, she grabbed Mallory by the neck and began strangling her. Though Lacey apologized afterward, the incident left marks on Mallory's neck and an even deeper impression on her mother. By third grade, Lacey's fixation on her dolls was well known.

Her classmate Jessica recalled, we played with our dolls like they were real babies, but Lacey took it way further than any of us. She brought her doll everywhere and treated it like an actual child. Her attachment to these inanimate companions only deepened when her grandfather passed away and her grandmother, Peggy, moved to Clearwater, Florida. The loss devastated Lacey, but it also brought some changes. With her family visiting Peggy more often, Lacey was less alone. However, she didn't seem to appreciate the added attention. On one occasion, she confided in Jessica's mother, Lisa, that her home life was unbearable. According to Lacey, she experienced daily abuse from her family.

Lisa believed her and contacted Alabama's Department of Human Resources, but an investigation found no evidence of mistreatment. Years later, Lacey's sister, Rebecca, denied the claims, stating there was no truth to Lacey's accusations. By 2002, at age 14, Lacey had joined the softball team and become an active member of the Parkview Baptist Church. There, she grew close to a teacher named Paula Sullen. Paula noticed that something seemed off about Lacey.

For one, Lacey often called her mom and sought physical affection in unusual ways, like stroking her hair or holding her arm. On top of that, Lacey was a compulsive liar. These weren't innocent childhood fibs about pets or imaginary adventures, they were elaborate and dark. One day, she showed up to class wearing an ankle brace, claiming she had injured herself during cheerleading practice. The only problem?

She wasn't a cheerleader. When classmates questioned her story, she pivoted, saying she had anorexia and had fainted from starvation. Her lies were exposed when another student pointed out she'd just seen Lacey eating a hot dog the day before. In the summer of 2002, Lacey's lies escalated. She told her friends she was pregnant, which caused a stir among her peers and their parents. When asked about it, Lacey claimed she'd had an abortion at the Methodist Medical Center in Birmingham, Alabama. When someone pointed out that the hospital didn't perform abortions, she changed her story, saying she'd gone to a clinic in Florida. Once again, her lies unraveled.

That fall, Lacey started high school at Decatur High. She joined numerous extracurricular activities, from choir and theater to debate club. She thrived academically and sought praise from her teachers, often going above and beyond to earn their approval. However, her obsession with motherhood became increasingly apparent. She frequently talked about wanting to become a young, single mother. When one of her classmates got pregnant, Lacey latched onto her, showering her with gifts and constantly asking about the baby. Her behavior was unsettling.

After high school, Lacey's first job was at a fast food restaurant, but she quit to volunteer at her church's daycare. She loved working with children and quickly became a favorite among the kids. However, some parents were less enthusiastic. Lacey's overbearing behavior, like asking children, children to call her, mom, made many uncomfortable. Despite the complaints, the church didn't want to let her go, especially since she was working for free.

At 18, Lacey moved out and began working as a live-in nanny. She soon met Christy Burnham, a single mother struggling to make ends meet. Lacey offered to babysit Christy's son for free and quickly became a trusted figure in their household. At first, everything seemed perfect, but Christy began noticing strange behavior. Lacey would take her son out for hours without explanation and often ignored calls. The boy frequently developed ear infections, which only added to Christy's concerns. The final straw came when a neighbor mistakenly referred to Christy's son as Lacey's child.

When Christy checked Lacey's social media, she discovered that Lacey had been posting photos of her son, claiming he was hers. Furious, Christy fired her. Between 2007 and 2008, Lacey's desire to become a mother reached new heights. She dated two men during this time. The first was a police officer named Blake, who ended things after Lacey told him she wanted to get pregnant immediately. The second was her neighbor, Chris Hill.

Chris was head over heels for Lacey, and she saw him as easy to manipulate. After a few dates, she got pregnant. Chris was thrilled and wanted to marry her, but Lacey told him the baby wasn't his. She cut him off completely, threatening legal action if he came near her or the child. On December 3, 2008, Lacey gave birth to Garnett Paul Spears. She was overjoyed and treated her son like one of her dolls, dressing him up and posting countless photos online. While she portrayed herself as a doting mother, her behavior soon raised red flags.

Just two days after Garnett's birth, she took him to the hospital, claiming he had a fever and an ear infection. She took photos of him hooked up to machines and posted them on Facebook, writing heartfelt captions about how worried she was. Others found her behavior odd but chalked it up to a nervous single mother seeking comfort online. Garnett's health issues persisted, or so Lacey claimed. She frequently brought him to the hospital, saying he had vomiting, seizures, and fevers.

Doctors performed countless tests but found no underlying cause. Over time, they began to suspect that Lacey might have Munchausen syndrome by proxy, a psychological disorder where a caregiver fabricates or induces illness in another person to gain attention. One doctor confronted Lacey, suggesting that Garnett's symptoms were her doing. Furious, she left the hospital and began taking him to different facilities, always managing to convince new doctors that her son was gravely ill. By the time Garnett was one year old, he had been hospitalized 23 times and undergone two unnecessary surgeries, one to prevent vomiting and another to insert a feeding tube.

Lacey documented every hospital visit on social media, gaining sympathy and attention from her growing audience. In 2011, she created a blog called Garnett's Journey, where she shared updates about his health. Her posts painted a heartbreaking picture of a single mother caring for a chronically ill child, and her followers aided up. In 2012, Lacey moved to Florida and continued spinning her web of lies. On her blog, she claimed Garnett's father was Blake, the police officer she had dated years earlier. She wrote that he had died in the line of duty, adding another layer of tragedy to her story. In reality, Garnett's father was Chris Hill, who was very much alive. Despite her efforts to maintain the facade, neighbors began noticing inconsistencies.

Lacey claimed Garnett couldn't eat solid food, yet he had a voracious appetite when she wasn't around. Suspicion grew, and in 2014, Lacey moved again, this time to a sustainable living community in New York called the Fellowship. There, she continued to tell heartbreaking stories about her son's health. However, Garnett thrived in the community, making friends and playing like any other child. Once again, Lacey's lies didn't add up. In January 2014, Garnett's health took a sudden turn. Lacey called a friend, hysterical, claiming he was having seizures. The friend rushed to help, only to find Lacey calm and methodical, packing a bag while Garnett sat nearby, hooked up to a feeding tube filled with a white liquid. At the hospital,

doctors noted that Garnett's sodium levels were dangerously high. Despite their best efforts, he was declared brain dead on January 23rd. Suspicious, the hospital staff contacted the police. An investigation revealed that Lacey had been feeding Garnett lethal amounts of salt through his feeding tube. Police searched her home and found bottles of salt and evidence of her poisoning him. On March 2, 2015, Lacey was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to 20 years in prison. She maintained her innocence, even granting a controversial interview to 48 hours, which many viewed as disrespectful. So, what do you think? Was justice served, or does this case leave lingering questions?

It is said that the letter added that Gregory, was always a good person and that what, happened in 91 was an accident, that he was remorseful, that he had already paid, and that it was time to give him freedom. However, the board did not agree with him and directly ignored him, which is why Harris kept insisting. We begin, everything starts with a love story, Tonya Clayton and Gregory Green. Apparently they loved each other madly so, at the beginning of the 90s they got, married and moved to a beautiful, little house located in Michigan. Tonya had, already been married and from that marriage, she had two children, a little boy of five and, another of eight years old. However, Gregory didn't seem to mind since his dream was to have a big family. For him, the little ones by marrying, Tonya were already his children, and he hoped, his wife would soon get, pregnant, and indeed, within a few months the woman gave him the big news.

Everything seemed perfect in their life. They loved each other madly, had a beautiful, home, and were going to have three children. But then things began to, get complicated. We don't have much information, about this relationship, however, at some point we know the couple, began to argue, started to get along, badly, to have problems, and Tonya ended up, threatening Gregory with divorce. That's when the man loses it, and on July 14, 1991, grabs a knife and stabs Tonya several times, in the face and chest.

Tonya at, that time was six months pregnant and, during this attack both she, and the base lost their lives. Sadly, Gregory did not care, and, after killing them both, he, grabbed the phone, called emergency services, and confessed everything he had done. He said that he killed her, how he did it, and then hung up and went out to the porch, to wait for the police. During the trial held, in 1992, this man was declared guilty, of second-degree murder and, sentenced to serve between 15 and 25 years, behind bars. Until here, this seems like an extreme case of domestic violence, but, I'm sorry to tell you that from this, point on, things get much worse. About Gregory Green we have no much information, we only know he was born in, 1966 and that he had no criminal record.

He was a normal guy and was so, pleasant that he had many, friends. He was outgoing, friendly, didn't, get into trouble and worked at the, Detroit Airport. Above all, he was known for being a man of faith, which in the next few minutes will be very, important. Once behind bars, Gregory's, friends and family bombarded the prison authorities with letters. These letters were requests and please, please for this man to be released, from prison as soon as possible. The man's, parents said he was a good kid. kid, that what happened with Tonya was a simple outburst of anger and that he was, not usually like that, that he was a good man who never committed a crime, a good person. But from prison

they didn't believe it. The prison staff saw, this man as a criminal and therefore would, do nothing about it. They wanted, Gregory to serve his sentence, since, after all, he killed his wife, killed, his wife and their unborn child, and, it wasn't an accidental death, it was a terrible one. However, the Green family wasn't going to give up, and asked for the support of their church, especially that of Fred Harris. Fred Harris was a well-known, pastor and civil rights activist, and, years before, had personally met Gregory Green. For him, this man was a good person. But before doing anything, he asked Gregory's lawyer for information about his behavior in prison and discovered that he was a prisoner who didn't get into trouble. Since starting

his sentence, Gregory, completed the so-called cognitive behavioral program and even got a job, inside the prison. He participated in all kinds of activities, cleaned his cell, helped others, and was only penalized once, and the reason was a small fight with, Another inmate overuse of the TV-in, the common area. It was a silly argument, and aside from that, Gregory was, exceptional. He spoke well with everyone, was respectful, kind, and friendly. But the parole board felt that he wasn't, ready to be released. They denied him parole four times, twice in 2004 and twice in 2006.

And the reason was simple, he showed, little emotion or remorse in had, A great lack of empathy, declaration by Kai's Goat, spokesperson for the, Michigan Department of Corrections. To Fred Harris and the Green family, these words made no sense. In Gregory's letters, he, claimed to be deeply sorry, said he missed Tonya, that he was, very sorry and didn't understand what had happened to him. They also knew that in prison, he behaved very well, so, it didn't make sense that this man wasn't released. It's then that, Pastor Fred Harris decides to intervene and send letters to

the Michigan, Department of Corrections. The first letter was written on August 17, 2005, and among other things, said the following, Gregory and I, were friends before his accident and before, he was incarcerated. I feel he, has already paid for his unfortunate lack, of self-control and for the damage he, caused as much as possible, and I'm sorry, this will not restore the lives that were taken. He'll carry it with, him for the rest of his life. It is said the letter added, that Gregory was always a good person, and that what happened in 91 was an accident, that he was sorry, that he had, already paid and that it was time, to grant him freedom. However, the board did not agree with him and directly ignored him, so Harris continued insisting, and the following

year sent the next letter, I have noticed a great, growth and his understanding has matured, quite a lot, as well as his processing, skills. If he were to be released, he would be welcomed as part of our church community and anything we could do to help him adapt, we would. In this letter he basically said that the congregation supported Gregory, and that no matter what, they would, vouch for him. He requested several more times that he be released, sent a letter, another, another, and finally, thanks to the pressure, Gregory Green, was released in 2008, after serving 16 years behind bars. But it must be noted that if the pressure had not worked, this man would have been released in 2012 and, had already accumulated credits for

good behavior. Once he was, released, Gregory got a job and, became a very devout man. He was very happy, content, thankful, to everyone, especially Fred Harris. He hung out a lot with him, thanked him, a million times, and suddenly, began dating one of his daughters, Faith Harris. Faith had been married years, earlier and from that relationship, had two children, Kara Allen, 17, and Chadne Allen, 19. However, once again, Gregory, didn't mind, quite the opposite. He loved children and always wanted, a big family, a beautiful home, a wife, who loved him, lots of kids. And after two years of dating, the couple got married, specifically on December 18th, 2010. The following year, 2011, Faith gave birth to Little Coy and

In 2012, to Kai. On the outside, this was, the perfect family, they looked good, went to church, the kids went to school, did homework, were very polite. But behind closed doors, things were, very different. In February 2013, Faith went to, the police station and asked for a restraining order against Gregory Green. Here's where something very interesting, happens, the police had the full record, there were no prime. complaints of abuse, but they did have the history of this man, who killed Tonya, served 16 years in prison. They had all that and even so, they refused to help the woman. They spoke with her, took note, of everything, and then did not process anything, nor followed

up, nor investigated. They did absolutely nothing. After what happened, Faith and the kids temporarily went to her parents' house, and with time, the woman returned to Gregor. But once again, things went very badly, and on October 11, 2013, Faith filed for divorce. Months later, Faith withdrew everything and again filed for divorce on August 18th, 2014. Clearly, we are talking about a pattern of abuse, he assaulted her, treated her badly. She left, asked for divorce, and then he would beg forgiveness, treat her very well, apologize, and, the woman would end up believing him. But finally, in September 2016, with the support of her two oldest children, Kara and Chadne,

she submitted the final divorce petition to court. This time, Faith was determined and clear that she would no longer share her life with a criminal. But sadly, Gregory was not willing to lose the family he had always wanted. In the early hours of September 21st, 2016, Gregory Green attacked Faith Harris while she was sleeping, and from there, chaos broke out. We don't know exactly the order of events, but more or less, it is presumed that the following happened. While everyone was sleeping, Gregory took his two small daughters, Kai, four years, and Koi,

five, put them in the car, turned on the engine, and let them suffocate from carbon monoxide. Then, at gunpoint, he tied up the older children and forced them to go down to the basement. Finally, he went upstairs and attacked his wife while she said. slept. He jumped on her, beat her repeatedly, then cut her face and shot her in the right ankle. Due to the pain and number of blows, Faith fainted. Taking advantage of the moment, Gregory tied her hands and feet, took her to the basement, and sat her in a chair. Keeping her completely immobilized, he woke her up and forced her to watch, as he shot their older children in the head. And then he told her what he had done to the little ones, Kai and Koi.

According to some sources, everything happened differently, but due to trauma, faith suppressed everything from her memory and, could only recall that she woke up around 1.15 a.m. tied to a chair, full of injuries, confused, with a cut on her cheek and next to the lifeless bodies of her two older children. Musical note, just like in the first crime, Gregory called 911, confessed what he had done, and waited for the police on the porch. According to the authorities, this man did not seem remorseful. He was calm, told everything quietly, and repeated over and over, that his wife and children were dead. The trial against this man began in 2017, after the law did the following. First, in late 2016, the divorce was

granted to Faith Harris. Second, Gregory Green was subjected to a psychological evaluation, a test to determine if he was fit to stand trial, and the answer was. yes. He knew what he did, was aware of it, and moreover, he felt no remorse. Even so, it must be said that during the trial he broke into tears and begged forgiveness a thousand times. He said he was very sorry, that he loved his four children very much. Unfortunately, I took the lives of Kai, Koi, Chabney, and Kara. I shot my ex-wife, I left my two little girls in the car. I shot Kara and Chadne. I feel very bad for how this has, deeply impacted everyone.

May God help them and help me. But his words were worthless. Neither the judge nor the jury believed him, not even the people who years ago had supported his release. His parents. Fred Harris. He had let down the entire congregation, and had forever destroyed the life of Faith Harris, daughter of the pastor who gave everything for him.

You are a fraud. You are a monster. You are a demon in disguise. Now you're exposed forever. Not even torture and death would be justice. Your justice will come when you burn in hell for all eternity. You murdered four innocent children, and all because you're insecure. Some sources say that when Gregory Green told his version of events, he cried, said he was sorry, felt terrible, and drowned in tears. But when Faith Harris testified and expressed everything she felt, he remained impassive, not a tear, not a gesture, and he wasn't even capable of looking her in the eyes. He acted as if the matter wasn't about him, so many thought

he was playing a role, the role of someone capable of feeling empathy. For this latest crime, Gregory Green, then 50 years old, was found guilty of the following charges, second-degree murder, torture, and assault with intent to cause great bodily harm. However, because he pled guilty, and apologized before the court, some charges were dropped, illegal imprisonment, felon in possession of a firearm, and, finally, criminal assault. For all this, he was sentenced to serve between 47 and 102 years in prison. He will be eligible for parole when he is 97 years old, and many say it is very likely he will not reach that age. And finally, I must tell you that Faith Harris has given few interviews. To this day, she remained.

in therapy and continues to have nightmares, related to the death of her children, nightmares she believes, will never let her rest. So now it's your turn, what do you think of the case? Do you believe Gregory really regrets what he did? The end. It is 515 Jessica leaves her mother's house and at 5.30 the surveillance cameras of a gas station capture her getting out of the car. Jessica stops the vehicle turns off the engine and then gets out and meet someone she knows she starts smiling waves and then we begin on saturday december 6th 2014 the city of cland mississippi was struck by terrible news in cland there were only five hundred and twelve inhabitants and they all knew each other nothing remarkable ever happened there were never major incidents but that day something happened

that changed everything and that is that a nineteen-year-old girl who was trying to rebuild her life was murdered in the middle of the street and in a terrible way someone whose identity was unknown set her and her car on fire and then fled no one could explain how or why this happened and for many years the case remained unsolved and that's when the story of Jessica Chambers begins. Jessica Lane Chambers was born on February 2nd, 1995 in Clarksdale, Mississippi being the daughter of Elisa Doherty and Ben Allen Chambers according to some pages Jessica had six older siblings who were children from previous marriages of her parents, however, among all of them the girl was very close to Amanda and Ben Allen Jr. And remember this point because

later it will be important it is said that from a very young age Jessica was a lovely girl who was outgoing sweet affectionate and also was the apple of her father's eye, however, at the age of three, her parents divorced many sources say this event may have traumatized her, but according to the family it didn't affect her. At all, her mother stayed in the same house and her father moved to the same neighborhood. The mother and father were practically neighbors and saw each other every day, so the little girl didn't even notice the change her sister Amanda, who was six years older than her said that Jessica was always very active, that she was very nervous that she was, always running from one side to the other that she was practically hyper, So they decided to teach her to play softball, which helped her channel all her energy, and once she entered high school, she decided to leave the sport to become a cheerleader. She was such a tiny and delicate girl that within the cheerleader she took the flyer position. The flyer, if you don't know, is the one who goes on top of the pyramids, the one who jumps, does flips, and according to witnesses, Jessica was perfect for it being a cheerleader became practically her whole life as a student. She tried very hard to do well and to not lose her spot. She tried to get the best grades possible. She studied hard trained, and, Her sister Amanda helped her with everything helped her train at home, went to practices and didn't miss a single game, Jessica, besides being a cheerleader, wanted to get a degree, wanted higher education become independent travel the world, but unfortunately she wasn't sure what to study. She wanted to be a teacher, writer, nurse. She wanted to be many, things. But at the end of the day, she didn't want to be any one thing in particular be that as it made Jessica was a very good student. So whatever she chose, she'd do great. She quickly got her driver's license and her father lent her a car a black Kia Rio, but then between the ages of 15, and 16, Jessica entered a kind of rebellious phase she didn't. Know what to study were how to focus her career whether to continue being a cheerleader or not if she liked cheering or not and she felt like her family didn't understand her. And overnight she started skipping class, didn't do homework, arrived late, hung out with

bad company and then came a moment that would mark a before and after in her life. And that was that on May 7th, 2012 her brother Ben Allen Jr. died in a car accident. Ben was only 28 years old and was about to marry his lifelong girlfriend Danielle Mixing. When this happened, Jessica was 17 years old and losing Ben shattered her completely. In fact, she went from being a rebellious teenager to a lost cause she dropped out of school started, using marijuana hanging out with very problematic people running away from home for weeks and it got to a point where her parents couldn't take it anymore and directly gave her space and thanks to this Jessica came back to them.

In 2014, Jessica had refocused, had quit smoking, had found a job and her father seeing that she was improving day by day gave her the car back she had become a responsible girl again and apparently had no secrets everything was going well. She was saving money was transparent, and then we arrive at December 2014 on Friday, December 5th. 2014 Jessica sleeps at her father's house and the next morning wakes up early and goes to her breakfast with some friends at 12.30 the cameras of a store in Cortland capture her shopping there.

They catch her entering shopping and then leaving through the door at 1 p.m. Jessica enters her mother's house and the first thing she does is put on her pajamas and lie on the couch she tells her mother she's not hungry and autumn. automatically falls asleep between 4.45 and 5.15 p.m. Jessica's phone starts ringing but her mother doesn't know if she received a message or a call be that as it may the girl gets up from the couch changes clothes and says goodbye to her mother says she won't be long not to worry about anything and automatically walks out the door two hours later Jessica's mother starts to worry as her daughter has. Gone many hours without eating anything so she grabs the phone and calls her the girl

answers the phone practically immediately and tells her mother that she just ate at a taco and that afterward she'll clean the car and go home to tidy up her room not to worry about anything that everything is fine but the hours pass and Jessica doesn't return. Home at 8 p.m. 2 neighbors from Cortland call emergency services to tell them that on the side of Heron Road there's a car and a person on fire in just a few minutes the whole area is filled with police firefighters paramedics and they discover that the report is completely true. The car that was burning was a black Kia reel but the strength of. The flames was turning it white and the victim of the fire was a young girl in her underwear

98% of her body was burned, but even so she managed to pronounce the name of her attacker Eric for several hours she fought for her life, but eventually her heart stopped beating. Back at the crime scene, the police didn't understand some points to begin with and as was obvious the fire was intentional someone doused both the car and the girl's body with gasoline and then set them on fire. Secondly, the girl was found in her underwear, which meant she could have been the victim of a sexual assault. Unfortunately, they couldn't. Prove this as the body was in very bad condition. Thirdly, the fire eliminated all evidence if there was a struggle if the girl was wounded if she was raped. All of that was destroyed by the flames. And fourthly,

among many other points, something was missing from the crime scene. The girl's phone and the car keys were missing and these wouldn't appear, until two days later and they would be found down the street 400 meters from the crime scene. At first, the police had two lines of investigation. First, there was the victim's inner circle parent, siblings, friends, neighbors her past. They ended up interrogating more than 150 people and none of them seen. seemed suspicious and secondly there was the name Jessica pronounced before dying Eric. The police searched for all men in the area named Eric or. Derek interrogated them all took DNA samples, checked records, but once again there was nothing seeing that they couldn't move forward in any way they decided to reconstruct the day of the crime and to do so they used Jessica's phone the morning of Saturday, December 6th. Jessica woke up early and met with a friend who according to her phone was named. Quinton Tellis, when the boy was interrogated at first, he denied meeting with her, but later said yes that they had breakfast. that they talked and that at 11 a.m. They went separate ways during the rest of the morning

according to surveillance cameras and her own phone Jessica did what she said shopped in a store appeared on camera when home talked to her mother laid on the couch rested et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, and throughout the day received messages and calls. It is 5.15 Jessica leaves her mother's house and at 5.30 the surveillance cameras of a gas station capture her getting out of the car Jessica stops the vehicle turns off the engine

and then gets out and meet someone she knows she starts smiling way and then leaves the camera angle for a few seconds she is off frame and then reappears enters the store pays for gas and leaves between 604 and 611 Jessica's phone connects to a cell tower located in Batesville the area of the tower includes the Taco Bell where the girl supposedly had dinner and at 630 the phone connects to a tower located in Klant here comes a very interesting part and that is that at 648 Jessica's phone receives a call from her mother Jessica's mother says that in this call there is no background noise no voices no music nothing at all all so she thinks she's inside the car at 7.30 the phone moves west specifically to the

Heron Road area and at 742 Jessica's phone receives a call and a voicemail from Quentin tell us a message that says be my friend will come tonight. I'll read you tomorrow good night and sweet dreams and finally at 809 we have the discovery of the crime scene. While the police investigated the case the girls family did everything possible to get leads they put up posters with Jessica's photo and offered a reward in exchange for any information and besides that Jessica's sister Amanda created a Facebook page in her honor posted photos case information and asked everyone for any type of information and here's where the dark part of the story comes and that is that many people through forums created all kinds of theories all this may seem very

normal the internet is what it is but what is not normal is that these people called the police claiming to have the culprit one of the first theories is that Jessica's first boyfriend Brian Rue killed her. They dated in school for several months and according to the internet their relationship was very complicated they fought a lot broke up got back together and he may have abused her. The internet had no proof but neither doubts and many people called the police and directly accused Brian Rutt. To be continued. According to the internet there, relationship was very complicated they fought. A lot broke up got back and he could. Mistreat her the internet had no evidence but, no doubts either and lots of people, called the police and accused, directly Brian Rutt at the time

of the events Brian Rutt was in A&A and the last time he saw Jessica was in May, 2013, so it was impossible for him. To be the killer other hypotheses is that Travis Stanford, another ex of Jessica, killed her but Travis at the time of the events was in jail people, said that at the time of the crime, Jessica and Travis were together and that he, in a jealous rage hired a hit man to kill her but once. Again there was no evidence in Travis over and over, said that Jessica and he were no longer. A couple another hypothesis is that Jessica's death was due to a drug deal. Gone wrong online it was said that Jessica still,

used marijuana hung out with bad company sold. Drugs and in an exchange of these was murdered but others say that the, girl in 2014 had a job everything was going well for her. She didn't get into trouble and had distanced herself. From many friends as months past the internet, conspiracy theorists started accusing the girl's family they got, their numbers, their addresses end, started harassing them saying they had.

killed her they said that the father had, a record for drug possession and, maybe because of that he fought with his daughter, and killed her but once again no evidence, so people leaned toward another, hypothesis and that is the parents killed her, because they couldn't stand her dating. African Americans every day that passed there were, more and more hypotheses that she was killed by, white supremacists or by a group, of African Americans nobody had evidence of, anything but they had no doubts either it was all, so chaotic that Jessica as family, was desperate they wanted real testimonies, strong evidence stories, that made sense so they decided to increase the reward but sadly it didn't. Worked the years passed and the

case remained. A mess and then a second crime happened in 2015 M. Chen. Jisho alias Mandy was murdered inside. Her apartment in Monroe, Louisiana the girl was an exchange student and according to friends she was very, quiet never got into trouble, never did anything bad but one morning. She appeared dead after receiving 30 stab wounds time, passed and there were no suspects. She had no enemies, no issues with anyone, but suddenly something happens that turns everything upside down. The bank receives a call from a supposed Mandy Mandy, said her credit card wasn't working and wanted to withdraw $1,000 she gave her, ID number her full name. Her data and the bank gave her a new pin. When the police found out, they tracked the phone number and discovered that its owner was

none other. Then Quentin Tellis Jessica Chambers' friend, they immediately arrested him and accused him of theft and, murder and there they discovered he had already, committed other crimes theft, drug possession obstruction of justice and for stealing Mandis, card he was sentenced to ten years in prison. However, here comes a parenthesis and that is, that the police didn't try him for Mandis, death but directly went for, Jessica they froze everything related to Mandis, death and went straight to, getting info about Jessica's. Murder they remembered that Quinton couldn't say exactly when. He was with Jessica in 2014 he said he wasn't with. Her then he said they had breakfast together and repeated over and over that after

11 he didn't see her again but checking. His phone now they discovered it was all. A lie the phone locations. Jessica and Quinton were together several times on December 6th. To begin they were together in the morning and from 11 May, separated Quinton messaged her all day and finally. They met again in the afternoon apparently. They had dinner together at Taco, Bell and when Jessica returned to town. Quinton did too. The timeline is, very long and complicated and Quinton denied, over and over being with her in the afternoon denied seeing her then said, Yes, he saw her just for a while and wanted to be very clear that he didn't kill her. He also said that at the time of the crime he was in a store in Batesville and remember this because it will.

Be important later he told the police that he met her on Thanksgiving and from there, they became good friends good friends that once slept together he explained where how and even suggested they could be a couple he didn't make it very clear but it was kind of implied still there were very strange things in all this and that is quinton constantly sent messages to jessica asking for sex he hinted at it insisted a lot and she at least in writing didn't reciprocate she avoided it changed the subject seemed very uncomfortable on december fifth jessica asked quinton a favor she asked for exactly six and he said yes no problem he'd give them but told her that if she really wanted them she had to have sex with him to which jessica refused everything smells very bad in

this case but it smells even worse when the police discover that right when jessica dies quinton deletes her number and some conversations with her right after the girl dies he deletes all traces removes her from his social media and phone deletes conversations and when asked about it says he didn't want, a dead girl on his social media, and here comes the first, trial a trial in which the prosecution presented several elements against him. First were his contradictions. He didn't see her then he did, then he said she went with someone named Big Mike. Big Mike said they weren't together. There were many different versions and none of them made sense than we have. The phone locations at Key, moments in the case it seems that Quinton and Jessica connected

to the same phone towers and also, within this point we have that his alibi isn't. solid because yes the evening of the crime. Quinton was at a store in Batesville but surveillance cameras placed him there at 825. Bidfield is very close to cland in fact by car at 7 to 12 minutes. He could have killed Jessica Godden in a car and gone to Bittfield so his alibi doesn't hold. Anywhere and third we have his fingerprints on Jessica's car keys keys that were found two days after the crime and 400 M from now, seen according to the prosecution what could have happened is the following Quentin. and Jessica met in the morning and during the day the guy sent her messages, harassed her asked for sex and she kept, refusing in the evening they saw each other at Taco B, had dinner

talked and she, accompanied him to his house once there she parked in. The garage and the couple had sex. Nobody knows if it was consensual but at some. Point Quinton strangled Jessica and she passed out. The man panicked so. He took the keys left his fingerprints on them started the car and went to the crime scene. Once there he abandoned the, car and ran to his sister's house borrowed her car and went to. His house where he got a gas and went back to the crime scene and set everything on fire. God and his sister's car started the engine through Jessica's phone and keys and headed, toward Batesville thinking that would. Create an alibi this story makes a lot of sense, but then though. Defense argued

the following first. Phone locations are never exact Quinton and Jessica, connected to the same towers but that didn't mean they were together just in the same area. Second they considered it circumstantial, that Quinton magically appeared in Batesville they can't prove. He was there at the time of Jessica's death but also can't prove. He went there after killing her third or his. Fingerprints on Jessica's car keys according to the defense this. Evidence is worthless because the keys were found two days. After the girl's death far from the scene touched by a passerby taken to the station handled by many people so actually this. Evidence was contaminated and finally among other. Points we have the name Eric Jessica before

dying said her. Attacker was named Eric and Quinton, wasn't nicknamed that Quinton said Jessica's. Attacker was actually Derek Holmes who supposedly was stalking her, but once again no. Evidence and Derek had an alibi in this first trial the judge demanded a, unanimous verdict if they didn't all agree the trial would be null and incredibly. They didn't agree they went and discussed came out and still didn't agree went back and disgust again, and still didn't agree so the judge annulled the trial. The second trial was in 2018 and this time, the judge jury was changed everything repeated again. A unanimous verdict was asked again and once more they didn't agree and the trial was declared null they're considering. A third trial but Mandy's

family is tired of waiting. They want her case resolved ASAP and demand that the Jessica case be put aside for now they demand. Her death be brought to trial and Quinton Tellis be convicted for it so for now we have. No trial date, no final sentence at this point you might wonder. Who was that Eric did he really exist? Eric to this day many. Programmed. have been made about this case, and in one of them there was a lot of. Controversy as Quinton's sister, appeared on camera with a rather striking tattoo and one of. Her hands had the name Eric written on it apparently this Eric was, an ex-boyfriend of hers and ex who in 2014 was dating a cousin of Quinton. So everything with this guy stayed in the family. Quinton's sister

Quentin's cousin but sadly no. Connection to Jessica they weren't friends, never talked or at least nobody knows if they did still. The name Eric comes up again later at especially in Mandy's robbery and death and in 2016 when Quinton Tellis was arrested for robbing and supposedly murdering Mandy the main witness was one Eric. Hill Jr. Eric told police that Quinton confessed to killing Mandy and taking her credit card he gave details only the killer would. No and for police his testimony was key but later, specifically on August 18th, 2020. Eric sent a letter to the court saying the story was, completely false my name is Eric. Hill Jr. I'm writing and, submitting this sworn statement of my own free will to declare that.

Around May 11, 2016 I. Eric Hill Jr. was pressured by Monroe Police to take the stand and make a false statement against Quentin Tellis. Quentin Tellis never told me anything about a crime, and I know nothing except what was shown on. TV Ieric Hill Jr. was charged as an accomplice to murder and Monroe police forced me to falsely testify against Quentin Tellis or be convicted of murder a crime I knew nothing about and that supposedly happened if I didn't agree to go against Quentin Tellis. Currently Eric Hill Jr. is serving time. For robbery and many speculate he could be linked to Mandis. Death and Jessica Chambers' death. They believe this Eric is the killer and if not he could be an accomplice so. Now it's your turn what do you think about the case? Do you believe this man is

tied to the case or is it all circumstantial? End. They had planned to meet, nothing more. Just a simple date to see where things could go. But this case. guy, without asking for permission, booked a hotel room. Weird, right? Something felt off, but Katie couldn't just leave him alone like that. Let's rewind a bit. Catherine Locke, or Katie to her friends, was born in January 1992 in Essex, England. She was the youngest of four daughters of Jennifer and Bill Locke.

Everyone who knew her described her as confident, loving, and deeply committed to the people she cared about. Her father once said, she lived life to the fullest. She was generous, cared about others, and always put them first. She loved being part of a team and was passionate about water sports. Katie's love for water sports went so far that she became a kayaking instructor. She studied history and politics at the University of Southampton, volunteered at the London Olympics, and even worked with underprivileged children in the United States.

Impressive, right? After graduating, she landed a job as a teacher at Cardinal Pole Catholic School in London. By 23, Katie had a child. achieved so much, and everyone saw her as unstoppable. She was charismatic, outgoing, and had everything, a great career, friends, and a loving family. But in 2015, something felt missing. During Christmas, the same questions came up, when will you get a boyfriend? When's the wedding?

What about kids? The social pressure started to weigh on her. While Katie felt content with her life, the constant reminders that she was single began to chip away at her confidence. So, in early December, she decided to try online dating. She signed up for a site called Plenty of Fish, hoping to meet someone with similar values and goals. Unfortunately, most of the guys she chatted with didn't meet her standards.

Many had no ambition, no jobs, or no plans for the future. Just when she was about to give up, she came across someone who seemed perfect, Carl Langel. Carl was 26 and came across as accomplished. He claimed to be a journalist, a law graduate, and the owner of his own. own law firm. He seemed like a dream come true, a hardworking, grounded guy with ambitions that matched Cady's. His social media backed up his story. Carl had a blog called A Normal and Decent Human, where he wrote about humanitarian issues and poetry. His accounts were filled with photos of him playing golf, cricket, or holding a glass of wine. No wild parties,

no red flags, just a seemingly responsible, successful guy. He even had photos with celebrities and politicians, including Boris Johnson. After two weeks of chatting, Katie felt ready to meet him in person. They planned their first date for December 23, 2015, at a popular pub in London. To be safe, Katie shared Carl's photo, phone number, and all the details she had about him with her friends and family. Throughout the night, she kept her best friend updated, how the date was going, what Carl was like, and how she felt about him. At first, the evening went well. Carl was polite, and seemed genuinely interested in Katie. But as the night wore on, things took a turn.

By 3 a.m., Carl was stumbling, slurring his words, and acting incredibly drunk. Katie started to worry. He seemed so out of it that she couldn't let him go home alone. Anything could happen, he could get into trouble, or worse, get hurt. That's when Carl mentioned he had booked a room at the four-star Theobald's Park Hotel in Hertfordshire. This was a huge red flag for Katie. Who books a hotel room on a first date without saying anything?

And who gets that drunk on a first meeting? Despite her reservations, Katie decided to take care of him. She called her best friend, explained the situation, and then helped Carl into a taxi. The ride to the hotel cost 70 pounds, but Carl vomited midway, so Katie ended up paying 80 pounds for the driver's trouble. When they arrived at the hotel, Katie took charge. She explained to the receptionist that Carl was too drunk to manage on his own and got the room number. She helped him upstairs, and shortly after, she called the front

desk to request a toothbrush. That was the last time anyone heard from Katie. The next morning, Carl woke up, checked out of the hotel, and went home to his parents. He acted like everything was normal, even taking his dog for a walk. But during that walk, his phone started ringing. On the other end was Bill Locke, Katie's father. Bill had never met Carl before but had his number thanks to Katie's careful planning. Bill asked Carl where Katie was. Carl claimed he had no idea. He admitted they had spent the night together but insisted Katie left early in the morning. According to Carl, Katie's phone had died, so she couldn't text anyone. He said he tried calling her after she left, but her phone was off. Bill knew something

was wrong. Katie wasn't the type to disappear without a word. He contacted the police, who quickly arrested Carl. But why were they so fast? Because when they ran Carl's name through their database, it sent up all kinds of alarms. Carl Langdell was not who he claimed to be. He wasn't a lawyer, journalist, or business owner. In reality, his life was a string of dark, disturbing events. At 16, Carl's mind took a sinister turn. He began having recurring dreams of dominating, torturing and killing women. These violent fantasies led his family to seek psychiatric help. Over the years, Carl's behavior seemed under control, but things escalated in 2014. He started dating someone and moved to Bristol. At first, everything seemed normal. But in 2015,

he confessed to his psychiatrist that he wanted to kill his younger sister and sister-in-law. Alarmed, the psychiatrist reported Carl to the police. Carl, in turn, threatened the psychiatrist, and even called the police himself, claiming he was dangerous and needed to be stopped. On April 15, 2015, Carl was arrested but was only charged with making threats. He was released on bail under the condition that he live with his parents and check in regularly with a probation officer. However, the system failed miserably. No one monitored Carl as they should have. He was left to his own devices, and by summer 2015, he had attempted suicide twice.

During one hospitalization, a doctor noticed Carl's aggressive behavior towards women and flagged it as concerning. But once Carl was discharged in October, there was no follow-up. By November, Carl had created a profile on plenty of fish. Over the next month, he went on dates with several women, none of whom knew about his violent tendencies. On December 2nd, 2015, Carl was sentenced to nine months in prison for his previous threats. However, the court decided to suspend his sentence, requiring him to undergo psychiatric treatment instead. Once again, the system dropped the ball, allowing Carl to roam free. On December 23, Carl met Katie. He pretended to be drunk, knowing it would make her let her guard

down. When they got to the hotel room, Carl attacked her. He strangled Katie to death and then took photos of her body, treating them as trophies. Afterward, he violated her corpse. In the early hours of the morning, Carl hit Katie's body in a laundry cart, covered it with clothes, and wheeled it outside. He concealed her remains in some bushes, covered them with leaves and branches, and then returned to the room to sleep. When Carl was arrested, he initially tried to claim that Katie had asked to be strangled during consensual sex. But the autopsy told a different story. The force he used was far too brutal to be accidental. Investigators also found chilling evidence on Carl's phone and computer, including photos

of Katie's body and conversations with other women who could have been future victims. In June 2016, Carl Langdell was sentenced to life in prison with a minimum of 26 years. But the story doesn't end there. In early 2021, guards found Carl's body in his cell. While some reports suggest foul play, most sources indicate that he took his own life. Looking back, it's hard not to wonder, could this tragedy have been prevented? Katie was careful. She took all the right precautions, informing her friends and family about her date.

But the system failed her. A dangerous man was allowed to walk free, and it cost Katie her life. What do you think? Could this crime have been stopped? Let's talk about it. The strange case of Betty and Peter Fabiano, a twisted tale of love, murder, and secrets. It took Betty Fabiano two days to shake off the shock and sit down with the police. When she finally did, she insisted that nobody wanted to harm her husband.

Well, nobody except for one person. This bizarre story begins with what seemed to be a picture-perfect marriage, Betty and Peter Fabiano. Betty was a woman ahead of her time. She married her childhood sweetheart young, had two kids with him, and seemed to live the classic happily ever after. But by her early 40s, she filed for divorce, a scandalous move in those days, especially for a mother. Her family initially disapproved, but life goes on.

Eventually, Betty met Peter Fabiano, an ex-Marine with a sharp mind and big dreams. The spark between them was immediate. In 1950, Betty and Peter tied the knot. They moved to Kingston, New York, where Peter began working as a truck driver. It wasn't glamorous, but they were saving every penny. Then, something unexpected happened, Peter discovered he had a knack for hairstyling and fashion. By 1956, he and Betty decided to invest in his hidden talent. They opened two beauty salons, which became wildly successful.

The Fabiano's seemed unstoppable. Betty's kids adored Peter. Friends described him as a hardworking, generous man who would do anything for his family. By late 1956, the couple bought a charming house in Sun Valley, Los Angeles, and life couldn't have been better. They were making money, thriving as a family, and living the American dream. But then came Halloween night, 1957. The Fabiano's spent the evening in typical suburban bliss, handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. The doorbell rang all night with costumed kids shouting, trick or treat. Around 9.30 or 10 p.m., things quieted down, as they usually did. The Fabiano's cleaned up and went to bed. Just as they had settled in, the doorbell

rang again at 11 p.m. It was odd, trick or treaters were long gone by that hour. Peter groaned, but the ringing persisted. So, he got out of bed, threw on some clothes, grabbed the candy bowl, and headed downstairs. What happened next, according to Betty, was chilling. She heard Peter open the door and say, isn't it a bit late for this? There were voices, strange ones. Betty later described them as men trying to sound like women. Before Peter could react, one of the voices replied, no, followed by a deafening bang. Betty bolted out of bed and raced downstairs.

But it was too late. Peter lay motionless by the front door. He'd been shot. The shooter had already fled in a car. This wasn't a robbery. The house wasn't ransacked. Nothing was stolen. It was an execution.

Betty called 911, while her daughter Judy ran to the neighbors for help. One of them was a police officer. When authorities arrived, the quiet suburban street was swarming with curious neighbors. Among them was a young man who claimed he'd seen everything. According to this witness, the shooter was dressed oddly, even for Halloween. He described a grotesque, gaudy mask paired with men's clothing, blue jeans, a khaki jacket, and red gloves. The shooter carried a gun concealed in a paper bag.

When Peter opened the door, the masked figure fired and fled. Interestingly, the shooter didn't drive the getaway car. Someone else was behind the wheel. That meant two people had planned this. At the crime scene, the police found no shell casings, no fingerprints, no leads. They brainstormed possible motives. A robbery gone wrong. No signs of forced entry.

Gang violence. Unlikely, the neighborhood was quiet, and nobody heard gunshots before Peter's death. An assassination? But who would want Peter dead? He was a beloved 35-year-old businessman, a World War II veteran, and a family man with no enemies. Or so it seemed. Two days later, when Betty finally spoke to the police, she mentioned only one person who might have wanted to harm Peter, Joan Rabel.

Joan Rabel, 40 years old, was an enigmatic figure. Her past was murky. Some sources claim she was born in Philadelphia, others said she immigrated from Lithuania. She dabbled in photography and writing, traveling frequently for inspiration. She married at some point but was divorced by 1957, the same year she crossed paths with the Fabianos. When Peter and Betty opened their salons, they hired Joan. Her exact role wasn't clear.

Was she a hairstylist? A cleaner? A photographer? Nobody really knew. What was clear, however, was that she quickly became close friends with Betty. Perhaps too close. Witnesses claimed Joan often manipulated Betty, bending her will with ease. If Joan wanted something, Betty would get it.

If Betty had an opinion, Joan would change it. Peter didn't like their relationship. It caused tension in the marriage. Eventually, things got so bad that Betty packed her bags and moved in with Joan. Rumors swirled that the two women were more than friends, but if Joan hoped for a fairy tale romance, she was in for disappointment. Betty was still in love with Peter. After a few months, she returned to him.

Peter's one condition for taking Betty back. Cut ties with Joan. Completely. Betty agreed. She stopped calling Joan, stopped meeting her, and erased her from her life. Or so it seemed. When the police questioned Joan, she acted strangely. At first, she claimed she couldn't remember where she was the night of the murder.

Then, she gave vague, inconsistent answers. Suspicious as she was, the police didn't have enough evidence to hold her. She was released after 24 hours. Four weeks, the case went cold. Then, out of the blue, the LAPD received an anonymous tip. The caller directed them to a locker in a downtown Los Angeles department store. Inside, they found a .38 caliber revolver, the same type used to kill Peter Fabiano. Finally, a break.

When police traced the locker, they expected it to belong to Joan Rabel. But the name on the rental agreement shocked them, Goldine Pizer. To Betty Fabiano, that name meant nothing. But to the police, it opened a whole new chapter of the investigation. Goldine Pizer, 43, had a seemingly ordinary life. Born in Illinois to German immigrant parents, she was described as sweet and mild-mannered. Her father owned a furniture store, and the family was financially comfortable. She graduated from high school in Los Angeles in 1934 and worked

as a medical secretary by 1940. She married a pharmacist, Herbert Crom, in 1944, but they divorced a few years later. Rumors circulated that Goldine dated women, which, at the time, was taboo. By 1957, Goldine lived in a bungalow on Sunset Street, not far from the Fabiano home. But why would she kill Peter? She didn't even know him. When police arrested Goldine and confronted her with the evidence, she cracked. Goldine confessed to the murder but claimed she hadn't acted alone. Joan Rabel had masterminded the entire thing.

According to Goldine, Joan spent months manipulating her. Joan described Peter as a cruel, abusive man, someone who hurt everyone around him. Joan even alleged that Peter had killed his first wife and was involved in drug trafficking. Goldine, lonely and impressionable, believed every word. Joan played the long game. She built Goldine's trust, told her sob stories about Betty's misery, and painted Peter as a monster. After months of this psychological manipulation, Joan convinced Goldine to buy a 0.38 caliber

revolver and kill Peter. Joan even gave her the money to purchase the weapon. Weeks before Halloween, Joan drove Goldine to the Fabiano House to scope out the place. Goldine saw Peter in person for the first time and committed his face to memory. On Halloween night, Joan borrowed a friend's car, picked up Goldine, and drove her to the Fabiano home. She handed Goldine the gun, a paper bag, and a mask. Then, she told her to knock on the door and do the deed. Goldine did as instructed.

When Peter opened the door, she pulled the trigger. Then, she ran back to the car, and Joan drove her home. Afterward, Joan's only advice to Goldine was chilling, Forget you ever met me. The next morning, Goldine realized the gravity of what she'd done. She panicked and stashed the murder weapon in her locker, hoping to forget the whole thing. But someone tipped off the police, and the rest is history. Both Joan and Goldine were arrested on November 12, 1957.

The media dubbed it the trick-or-treat murder, and the story captivated the public. Tabloids reveled in the scandalous details, including the rumored love triangle between Betty, Joan, and Goldine. During their court appearances, the two women presented starkly different images. Goldine arrived in a stylish leopard print dress, draped in a chic jacket, looking remorseful. Joan, on the other hand, wore a simple blouse and skirt, appearing indifferent. Their defense strategies also differed. Goldine's lawyer argued temporary insanity, claiming she had acted under Jones' spell.

In reality, they meant Joan's romantic manipulation, but they couldn't say that outright due to societal taboos about same-sex relationships. Joan's defense was straightforward, she denied everything. She claimed she hadn't pulled the trigger and therefore wasn't guilty. The judge didn't buy it. He ruled that both women were equally responsible. Joan may not have fired the gun, but she orchestrated the crime. Both were sentenced to five years to life in prison. After the trial, the case faded from the headlines.

Details about their prison sentences remain unclear, but one of the case. One rumor persisted, that Betty Fabiano might have been involved. Some speculated that Betty knew about the plan all along. Why else wouldn't she have answered the door on Halloween night? Why did she stay in bed and let Peter go? Was she complicit, or was it just a tragic coincidence? After Peter's death, Betty sold their salons and moved far away, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions.

What do you think? Could Betty have been involved, or was she just another victim in this tangled web of lies and betrayal. It was one of those days when everything feels slightly off, you know. Like the universe is nudging you, saying, maybe stay in today. But, of course, I didn't listen. I mean, how could I? The woods were calling, and I'm the kind of person who'd rather wrestle with my own thoughts under a starry sky than spend another evening scrolling through endless nonsense online. I packed up my gear, the essentials, tent, sleeping bag, a little food, and my trusty flashlight. The trail I'd picked wasn't exactly on any map. It was more of a whispered

legend among hikers, a secret gem, they said, tucked away from the world. It wasn't particularly long or treacherous, just, isolated. Perfect, right? The drive out there was uneventful, just me, my playlist, and the kind of quiet you only find when the city is miles behind you. By the time I reached the dirt path leading to the trailhead, the sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and pink. I should have stopped right there to admire it, but something about the looming tree-leam made me hurry. The first hour of hiking was bliss. Birds chirping, the crunch of leaves under my boots, and that crisp, earthy smell you only get deep in the woods. But as the light faded, so did that

cozy, welcoming vibe. It's hard to explain, but it's like the forest was holding its breath, waiting. You're just overthinking it, I muttered to myself, adjusting the straps on my But the further I went, the stronger the feeling grew. Like, like I wasn't alone. Every so often, I'd stop, spinning around to scan the trees, but there was nothing. Just shadows and silence. It's funny how your mind can turn nothing into something, though. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of leaves became a threat.

I laughed it off, mostly to convince myself, and kept walking. By the time I found a spot to set up camp, it was fully dark. My little clearing felt like an oasis in a sea of black. I pitched my tent quickly, almost frantically, then got a small fire going. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows all around me, but it was warm, comforting even. Dinner was simple, a can of something vaguely edible and a granola bar. Gourmet, right? As I ate, I tried to shake off the unease that had followed me all evening.

It's just the woods, I told myself. out here but trees and critters, but then. I heard it. A sound that didn't fit. It wasn't the skittering of a squirrel or the hoot of an owl. It was softer, deliberate. Footsteps. I froze, every nerve in my body on high alert. The fire crackled, oblivious, as I strained to hear more. There it was again. Crunch. Crunch. Slow, measured steps coming from the darkness beyond the firelight. Hello. My voice sounded weak, even to me.

No response. Just the steps, closer now. My hand instinctively went to my flashlight. I clicked it on, the beam cutting through the night like a sword. Nothing. Just trees. You're losing it, I whispered, trying to laugh, but failing miserably. I shook my head, turned off the flashlight, and focused on the fire.

Whatever it was, if it was anything at all, it was gone. all, it was gone. Or so I thought. The rest of the night was a blur of restless tossing and turning. Every time I closed my eyes, I'd hear those footsteps again, softer now, almost playful. I didn't dare look outside. I told myself it was just my imagination, but deep down, I wasn't so sure. By the time dawn broke, I was already packing up. Sleep deprived and jittery, I just wanted out. The trail seemed different in the daylight, less ominous, but no less unsettling. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, though I never saw anyone, or anything. The drive home felt like an eternity.

When I finally got back to my apartment, I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but relieved. Safe. It wasn't until later that night when I was unpacking my gear, that I found it. A single, muddy footprint on the outside of my tent. Too big to be mine. Too human to be an animal. I haven't been back to those wood sand.

So, yeah, maybe the universe was trying to tell me something that day. Next time, I think I'll listen. The chilling tale of Stacy and Ashley, a twisted family saga. It all kicked off on September 12, 2007. Ashley Wallace, an excited young woman, was stepping into her first day of college. Like any teenager, she was thrilled about the prospect of studying what she loved, making new friends, and savoring the independence of adulthood. Life was looking up, until the moment it wasn't. it wasn't. Ashley was walking down a hallway when she suddenly found herself face to face with

police officers. They asked her to come with them, and before she knew it, she was sitting in the dean's office, staring down in interrogation. Her head spun as the officers explained why they were there. They told her something that shook her to her core, her father hadn't died of a heart attack years ago, as she'd always believed. No, his death was the result of poisoning. Ashley couldn't believe it. How could this be true? Why were they telling her, of all people. She was confused and terrified, and when the grilling finally ended, she reached for her phone to call her mom, Stacy. Through shaky words, she explained what had happened and how scared she was. Her mother's response was calm and reassuring. Don't worry about

it, she said. I'll pick you up after class, and we'll have a drink together. True to her word, Stacy picked her up that afternoon. Once home, they shared a drink. But something was off. Almost immediately, Ashley started feeling sick, so sick that she crawled into bed, completely drained. The next day, the same routine repeated. She went to class, her mom picked her up, and again, they had drinks together. But this time, things took a darker turn. Ashley felt even worse. She couldn't finish her drink, but her mom insisted she needed to. It's tradition, Stacey urged. Reluctantly, Ashley downed the rest of her glass. After that, everything went black. When Ashley woke up 17 hours later, it wasn't in her bed. It was in

the hospital, surrounded by police officers. She was bombarded with questions, why had she done it? Why had she killed her father? Why had she killed her stepfather? Ashley was horrified. She had no idea what they were talking about. She protested her innocence, but the officers dropped another bombshell, they claimed she'd confessed everything in a letter. And so began the twisted saga of Ashley Wallace and her mother, Stacey Castor. The story begins, Stacey Ruth Daniels. To understand Ashley's story, we have to go back in time and start with her mother, Stacey Ruth Daniels. Born on July 24, 1967, in Clay, New York, Stacey was one of three children. Her parents, Judy and Jerry Daniels, seemed like typical small-town folks. Judy was a homemaker,

and Jerry sold cars for a living. From a young age, Stacy was described as a curious and spirited child. She was known for being audacious and headstrong, traits she proudly admitted to as an adult. I was always stubborn, she'd say. Her family was fiercely protective of her, often praising her as the perfect daughter, kind, friendly, and full of potential. Whenever anyone said something critical, they'd immediately balance it with a compliment. Yes, she could be nosy, they'd admit, but she was also an amazing kid. As she grew up, Stacy attended Liverpool High School, where she met a man who would change. change her life, Michael Wallace.

Michael Wallace, the first husband, Michael, born in September 1961 in Auburn, New York, was 24 when he crossed paths with Stacy. At the time, Stacy was just shy of her 18th birthday, and Mike, with his charismatic personality, quickly swept her off her feet. But Mike's charm masked a troubled past. He'd been married before and had two children. Though he seemed like a stable family man, he struggled with alcohol addiction. His drinking led to partying, abuse, and, ultimately, the end of his first marriage.

When he met Stacy, Mike was at a crossroads in his life. Despite his flaws, Stacy fell for him, and they started dating. Their relationship moved fast. By the time Stacy was 19, she was pregnant. But Mike wasn't thrilled about becoming a father again. In fact, he left Stacy shortly after finding out. In 1988, she gave birth to their first daughter, Ashley, and raised her as a single mom with the help of her parents. The family grows and tragedy strikes. Eventually, Mike came back

into Stacy's life. The two reconciled, got married, and had another daughter, Brie, in 1991. Mike doted on Brie, clearly favoring her over the rest of the family. While he tried to be a good father to both girls, his love for Brie was obvious, and Ashley felt the sting of being second best. Despite their attempts to build a happy family, Mike's struggles with alcohol didn't go away. He'd disappear for days, returning home only to repeat the cycle. Stacy, who worked as an ambulance dispatcher, finally hit her breaking point. In late 1999, she confided in a friend that she planned to divorce Mike after the holidays. But she never got the chance. Around Christmas, Mike began experiencing severe health problems. He was constantly nauseous, dizzy, and sweating

profusely. He told his doctor he felt like he was drunk, even though he hadn't been drinking. Despite numerous visits, the doctor dismissed his concerns. On January 11, 2000, Ashley came home from school to find her father lying on the couch, making strange faces. Thinking he was joking, she laughed and went to her room. By the time she returned, an ambulance was parked outside. Mike Wallace had died of an apparent heart attack at just 39 years old. Suspicion begins to brew. No one questioned Mike's sudden death, chalking it up to his history of heavy drinking. An autopsy wasn't performed, even though his family begged Stacy to request one. They suspected foul play, not because Mike was a saint, but because his attempts to turn his

life around had been going well. Stacey refused to authorize an autopsy, claiming it wasn't necessary. Instead, she collected Mike's $55,000 life insurance payout and used it to cover funeral costs, pay off debts, and take her daughters on a trip to Disney World. Actions raised eyebrows, but without evidence, there was nothing anyone could do. David Castor, husband number two. Two years later, Stacey met David Castor, a successful businessman with a reputation for being generous and hardworking. Born on June 12, 1957, in Syracuse, New York, David had been through his own share of

struggles. A concussion in the 1980s had drastically changed his personality, making him more controlling and temperamental. Despite his flaws, Stacy fell for him, and the two married in his. 2003. She and her daughters moved into David's home, but their new life was far from idyllic. David's strict rules and hot temper clashed with the teenage girl's rebellious nature, leading to constant arguments. A second tragedy, in 2005, David's father passed away, sending him into a deep depression. Just days after their second wedding anniversary,

Stacy and David had a heated argument. David wanted to go on a trip, but Stacy refused, worried about leaving Bree home alone. The fight escalated, and David locked himself in the bedroom. Over the next two days, Stacey claimed David was drinking heavily and refusing to come out. But when she finally checked on him, she found him unresponsive. David Castor had died, and this time, authorities weren't so quick to accept natural causes. The mysterious death of David Castor, when Stacey called 911 on the morning of August 22, 2005, she sounded panicked. She claimed David had locked himself in their bedroom two days earlier after a heated argument and hadn't come out.

Stacey insisted she'd assumed he was just cooling off or drinking to cope, but when she finally entered the room, she found him unconscious. Paramedics arrived quickly, but David was already dead. At first glance, it appeared to be a suicide. A glass containing green liquid sat on the bedside table, and a bottle of antifreeze was found nearby. David's cause of death was ruled as ethylene glycol poisoning, the main ingredient in antifreeze. A turkey baster, coated in antifreeze, was also found in the trash, raising questions about

how the substance had entered his system. Stacey told investigators that David had been deeply depressed, especially after losing his father, and suggested he had taken his own life. But something didn't add up. David's son, David Jr., questioned the idea of suicide. He described his father as stubborn and proud, not the type to end his own life. Police shared his suspicions and decided to take a closer look. Inconsistencies and red flags. As investigators examined the scene, several inconsistencies

emerged. For starters, Stacey claimed David had been drinking heavily in the days leading up to his death, but no alcohol was found in his system. Moreover, the turkey baster suggested someone had forcefully administered the antifreeze, which didn't align with a typical suicide. There were also no fingerprints on the glass or antifree's bottle, not even David's. Despite these glaring red flags, there wasn't enough evidence to charge Stacey with anything. The case remained open, and Stacey inherited David's estate, including his business. She carried on with her life as though nothing had happened, but investigators weren't about to let the case go cold. The Net Titans, over the next two years, detectives dug deeper into Stacey's past.

They started by exhuming Michael Wallace's body, which had been buried without an autopsy. When toxicology tests came back, they confirmed what many had long suspected, Michael had died of a heart attack. He'd been poisoned with antifreeze, just like David. This discovery was a game-changer. Now, Stacey wasn't just a grieving widow, she was the prime suspect in two suspicious deaths. Police began building their case, keeping a close eye on Stacey while trying to gather enough evidence to bring her to trial. The framing of Ashley. As pressure mounted, Stacy did something unthinkable. On September 12, 2007, the day Ashley started college, she decided to shift the blame onto her daughter. That evening, she convinced Ashley to drink with her,

calling it a tradition. The drinks, however, were laced with a cocktail of pills and vodka. Ashley began feeling sick almost immediately and passed out. The next day, Stacy tried again. She handed Ashley another drink, this time with an even stronger dose of pills. When Ashley resisted, Stacy insisted, saying it was a family tradition in guilt-tripping her into finishing it. Hours later, Ashley's younger sister found her unconscious and called 911. At the hospital, doctors worked tirelessly to save Ashley's life. When she regained consciousness, she was met with a shocking revelation. Police claimed she had written a suicide note confessing to the murders of both Michael Wallace and David Castor. The note, riddled with

spelling errors and inconsistencies, seemed designed to frame Ashley as a killer. The truth unravels. Thankfully, investigators didn't buy Stacy's story. The suicide note raised more questions than answers, especially given the timeline of events. Handwriting experts found that the note didn't match Ashley's writing style, and forensic evidence pointed directly to Stacey. Police obtained a warrant to search Stacey's home, where they found more damning evidence. Among the items recovered was a computer file containing a draft of the suicide note. It had been written and edited on Stacey's computer, with timestamps showing it was created

while Ashley was hospitalized. There was no doubt now, Stacey was the true mastermind behind the murders. The arrest. On September 14, 2007, Stacey was arrested and charged with second-degree murder for the deaths of Michael Wallace and David Castor, as well as attempted murder for her plan to frame and kill Ashley. The news shocked the community, but for those who knew Stacey, it was the culmination of years of suspicion. The trial, Stacey's trial began in 2009, and it quickly became a media sensation. Prosecutors painted her as a cold, calculating killer who would do anything for money in control.

They detailed how she had poisoned Michael over time, making his symptoms appear like those of a heart attack, and how she'd done the same to David, staging his death as a suicide. The defense, on the other hand, argued that there wasn't enough evidence to convict Stacy. They claimed the case against her was circumstantial and that she was being unfairly targeted because of her connection to the deaths. But the jury wasn't convinced. Ashley testified against her mother, delivering a powerful statement about the betrayal and pain she had endured.

She's my mother, Ashley said, holding back tears, but I can't forgive her for what she did. After deliberating for just four days, the jury found Stacey guilty on all counts. She was sentenced to 51 years to life in prison, ensuring she would never walk free again. The aftermath, Stacey Castor's conviction brought some closure to the families of her victims, but the emotional scars she left behind were deep. and Bree were left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives, grappling with the knowledge that their mother had tried to kill them. In interviews, Ashley has spoken about the ongoing struggle to rebuild her life.

I'll never understand how she could do this, she said. But I'm not going to let her destroy me. As for Stacy, she maintained her innocence until the end. In 2016, she died in prison of a heart attack, a dark irony given the way her story began. To this day, her case serves as a chilling reminder of the length some people will go to for greed and control. The case of Stacey Castor, a twisted tale of lies and poison. The story of Stacey Castor is one of the most bizarre and chilling crime cases you'll ever hear.

Buckle up, because what starts as a seemingly straightforward tragedy spirals into a web of deceit, greed, and unimaginable betrayal. Locked doors and a chilling discovery. It all began on a quiet summer day in 2005. David Castor, Stacy's second husband, locked himself in the master bedroom after an argument with her. For two days, David didn't come out, not for work, not for food, not even for water. Stacey claimed she thought he was cooling off, so she didn't press him. But by Monday, August 22nd, she began to worry. Stacey was at work when the unease took over.

She said she called the house several times, hoping David would pick up so they could talk things out. But the calls went unanswered. Finally, Stacey dialed 911, asking emergency services to do a welfare check. When police arrived at the house, they found the bedroom door locked from the inside. They had to break it down. What they discovered inside was horrifying, David's lifeless body sprawled on the bed, completely naked, with evidence of bloody vomit near him. The room painted a disturbing picture.

On the nightstand, there was a half-full glass containing a strange green liquid, later identified as antifreeze, alongside a bottle of apricot brandy, cranberry juice, and an empty glass that seemed to have been used for mixing. Beneath the bed, they found an antifree's bottle, oddly cleaned despite the mess around it. At first glance, it looked like David had taken his own life. The pieces seemed to fit, a man fighting with his wife, shutting himself in a room, and drinking poison to end it all. But something was off. A scene too perfect. For starters, the antifreeze bottle was unusually pristine. It sat directly atop the vomit but didn't have a single stain or splash on it.

And where were David's fingerprints? Surely, if he'd handled the bottle, his prints would be there. Yet, the surface was wiped clean. Then there was the method itself. A loaded shotgun was found under the bed. If David had truly wanted to end his life, wouldn't the gun have been quicker and less agonizing? Drinking antifreeze causes a slow, painful death. The choice didn't make sense.

The strangeness didn't stop there. Investigators rummaging through the trash found a brand-new turkey baster with traces of antifreeze and David's DNA inside it. Someone had used it to force-feed him the poison. And then there was Stacey's reaction. When officers informed her of David's death, she let out a dramatic scream and cried, but within minutes, she was sitting on the porch, calmly smoking a cigarette. Her behavior struck investigators as odd. Stacey's story and the suicide note, when questioned, Stacy seemed surprisingly composed.

She provided a detailed account of her weekend, complete with receipts and time stamps to back up her alibi. She even had an explanation for why David might have taken his life. She reminded investigators about a crime show they had watched together a month earlier. In that episode, a woman killed two men by poisoning them with antifreeze, what Stacey casually referred to as Antire. She suggested David had been inspired by the show. But the forensic evidence told a different story. For starters, the glass of antifreeze on the nightstand was far too clean. Lab tests revealed it had been wiped, but not before leaving behind three fingerprints,

none of which belonged to David. They were all Stacey's. The turkey baster was the smoking gun. It had traces of antifreeze in David's DNA, proving someone had forcibly administered the poison. And that someone, the evidence suggested, was Stacey. A suspicious will, while piecing the case together, investigators uncovered another bombshell. Shortly before David's death, his will had been updated. The new version removed his son entirely and left everything to Stacy.

David's ex-wife immediately called the police, insisting he would never disinherit his son. She provided a copy of their original wills, where they had ensured their son was the primary beneficiary. When the two documents were compared, the discrepancies were glaring. The updated Will had a forged signature, and the witnesses listed were all friends of Stacey. This cast an even darker shadow over her. A ghost from the past. With Stacy now a prime suspect, detectives decided to revisit the death of her first husband, Michael Wallace, who had died years earlier from what was thought to be a heart attack. His daughters, Ashley and Brie, recalled that Michael had complained of feeling, drunk, before his death, even though he hadn't been drinking, a symptom consistent with antifree's poisoning.

In 2007, Michael's body was exhumed. Tests confirmed what investigators feared, he had also been poisoned with antifreeze. With mounting evidence, police confronted Stacy again. Her story began to unravel. Phone records showed that she had lied about calling David multiple times on the day of his death. And during an interview, she slipped up, referring to antifreeze as, Antire, the exact phrase she claimed David had used in his supposed suicide note. The walls were closing in.

A mother's betrayal, realizing she was cornered, Stacey hatched a desperate plan. On September 14, 2007, she called 911 to report that her daughter Ashley was unresponsive. Stacey claimed the two had been drinking together the night before, but Ashley had gone to bed feeling sick. When paramedics arrived, they found Ashley unconscious but alive. Nearby, they discovered a typed suicide note. In it, Ashley supposedly confessed to murder.

both her father and David out of jealousy and anger. The note read, Mom, I'm sorry for everything. Now everyone will know it wasn't you, it was me, but the plan backfired spectacularly. The truth comes out. Ashley survived after emergency treatment, and when she woke up, she denied writing the note. Investigators quickly proved she was telling the truth. For one, the note was filled with errors and abbreviations, completely out of character

for Ashley, who was an excellent student and meticulous writer. Even more damning was the fact that the note had been written on Stacey's computer. Forensic experts recovered drafts of the note, complete with time stance showing it had been created while Ashley was hospitalized. Stacey had tried to frame her own daughter to save herself. The trial and verdict, Stacey Castor's trial began in early 2009, and the case captivated the nation. Prosecutors painted her as a manipulative, greedy woman who would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, even if it meant killing her husbands and framing her child. They presented overwhelming evidence, the fingerprints on the glass, the turkey baster, the forged will, and the fake suicide note.

Ashley testified against her mother, delivering a heart-wrenching account of how Stacey had tried to kill her. She's my mom, Ashley said in court, but I can't forgive her. After four weeks of testimony, the jury reached a verdict. Stacey was found guilty of second-degree murder for David's death, attempted murder of Ashley, and forging David's will. She was sentenced to 51 years to life in prison. Life after Stacey, Stacey Castor died in prison in 2016 from a heart attack, never admitting guilt.

Her daughters, Ashley and Brie, have worked to rebuild their lives, though the scars of their mother's betrayal run deep. The case remains a chilling reminder of how greed and manipulation can corrupt even the closest of bonds. What drives someone to commit such heinous acts? Only Stacy knew, and she took those answers to the grave. It's one of those stories that sticks with you, a tragic mystery that's haunted people for decades. Let's dive into the case of little Stephen Damon, the boy who vanished under strange

circumstances, leaving his family and the world searching for answers. The day everything changed, it was October 31, 1955, a day that should have been ordinary, maybe even a bit festive, considering it was Halloween. Instead, it became the darkest day for Marilyn Damon, a young mother with two kids. Her older child, Stephen, was just two years old, and her baby daughter, Pamela, was seven months old. Like any mother in the 1950s, Marilyn trusted her small town neighbors. People felt safe back then, especially in tight-knit communities where everyone seemed to know each other. That morning, Marilyn took her kids out for errands. After breakfast, they strolled over to the local store to grab some bread. This is where

things took a heartbreaking turn. Marilyn left Pamela in her stroller and Stephen by her side at the shop's entrance. Why? Accounts vary. Some say she didn't want to crowd the shop with the stroller. Others suggest she planned to surprise Stephen with a treat. Either way, she thought it'd be just a quick moment inside. But inside the store, she got delayed. The line was long, and she ended up chatting with a couple of neighbors. Minutes ticked by, longer than she expected.

When she finally stepped back out, both kids were gone. Her heart sank, panic set in, and she began frantically searching in screaming for help. The search begins, for 15 minutes, Maryland and a few bystanders searched every nearby corner. Finally, they found Pamela's stroller abandoned near a friend's shop around the corner. But Stephen? Not a trace of him. The friend who owned the shop hadn't seen anything, no suspicious people, no sign of where

Stephen might have gone. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air. Here's the thing, the police didn't waste time. According to several sources, the search for Stephen began immediately. Over 2,000 volunteers, including locals, police, and even military personnel, joined the effort. They scoured the area, looking everywhere, even under rocks. But there was no sign of Stephen. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole.

Theories start to form. Naturally, people began speculating about what might have happened. At first, they thought Stephen might have wandered off on his own. Maybe he saw something, a butterfly, a puppy, that caught his eye, and he followed it, dragging the stroller along until he got distracted again. But Marilyn insisted this wasn't possible. Stephen was a mama's boy, she said. He wouldn't have wandered far from her side.

Then came another theory, maybe a woman who'd recently lost her own child took Stephen. Someone grief-stricken might have seen him and decided to replace their lost baby with him. But this didn't entirely add up. If that were the case, wouldn't the woman have taken Pamela too? Finally, the most chilling theory emerged, Stephen had been abducted by a predator. Police investigated local sex offenders and even cross-checked recent child deaths in the area, but they hit a dead end. Nothing seemed to connect.

By the evening of November 1, 1955, police officially declared Stephen's disappearance at kidnapping. A desperate plea, the authorities held a press conference, sharing every detail they could about Stephen. He was blonde with blue eyes, had a small scar on his chin, and a birthmark on the back of his left calf. At the time of his disappearance, he'd been wearing a blue overall, a matching shirt, a red jacket with white and blue sailboats, and brown shoes. They even mentioned a peculiar detail, Stephen walked with his feet slightly turned outward. The hope was that

someone, anyone, might recognize him. But despite these efforts, no leads emerged. Nobody came forward with useful information. Witnesses in the area, including the bakery staff and Maryland's friend, hadn't seen or heard anything unusual. Ransom notes and heartbreak. About a month later, the Damon family started receiving ransom letters. The first demanded $3,000. Then another asked for $10,000. A third demanded $14,000.

It was clear the sender wasn't very organized. They didn't specify how the money should be delivered, cash. A check. No instructions. Stephen's father, Jerry Damon, was gone. convinced the notes were a hoax. Marilyn, however, was desperate and willing to try anything. Police traced the letters back to a college student who admitted it was all a scam.

He'd been trying to exploit the family's grief for money. Unfortunately, this wasn't the last cruel prank. Other fraudsters began sending similar letters, claiming to know where Stephen was or threatening that he was being hurt. These false claims devastated the family and added to their anguish. The family falls apart. the strain of Stephen's disappearance was too much for the damans. Jerry fell into a deep depression, leaving his position in the U.S. Air Force.

By 1957, the couple's marriage had dissolved. Some say Jerry never forgave Marilyn for leaving Stephen outside that store. Others suggest the relentless stress and heartbreak simply drove them apart. Marilyn took custody of Pamela and moved to Missouri, while Jerry eventually remarried and had two more children. Despite rebuilding their lives separately, both parents gave. carried the weight of Stevens' disappearance with them until their deaths, Jerry at 90 and Maryland at 80. A chilling discovery, in February 1957, the case took an eerie turn. A college student in Philadelphia stumbled across the lifeless body of a young boy in a rural area. He didn't report it

immediately, fearing he be accused of involvement. But 24 hours later, he contacted the police, and what they found was gruesome. The boy, estimated to be between three and seven years old, was naked, bruised, and had been wrapped in a cheap flannel blanket. His body had been placed inside a cardboard box, one that once held a bassinet from J.C. Penny. The autopsy revealed he died from blunt force trauma to the head. His hands were wrinkled, suggesting he'd been submerged in water before or after his death. Strangely, someone had cut his hair and nails post-mortem. The boy in the box case, as it became known, bore some resemblance to Stephen's disappearance. For years, people wondered if they were the same child. But DNA testing in 2003

confirmed that the boy in the box was not Stephen. False leads and twists. Over the years, there were scattered reports of sightings. A hitchhiking woman in Minneapolis was seen with a boy who looked like Stephen. In Kansas, someone claimed to see a child matching his description in a tavern. But none of these leads went anywhere. In 2009, the case took another bizarre turn. A man named John Robert Barnes showed up at Jerry Damon's home, convinced he was Stephen. John claimed that on her deathbed, his mother revealed she wasn't his biological mom. Desperate for answers, he'd scoured missing children's databases and found Stephen's profile. He was struck by the similarities, blonde hair, blue eyes, even matching scars and birthmarks.

John reached out to Stephen's sister, Pamela, sending her a letter packed with photos and comparisons. Pamela's son, Matt, opened the letter first. The resemblance was uncanny, and the family allowed DNA testing to determine if John was indeed Stephen. Unfortunately, the test proved he wasn't. But John refused to accept the results. He went on TV, insisting he felt a deep, spiritual connection to Marilyn Damon. His biological father also publicly declared John was his real son and dismissed the claims as delusions. Despite the DNA evidence, John can continued to insist he was Stephen, leaving the Daman family further shaken. Lingering mysteries.

Today, Stephen's case remains unsolved. The theories continue to circulate. The most plausible one suggests that Stephen left with someone he trusted. Marilyn often said Stephen wouldn't have willingly gone with a stranger, so it's likely his abductor was someone he knew, a family friend, a neighbor, or perhaps even a member of the military base where they lived. But who that person might be, and why they took Stephen, remains a mystery. All we know for certain is that Stephen's disappearance shattered a family and left a hole in their lives that could never be filled.

What do you think? At this point, the case of Stephen Damon is one of those enduring mysteries that's both fascinating and heartbreaking. Was it a crime of opportunity? A planned abduction? Or something else entirely? Whatever the truth, one thing is clear, Stephen's story deserves to be remembered, and his family's pain acknowledged. So now it's your turn. What do you think happen to Stephen Dan?

Could someone close to the family have been involved, or was it the work of a stranger? Theories abound, but the answers remain elusive. Let's hope one day the truth finally comes to light. Over time, Iria and Raquel began changing their style, shifting toward a darker way of dressing, and showing an increasing fascination with witchcraft. They started playing with a Ouija board, dabbling in occult rituals, and obsessing over serial killers. Their bookshelves were lined with grim literature on these topics. This story kicks off at 8.30 a.m. on May 27, 2000, in San Fernando, Cadiz, Spain. A frantic father rushed to the police station to report his daughter missing.

Less than 24 hours had passed since she'd last been seen, but he had a gut feeling that something was very wrong. Clara was a well-behaved, studious girl with lots of friends and a boyfriend she adored. She had no reason to run away from home. This was a quiet town, not the kind of place where girls just vanished, so the police sprang into action immediately. They searched high and low, combing through every possible area. But within hours, the lifeless body of a young girl was discovered in a secluded area. An autopsy revealed she had been stabbed repeatedly and her throat slit. She was fully clothed,

and there were no signs of assault. Strangely enough, she still had her belongings with her, ruling out robbery as a motive. It was a deeply personal attack, suggesting that the killer had to be someone close to her. But who would have hated this girl enough to kill her? What could she have done to provoke such a brutal crime? Clara Maria Garcia Casado was born in Cadiz, one of two children of Maria Casado Filgera and Jose Antonio Garcia, a naval officer. Her exact birth date isn't recorded, but we know Clara was only 16 at the time of her murder. She was known for her friendly and cheerful personality and had many hopes for her future. In fact, her top priority was school, and she worked hard to earn good grades. She attended Isla to Leone High School, where she

was well-liked by her classmates. Clara wasn't someone who made enemies or got into trouble. She was a well-mannered, positive young girl who was doing well in life. At 16, Clara started dating a boy named Manuel. Unlike some teenage relationships, this one didn't derail her life. She continued being the diligent, ambitious student her family knew and loved. But Clara's life did have one dark corner, something that was perhaps less noticeable but would later turn out to be significant. She had two close friends, Iria Suarez-Gonzalez, also 16, and Raquel Carl's Torijon, 17. All three girls attended Isla de Leon and became fast friends almost instantly. They shared similar tastes and interests and spent a lot of time together.

However, as they grew older, subtle differences in priorities began to emerge. Iria and Raquel gradually adopted a darker style, started flirting with witchcraft, and began playing around with a Ouija board, conducting occult rituals, and discussing serial killers. Their fascination with these morbid topics didn't sit well with Clara. She was more light-hearted, into bright colors, unicorns, and things that were innocent and playful. Their fascination with the dark arts frightened her. Iria even claimed to be a real witch, a, protected one under the care of the devil himself, and allegedly wrote about her experiences in a journal.

One entry supposedly read, I feel safe knowing there's someone protecting me. There's something or someone, in my room, and it brings me comfort. Many believed she was referring to a guardian demon, a dark figure she claimed was her constant companion. Raquel's family situation was complicated. They were financially unstable, and her parents had separated but reunited when Raquel was 14.

Around that time, Raquel started showing signs of mental health issues. and received support from social services on several occasions. Meanwhile, Iria came from a wealthier background. Her father was a high-ranking military official who was stationed in Bosnia. On the outside, Iria's life looked picture-perfect, but her inner world told a different story. In her journal, she wrote things like, I was never a normal girl. I didn't play with dolls like the others. I ripped their heads off.

They call me crazy just because I do what I want, because I do what they'd never dare to do. never dare to do. Iria's writings grew darker, referencing satanic principles and unsettling themes of betrayal, violence, and death. Clara's parents knew about her friendship with Iria and Raquel, and they were aware of the girl's increasingly Gothic appearance. But they didn't see a real cause for concern. The girls didn't get into fights or cause trouble, so Clara's parents let their daughter make her own decisions. Teachers didn't view Iria and Raquel as troublemakers either. But to their classmates, Iria and Raquel seemed odd, quiet, closed off, and sinister. Clara, on the other hand, was sociable, cheerful, and fashion-forward. She was popular and had

plenty of friends. When she started dating Manuel, she naturally spent more time with him and other friends, which led to a gradual distance between her and her darker-minded friends, Iria and Raquel. Time passed, and the three girls grew apart. Then came April 1st, 2000, a day that would bring shockwaves across Spain. 16-year-old Jose Robidon had brutally murdered his parents and sister with a katana. The crime became infamous, covered extensively in newspapers, on TV, and across the media. Secretly, Iria and Raquel began to idolize Jose, seeing him as someone to emulate. They found his light sentence inspiring, just six months in a juvenile facility followed

by two years of supervised release. Some say the girls were drawn to the fame Jose attained, plastered across every means. media outlet in the country. Others believe they wanted to experience what it felt like to take a life, to witness death firsthand. On May 23, 2000, Iria and Raquel went to the Bahia Sur Shopping Center in search of that perfect victim. They went directly to the women's restroom and waited. Within minutes, a pregnant employee entered. She seemed like an easy target, weaker and slower than them. But as the employee went about her business, she sensed something sinister about the girls, who stood on either side of her stall and started

whispering. The woman couldn't understand what they were saying, but her instincts screamed that something was wrong. So, she hurriedly washed her hands and bolted out, quickly reporting her suspicions to a security guard who immediately escorted Iria and Raquel from the premises. The following day, Iria and Raquel laughed about their, almost crime, at school. Several classmates overheard their disturbing conversation but brushed it off as a morbid joke. However, over time, they'd come to realize the girls hadn't been joking at all. After their failed attempt at the shopping center, the two friends revisited their plan. They needed a target who trusted them, someone who wouldn't be on guard.

Clara was their answer. Not only was she close to them, but from their perspective, she deserved to die for, choosing her boyfriend over them. They meticulously planned every detail, even down to their alibis. In their houses, they had documents outlining their steps and note. on how they would respond to questioning to keep their stories aligned. On May 26, 2000, around 9.30 p.m., Clara called Manuel to let him know she wouldn't be able to see him that night. She explained that she'd be going to El Barrero Park with Iria and

Raquel. Manuel wasn't thrilled, he found her friend strange and unsettling, but he trusted Clara's judgment. Soon after the call, Raquel arrived at Clara's house, and they headed to the park together. There, in the darkness, the three friends found a quiet spot, lay down on the grass, and looked up at the stars. Clara lay in the middle, with Raquel and Iria on either side of her. At one point, they asked Clara to close her eyes and share whatever came to mind. As she complied, Iria seized her arms, covering her eyes, while Raquel produced a knife and began stabbing her repeatedly. Clara fought back desperately, which led Raquel to accidentally cut Iria.

In the chaos, Iria released her hold, and Raquel delivered the final blow, slashing Clara's throat. Leaving Clara's body on the grass, Raquel and Iria fled. They returned home, washed the blood from their bodies, threw their clothes in the wash, and went out to celebrate their achievement. Meanwhile, Manuel, who hadn't planned to see Clara that night, went to El Barrero Park with friends. There, he ran into Iria and Raquel. Seeing them without Clara struck him as odd, so he approached and asked about her. The girls told him Clara had cancelled their plans.

Notably, Manuel noticed their clothes were muddy. He thought it was unusual but assumed they'd been hanging out in a dirty part of the park. The next morning, Clara's body was found. Police initially focused on Manuel, suspecting him due to his close relationship with her. However, he was quickly ruled out after providing details about his interactions with Iria and Raquel the previous night. The investigation then turned to Clara's friends. At Raquel's house, the police encountered odd behavior. Raquel asked to take a shower before speaking with them, and an officer later saw her fiddling

with a plant pot. At Iria's home, the officers noticed cuts on her arm, which she attributed, to an accident. However, her explanation was inconsistent, raising further suspicion. Later, a diary entry found in Iria's journal revealed their involvement. Both were arrested and eventually confessed to the murder. They showed no remorse, chillingly proud of their act. In court, Iria and Raquel were convicted of murder. They received sentences in juvenile facilities, as they were minors, and were later released

with new identities. The community was left shocked, struggling to comprehend how two young girls could commit such a heinous act against a friend they'd known for years. Raquel and Iria gradually began embracing a darker aesthetic, dressing in black and experimenting with witchcraft. They dabbled with Ouija boards, conducted rituals, discussed serial killers, and amassed books about the occult. While this seemed harmless at first, it hinted at something far more sinister brewing beneath the surface. This chilling tale began on the morning of May 27, 2000, at 8.30 a.m., in San Fernando, Cadiz.

A frantic father walked into a police station to report his daughter missing. Although less than 24 hours had passed since she was last seen, he was certain something terrible had happened. Clara Maria Garcia Casado was not the kind of girl you'd expect to vanish without reason. She was 16 years old, bright, studious, well-liked, and deeply in love with her boyfriend, Manuel. There were no signs she was unhappy or planning to run away. In San Fernando, disappearances like this were almost unheard of, so the police quickly sprang into action.

Despite their efforts, only a few hours later, Clara's lifeless body was discovered in a vacant lot. The autopsy revealed a horrifying fate, she had been stabbed multiple times before her throat was slit. Clara was found fully clothed, with no signs of robbery or sexual assault. Her belongings were intact. The brutality of the attack suggested it was deeply personal. The question loomed large, who could hate such a kind and innocent girl enough to kill her? Clara's life before the tragedy, Born in Cadiz to Maria Casado Fulgara and Jose Antonio

Garcia, Clara grew up in a stable and loving household. Her father was a Navy officer, and she had a younger brother. Clara was a happy, sociable girl who worked hard in school. Her friends adored her, and she had dreams of a bright future. At 16, Clara started dating Manuel, a relationship that was surprisingly mature for their age. They were both dedicated to their studies, and their romance didn't derail their goals. Everything seemed perfect. However, there was a shadow in Clara's life, two of her closest friends, Iria Suarez

Gonzales and Raquel Carl's Torijon. The three girls had met at the Isla the Leon High School. They quickly bonded over shared interests and spent most of their time together. But as they grew older, Iria and Raquel took a darker path. Their fascination with witchcraft, serial killers, and macabre topics intensified. Clara, in contrast, was a vibrant girl who loved bright colors and whimsical things like She wasn't interested in the dark obsessions that captivated her friends, which increasingly frightened her.

Irea often proclaimed herself a real witch, claiming to be, protected by the devil. She believed she had a personal demon named demon watching over her. Her diary was filled with eerie entries like, There's Someone in my room. It's not empty, and it comforts me. Raquel, on the other hand, came from a troubled home. Her family struggled financially, and her parents' marriage had been turbulent. Although they reunited when Raquel was 14, the damage had already been done. Social services intervened multiple times due to her mental health issues.

Iria, in contrast, seemed to have it all. Her family was wealthy, and her father held a prestigious military post. But behind closed doors, Iria expressed feelings of alienation. She wrote disturbing thoughts in her journal, including violent fantasies and declarations of rebellion, I was never like other girls. While they played with dolls, I ripped mine apart. They call me crazy because I do what they wouldn't dare. One of Iria's writings described a gruesome tale about four witches.

In the story, one witch chooses a different path, and the others murder her. Afterward, they confidently declare they won't face consequences because they are minors. This seemingly fictional narrative would later hold eerie significance. A growing rift and dark intentions, as Clara grew closer to Manuel, she began drifting away from Raquel and Iria. Her focus shifted to her studies, her boyfriend, and other friends who shared her cheerful outlook. Iria and Raquel, now consumed by their fascination with the macab, resented Clara for pulling away. They felt abandoned, and that resentment began to fester. Their obsession with death escalated on April 1, 2000, when the shocking case of Jose Robidon

made headlines. Jose, a 16-year-old from Mercia, had murdered his parents and sister with a katana. The media coverage was intense, and Iria and Raquel became fixated on him. They saw him as a kindred spirit and began discussing how they could emulate his actions. Some sources suggest they were inspired by the lenient sentence Jose received, just six years in a juvenile facility. Others believe they were drawn to the fame he gained. But the most chilling explanation is that they simply wanted to know what it felt like to kill. Planning the unthinkable, on May 23, 2000, Iria and Raquel visited the Bahia search shopping center, scouting for a potential victim. They lurked in the women's restroom,

waiting for someone vulnerable to enter. A pregnant woman eventually walked in. She noticed the girls whispering outside her stall and felt a deep sense of unease. Trusting her instincts, she quickly left the restroom and alerted a security guard. The girls were escorted out of the mall, but the incident didn't deter them, it only reinforced their determination. Over the next few days, they refined their plan. They realized their ideal target was something. someone who wouldn't suspect them. That's when they turned their attention to Clara. To them, Clara had betrayed their friendship by choosing her boyfriend over them. In their twisted minds, this made her deserving of death. Evidence later revealed how meticulously they planned

the crime. They highlighted an article about juvenile sentencing in a magazine, noting the light penalties for minors. Iria even wrote to Jose Robidon in prison, asking him what it felt like to kill. The Fateful Night, on May 26, 2000, Raquel invited Clara to meet at Parque del Barrero, claiming Iria would join them. Clara, trusting her friends despite their recent distance, agreed. Before leaving, she called Manuel to let him know she wouldn't see him that night. Raquel picked Clara up from her house, and the two walked to the park. Witnesses later reported seeing the girls laughing and carrying beers. Once they arrived, they found a secluded spot and lay on the grass, gazing at the stars.

Clara was in the middle, with Raquel and Iria on either side. At some point, they asked Clara to close her eyes and share her thoughts. As she complied, the attack began. Iria restrained Clara from behind, holding her arms and covering her eyes. Raquel pulled out a knife and began stabbing her, 32 times in total. In the chaos, Raquel accidentally cut Iria, who let go of Clara. Seizing the opportunity, Raquel slashed Clara's throat, ending her life. The girls left Clara's body in the grass and returned home to clean up.

They washed their bloodied clothes and went out, celebrating their crime as if nothing had happened. The investigation, the next morning, Clara's body was discovered. Her boyfriend, Manuel, became the initial suspect due to their close relationship. However, his account of the previous night in his interaction with Raquel and Iria, who appeared strangely cleaned despite being at the park, led investigators to focus on the two girls. Police searched their homes, uncovering damning evidence. At Iria's house, they found clothes with grass and plant fragments matching the crime scene. Her journal contained detailed plans and a matching alibi.

Raquel's home revealed occult materials, including tarot card symbolizing Clara's fate and the murder weapon hidden in a flower pot. When interrogated, the girls initially stuck to their alibis. However, under pressure, Iria confessed with chilling detachment, describing the murder as if recounting a movie. Raquel, meanwhile, seemed more concerned about the legal consequences than the crime itself. Aftermath, Iria and Raquel were sentenced under Spain's juvenile justice system, receiving only eight years of detention. This leniency sparked outrage, especially among Clara's grieving family. The girls showed no remorse, and their families faced intense public backlash.

Today, the case remains a haunting reminder of how darkness can hide behind seemingly ordinary faces, how obsession, resentment, and a fascination with violence can lead to unimaginable tragedy. The chessboard killer, a story of madness and strategy, every new victim brought Alexander closer to his ultimate goal, a macabre ambition meticulously tracked on a chessboard he kept hidden in his mother's house. For each life he took, he marked a square on the board, noting the date of the murder and placing a coin on the corresponding square. By June 20, 2001, he claimed to have ended the lives of ten men, a grim record of his warped version of victory. The story begins to unfold more publicly in June 2006.

A 36-year-old single mother, Marina Moskaliva, decided to go for a walk one evening. Before leaving, she tried calling her son, but her phone wasn't working. Ever the practical parent, she scribbled a note and left it in the kitchen. It included details about where she was going, with whom, and the person's phone number, just in case something went wrong. But Marina never came home. Two days later, her lifeless body was discovered in Moscow's Bitsa Park. What made her murder stand out was its savagery.

She had been bludgeoned with a hammer, a weapon Alexander had come to favor. In her jacket, police found a metro ticket dated June 14th. Following this clue, they reviewed security footage from the metro station, revealing that Marina was last seen alive with a man. This man was soon identified as a co-worker of hers. Taken into custody, the man confessed to her murder. murder almost immediately. But then, in a shocking twist, he admitted to killing over 60 people. This was the moment Alexander Pachushkin, later known as the chessboard killer,

stepped into the spotlight. A troubled start, Alexander's early years. Alexander Pichuskin was born on April 9, 1974, in Moscow. His mother, Natalia, was left to raise him alone after his father abandoned them not long after his birth. By all accounts, young Alexander seemed like any other kid, social, kind-hearted, and relatively ordinary. However, everything changed after a childhood accident at the local park near their home in Bitsa. While playing on a swing, Alexander fell backward, hitting his head. As he tried to stand, the swing came back and struck him in the forehead. This seemingly innocent incident marked the beginning of his transformation.

While physically unharmed, the blows had lasting effects on his mental state. Doctors noted behavioral changes, he became impulsive and aggressive. Classmates ridiculed him for his demeanor and appearance, and his responses to their teasing became increasingly violent. As Alexander's behavior worsened, he was transferred to a special school for children with learning disabilities. This move crushed his already fragile self-esteem. Despite his struggles with human relationships, Alexander had a soft spot for animals. Unlike many serial killers who exhibit early cruelty toward animals, Alexander treated them with kindness and respect. His relationship with people, however, continued to deteriorate.

The one exception was his grandfather, who provided the boy with a sense of stability. Recognizing Alexander's intelligence, his grandfather introduced him to chess, a game that would come to define Alexander's life. Chess was more than just a game for him, it became an outlet for his frustration and a way to assert dominance. Alexander quickly became a skilled player, defeating season opponents in the park where he practiced with his grandfather. But this golden period didn't last. When Alexander was a teenager, his grandfather passed away, leaving him devastated. Forced to move back in with his mother, he spiraled into depression. Dropping out of school, he took a dead-end job as a supermarket stock clerk and settled into a monotonous routine.

A grim inspiration, the legacy of André Chiquotillo. As Alexander struggled to find meaning in his life, a dark figure loomed large in the Russian media, Andre Chiquotillo, the infamous butcher of Rostov. Chichotillo's brutal reign as Russia's most prolific serial killer ended in 1994 when he was executed for the murders of 53 people. The media coverage surrounding his crimes fascinated Alexander. In Chichotillo, he saw both a rival and an inspiration. Determined to outdo Chiquatillo, Alexander set himself a chilling goal,

to kill 64 people, the number of squares on a chessboard. This grim ambition became the driving force of his life. The first kill, a taste for blood, while official record suggests Alexander began his killing spree in 2001, some accounts hint at earlier crimes. In 1992, at the age of 18, he reportedly committed his first murder. This heartened by the betrayal of a girlfriend who left him for an older man, Alexander allegedly broke into the man's apartment and killed him. Though police suspected Alexander, a lack of evidence allowed him to evade justice.

Other rumors suggest Alexander may have been involved in the deaths of a class of a class and a homeless man, both of whom were killed under suspicious circumstances. However, these incidents were dismissed as accidents or suicides at the time. His confirmed killing spree began in earnest in 2001, with his chosen hunting ground being bits apart. He targeted vulnerable men, alcoholics, homeless individuals, and those estranged from their families. These were people society had forgotten, people whose disappearances would go unnoticed. A calculated routine, Alexander's method was simple but effective.

He would invite his victims to the park under the guise of companionship. Once they reached a secluded spot, often near the grave of his beloved dog, he would offer them vodka. When they were sufficiently intoxicated, he struck them on the head with a hammer. If they survived the initial blow, he would drag them to a nearby manhole and throw them into the sewer system. Many victims died from the fall or drowned in the filthy water below. Each murder brought Alexander a sense of satisfaction, which he documented meticulously on his chessboard. By June 2001, he had already claimed ten lives. Expanding the hunt, women and children.

Initially, Alexander's victims were exclusively adult men, but in 2002, he killed his first female victim, Maria Virachiva. Pregnant and desperate for money, Maria was lured to the park with the promise of finding valuable cameras she could sell. Instead, Alexander attacked her and pushed her into a sewer. Miraculously, Maria survived and managed to escape. Despite identifying Alexander as her attacker, she was unable to report him due to her undocumented status in Moscow. Alexander's confidence grew, and he began targeting children.

One such victim was 13-year-old Mikhail Lobov, a punk-loving teen Alexander had befriended. After plying the boy with vodka, Alexander attempted to kill him in the usual manner. However, the boy's coat got caught on the manhole cover, allowing him to escape. Though Mikhail reported the attack, police dismissed his story due to. to his appearance and age. The beginning of the end, Alexander's downfall began in June 2006 when he targeted Marina Moskileva.

Unlike his previous victims, Marina left a trail of evidence. She wrote down Alexander's name and phone number before their meeting, and a metro ticket in her pocket led police to security footage of the two together. On June 16, 2006, Alexander was arrested. During his interrogation,

he confessed not only to Marina's murder but to 61 others, proudly detailing his crimes. When the police searched Alexander's home after his confession, they were shocked by what they found. Hidden in his room, carefully concealed among his belongings, was the infamous chessboard. On this board, he had marked 61 of the 64 squares with coins, each one representing a life he had taken. To him, the chessboard wasn't just a record, it was a trophy, a symbol of his twisted sense of accomplishment. He had only three squares left to fill, and according to his own statements, he intended to

complete the board. During his confession, Alexander described his murders in chilling detail, speaking with an unnerving calmness. He admitted that he viewed killing as a necessity, something akin to eating or drinking. He told investigators that murder gave him an unparalleled sense of power and control, filling the void left by his monotonous and unsatisfying life. He explained that each victim was carefully chosen, and the killings followed a strict ritual. The victims were often men he had met while playing chess in the park, individuals who were isolated or vulnerable, people no one would miss. Alexander would invite them for a walk in the park, often offering alcohol to build a sense

of camaraderie. Once they were deep in the forested areas of the park, he would strike them with his hammer. For him, the hammer was the perfect weapon, silent, deadly, and easy to conceal. After incapacitating his victims, Alexander would often throw their bodies into one of the park's many manholes, ensuring they would disappear into the network of underground tunnels and sewers. For those whose bodies he left exposed, he'd add a final macabre touch, placing a vodka bottle in their shattered skulls. He explained that this was a symbolic act, signifying his disdain for their alcoholism, a trait he exploited to gain their trust.

A killer's arrogance, what baffled investigators was the sheer arrogance Alexander displayed. He showed no remorse for his actions. Instead, he seemed proud, almost eager to recount his crimes in great detail. When asked why he killed, Alexander responded with chilling simplicity, life without murder is like life without food. It's essential for me, he even expressed disappointment that he had been caught before he could complete his chessboard. In his mind, filling the board was his ultimate goal, his life's purpose. Even during his trial, Alexander remained unapologetic. He sat calmly as the charges were read out, his expression betraying no emotion. The courtroom was packed with journalists and members of

the public, all eager to see the man dubbed the chessboard killer. Despite the overwhelming evidence, including his confessions and the physical items found in his home, Alexander maintained a disturbing sense of superiority. He believed himself to be more intelligent and cunning than anyone else in the room. The trial and verdict. In October 2007, after a lengthy trial, Alexander Pachushkin was convicted of 49 murders and three attempted murders. While he had confessed to killing 61 people, the court was unable to verify all the cases. due to lack of evidence. Nevertheless, he was sentenced to life imprisonment, with the first 15 years to be served in solitary confinement. The trial provided closure for many families

who had spent years wondering what had happened to their loved ones. However, it also left behind a lingering sense of unease. How had one man managed to evade capture for so long? Why had the police ignored multiple opportunities to stop him earlier? Reflections on a disturbed mind, Alexander's case has fascinated criminologists and psychologists alike. Many have tried to understand what drove him to commit such heinous acts. Was it his childhood head injury that changed his personality? Was it the bullying and isolation he faced growing up? Or was it his obsessive need to outdo André Chiquotillo, another infamous Russian serial killer?

Some experts argue that Alexander's murders were his way of exerting control over a life that felt meaningless. Others believe he was simply born with a propensity for, violence, a genetic predisposition toward psychopathy. Whatever the cause, his actions left an indelible mark on Russian society, serving as a grim reminder of the darkness that can lurk beneath the surface of even the most ordinary seeming individuals. Legacy of fear, the case of Alexander Pichuschen forever changed the way Russian authorities approached cases of missing persons. It highlighted flaws in the system, including the lack of coordination between

different police departments and the failure to take certain report seriously. If the authorities had acted on the complaints of survivors like Maria or the 13-year-old boy, countless lives might have been saved. The Bitsa Park, once a place of leisure and relaxation, became synonymous with horror. Even years after Alexander's arrest, the park carried a reputation as a haunted, cursed place. Locals avoided it, and its dark history attracted only those with a morbid curiosity. A chilling reminder. Alexander Pachushkin's story is a chilling reminder of the depths of human depravity. It's a tale of a man who turned his personal struggles and frustrations into a campaign of terror, using murder as a way to achieve

a sense of importance and control. His actions were calculated and methodical, yet driven by a deep-seated need for recognition and power. Even behind bars, Alexander remains a subject of fascination and fear. To this day, he has shown no remorse for his actions, maintaining that he was destined to kill. For him, the chessboard was more than a game, it was a representation of this twisted reality, a reality where human lives were nothing more than pieces to be moved, captured, and discarded. A part of the train disappeared and the safe door shot open. At first glance, everything seemed fine, they just had to get closer and reach the coins, but just as they did, they saw that all of them. We will begin this story in an apparently safe

setting, the Hollywood of the late 70s. On December 8, 1976, the production team of the acclaimed series, The $6 million man decided to shoot a very special episode, the episode called Carnival of Spice. As its name indicated, it had to be filmed at an amusement park to set the episode as best as possible. The production team decided to move directly to an amusement park that, at that time, was a huge success, Pike, located in Long Beach, California. Dozens of teenagers gathered there every year, eating cotton candy, riding bumper cars, but especially, what they loved the most was the House of Mirrors, Love in the Dark. According to the director of the series, that attraction had everything needed to make the episode a success. So he pulled some strings and requested all the necessary permits to

make it happen. Within the production team, there were several policemen and firefighters. If fans showed up, the police would block them, and if any accidents happened or something caught fire, the firefighters would put out the flames. Up to this point, everything Everything seemed normal, actors coming and going, makeup artists and stylists. Everyone was going up and down, but at one point, the director asked a few team members to take care of the House of Mirrors. The episode in question was about a German spy facing the protagonist, and it needed to take place in a very special location, with large figures, striking lights, colors, and drastic scene changes. It had to be something very spectacular.

So, the art director, Chris Haynes, set everything up perfectly. placing wagons, wax figures, and in a corner, he noticed a very strange figure. It was the figure of a man hanging from the ceiling. His clothes were torn, he was missing several fingers and parts of his ears, and his skin had an unusual shine. It was very typical Halloween decor and attracted attention, but it wasn't the kind of decoration meant to appear in the show. So, Haynes approached to move it out of the shot, and then the following happened.

I realized it had been crudely opened and sewn back together. I noticed human features that wouldn't be present in a prop or mannequin. I pointed these out to another team member, and as we spoke, I told him that if he moved his hands away from the private areas, he would see something that wasn't just papier-mache. I moved his hand a little to expose the private parts, and his arm broke around the elbow. Inside, I could see muscles and dry bones. That was definitely not a mannequin. At that moment, I left the building and notified the Long Beach police that there was a human body in the fun house.

They entered and saw it hanging there. They could tell the man had been altered and had been dead for a long time. But the officer said, ah, just what Long Beach needs, another dead sailor, and left. Then, I notified the fire department security officer, and he also thought it was funny, saying, hey, I'll bring the paramedics and tell them I've got a guy suffering from extreme decomposition. Somebody else from the Long Beach Fire Department came to the set, saw the body, and notified the Long Beach police, who in turn contacted the Los Angeles County Coroner's office. They examined it to determine whether it was a human body or a mannequin.

The rest is history. It was indeed the lifeless body of a man. Someone had embalmed and preserved it as a decorative object, and because of that, no one knew how long it had been dead, days, months, or even years. But because it was embalmed, the answer remained uncertain. After an autopsy, a pathologist determined the following. Firstly, we know that this body had already undergone an autopsy before, as Chris Haynes indicated, due to the cuts it had. Secondly, the internal organs were very well preserved, they were dry and hard-like stones. Additionally, arsenic residue was found all over the body, a mummification process that stopped being used in the 1930s. Thirdly, there was a bullet hole in the chest, and inside, there were remains of a gas control

bullet, a .30-32 caliber. This type of weapon was first used in 1905 and was no longer used during World War II. So, experts had more years to investigate. Finally, experts found three very interesting items inside the mouth, a 1924 penny, a pike amusement park ticket, and a ticket from the Luis Sony Crime Museum, a museum supposedly located in Los Angeles. Despite all this, they still didn't know who this person was, his name, age, or when he had died. They knew he died from a gunshot, but beyond that, nothing else was known. So, absolute chaos erupted in the United States to figure out exactly who this man was. The police turned. The police turned to the gunshot. The police to the supposed Luis Soni crime museum, but unfortunately, the museum no longer existed,

and Luis Soni had passed away. So, they contacted his only son, Dan Soni, who revealed the full name of the body, Elmer J. Marty, a notorious fugitive known for being a bad criminal. Of course, with just a name, the police couldn't do much, so they turned to forensic pathologist Clyde Snow, who confirmed after several tests that this was indeed the body of Elmer McCarty. But how did this embalmed body end up in an amusement park, and when exactly did Elmer J. McCarty die? Elmer J. McCarty was born on January 1st, 1880, in a small town called Washington in Maine. This small town currently has 10,000 inhabitants, but back then, it had many fewer people, so everyone knew each other, everyone knew your name, where you lived, who your

parents were, who your siblings were. As you can imagine, Elmer grew up in a very uncomfortable context, not only because of the constant gossip but also because he was the illegitimate child of a 17-year-old girl named Siddy McCarty. Back then, pregnancy out of wedlock was very frowned upon. No respectable man would marry a pregnant woman, especially if she was carrying the child of her cousin. And indeed, Sid McCarty was expecting a child with her cousin, Charles Smith, a man about seven years older than her. To keep the neighbors from finding out, the family devised a plan, they locked sit away for nine months inside the house, and after that, her brother George and his wife Helen adopted the baby. They didn't have children, so they thought

adopting Elmer would be perfect. A year later, the couple had their first biological child, and from then on, the two boys were raised as brothers. Time passed, and the lie held up. George and Helen played the role of parents to Elmer, while Sid acted as his aunt. In 1890, George died of tuberculosis, and the two women had to manage on their own. They traveled to Bangor, Maine, where they found work, doing whatever they could to make ends meet. But eventually, Helen told Sid that she could no longer support two children, it was almost impossible. So, Sid decided to tell Elmer the whole truth.

She probably expected him to take it well, to be understanding, but unfortunately, things didn't turn out that way. Elmer felt betrayed, deceived, and swindled, and he decided to rebel against his family. He became aggressive, started stealing, drinking alcohol, and in 1895, he packed up and moved in with his grandparents, Hardin and Obie Marty. He lived with them for about three months, and during that time, he learned the family trade, plumbing. This job helped him focus, made him punctual, responsible, obedient, and, of course, it made him a lot of money. Seeing things were going well, he returned to City and made amends

with her. Unfortunately, three years later, his life took a complete turn. With the economic recession, the business went under, and Elmer bounced from job to job for a long time, still trying to be an honest man. So, he worked incredibly hard to make things. things go right, but in 1899, life dealt him another blow. City fell ill, apparently due to an ulcer. Unfortunately, in August 1900, at 38 years old, Citi died because the ulcer ruptured, and the following month, her father followed suit, passing away due to Bright's disease.

At this point, Elmer still had hope, so he traveled all around the United States looking for work. He worked as a miner, plumber, and carpenter, but he was so devastated that he slowly fell into alcoholism. He would come home drunk after work, was distracted, and so he was fired from several jobs. In 1905, he was arrested for public intoxication. That was when he decided he could no longer go on like this and needed to turn his life around. So, when Teddy Roosevelt called for 100,000 soldiers to be sent to Cuba and the Philippines in 1907, Elmer didn't think twice.

He enlisted in the army and became part of the 13th Infantry. To be continued. Finally, in 1905, he was arrested for public intoxication. It was then that he decided he couldn't go on any longer and needed to redirect his life towards something more positive. So, when Teddy Roosevelt called for 100,000 soldiers to be sent to Cuba and the Philippines in 1907, he didn't think twice. He enlisted in the army and became part of the 3rd.

There, he worked as a machine gun operator and also received training in the use of nitroglycerin. Over time, he became an expert in detonations. After three years of fighting, Elma retired, and upon seeing the real world, he tried to do everything possible to find a job. He wanted to focus on getting a job, getting married, having children, but unfortunately, none of this happened. So, once again, he sought out the wrong path, started stealing, drinking, and completely lost his sanity. On November 20, 1910, Elmer was arrested along with Walter S.H. Phil Rock for possessing items typical of a robbery, metal chisels, funnels for powder, nitroglycerin, and sacks of gold. At that time, possessing all of this was punishable by two to ten years in prison, and these

men were expected to spend the rest of their lives behind bars. But unbelievably, both men were acquitted. Elmer told them they were plumbers and that all the tools, metal saws, nitroglycerin funnels, chisels, were for their work. However, before being acquitted, both men spent time in prison awaiting trial, and while there, Elmer made a new friend, a man named Walter Jarrett. This man repeatedly boasted about being a great bank robber, talking about the glory of money and fame, and Elmer was fascinated by these stories. So, when he was released from prison, he joined him and adopted the alias Missouri McCarty. This is when the big heists began for this man. The first heist occurred on March 23, 1911, when Walter Jarrett, Lee Jarrett, A. B. Conner,

and Elmer McCarty decided to rob the Iron Mountain train, which was transporting silver coins from state to state. The plan in their minds was perfect. Walter, Lee, and A. B. Conner, armed to the teeth, would keep watch, and Elmer McCarty, an expert in detonations, would blow up the safe. At first, everything went smoothly. The four men boarded the train and searched everywhere. When they found the safe, Elmer got to work, set everything up, took cover, and the explosion destroyed everything. A wall of the train car disappeared, and the the safe door shot open. At first glance, everything seemed great, they just had to approach and get the coins. But just as they did, they saw that all of them had melted from $4,000, and they could

only recover $450, a pitiful amount to divide between four men. The mission was a failure. Walter and Elmer separated, and Elmer McCarty was so ashamed that he changed his alias to Frank Curtis. He felt that a criminal life wasn't for him, so once again, he wanted to focus on working, being honest, marrying, and having children. For this, he started working at shy DW Construction Company, but once there, he made another questionable friend, a man named OS. OS was very angry at the Citizens Bank, as he supposedly asked for a loan and was denied. So the two friends agreed that one day they would rob it. Once again, in their minds, the plan was perfect, they would blow up the wall, get into the safe, and leave.

But for all of this, they needed an accomplice. So, they called a man named Higgins. On the night of September 21st, 1911, the three men robbed the bank, broke the wall, entered the vault, and once inside, Elmer placed a detonator on the safe door. The explosion was brutal, it shattered glass, walls. and columns. But the one thing that didn't break was the safe door, and the men couldn't get inside. Unfortunately, the noise from that explosion was so deafening that the whole neighborhood woke up, so to avoid being caught by the police, the three of them fled with a miserable

$150 as their hull. After the great disaster, Elmer McCarty wasn't going to give up. He decided that robbing a bank poorly was just the beginning, and what they needed to do was robbed the TR number 29, the Katie. For those who don't know, the Katie was a railway that transported the royalties of the Osage through different states, and these royalties weren't exactly $4,000, but more like $400,000. The margin for error in this case was minimal. They had the schedules, the equipment, and the train number, they had everything. If everything went well, this would be the heist of their lives. So, on the night of October 4th,

1911, Jarrett, a man named Sears, and Elmer McCarty got to work. They boarded the train at 1 a.m., and after arming themselves to the teeth, they searched all the train cars for the safe. When they had it in front of them, Elmer detonated the charge. Unfortunately, there was nothing inside. The criminals realized they had boarded the wrong train. They were supposed to get on the KD number 29, but in reality, they had gotten on the MKT, train number 23, with no money in the safe. The criminals went mad, so they started robbing all the passengers. They took a coat, a watch, whiskey, they took everything they could, but it was still a miserable hall. So, from there, they decided to part ways. After this great failure,

the criminals sought refuge everywhere. They tried to return home and hide in the mountains, but eventually, Elmer McCarty thought of asking for help from Charlie Rivard. Charlie was a great friend of his and also owned a farm. So, he asked for permission to temporarily hide in his large barn. According to various sources, Elmer was very sick at that time. He had tuberculosis and trichinosis, and he was in very bad shape, but that didn't stop him from drinking until he passed out. Do you remember the whiskey they had stolen from the MKT?

Well, at this moment, Elmer drank it like it was water. He had one drink, then another, and when the police arrived on October 7, he didn't even notice. Charlie Revard found out there was a reward for turning in Elmer McCarty, so without hesitation, he called three sheriffs, the Stringer brothers, Fenton and Dick Wallace. On the night of October 7th, these three sheriffs approached the barn stealthily, and when the sun came up, they were ready to catch Elmer. But this man wouldn't make it easy. At around 7 o'clock, I was waiting for him to come out when they fired the first shot.

I was surprised, and then I noticed my brother Stringer. Fenton fired three times at Stringer, and when Hero hid, he turned to Dick Juarez and kept shooting him. One of the whiskey bottles he took from the train was almost empty. He was pretty drunk when he rode to the ranch the night before. McCarty died from a gunshot to the chest, and he was a whiskey bottle. And after that, the three sheriffs took his body and went straight to a funeral home, specifically the Johnson funeral home. Once there, they arranged everything, identified him, took photos, performed an autopsy,

and after all that, they waited for someone to claim the body. A day passed, then two, three, and an entire week, but no one came to claim Elmer McCarty's body. So, the government, seeing that no one was coming forward, requested the funeral home to embalm it, and so Mr. Johnson, the owner of the business, went to work, preserving the body, the clothes, and everything intact. But a month passed, then two, three, four, and even six months, and no one claimed Elmer McCarty. So, this man informed the government and asked for payment for all the work done. But guess what? No one wanted to pay for everything this man

had done. No one paid to keep the body, to preserve it, nothing at all. So, Mr. Johnson decided to turn Elmer McCarty into a tourist attraction. He placed Elmer's body in a wooden box, dressed him in the clothes he had dyed in, and put a rifle next to his arm. Then, he lifted the box and displayed it in the storefront of his shop. Many of you may think that this would raise a lot of complaints, that people would be horrified, and that they would call the police, but what happened was the complete opposite. People loved seeing Elmer this way. They would put coins in his mouth, touch him, and even pay to pet him. It was a complete craze for five years.

This attraction was a huge success, but in October 1916, the show came to an end when two men went to the county prosecutor and claimed to be Elmer McCarty's brothers. Their names were James and Charles Patterson, and they said that their mother, who was on her deathbed, desperately wanted to see Elmer one last time and give him a proper burial. Moved by this story, the prosecutor took the body and handed it over, not knowing that these men would turn it into the main attraction of a traveling circus, the great Patterson shows. For several years, Elmer's body traveled everywhere, by train, by horse, and in arms. Thousands of people touched this body, and little by little, it was destroyed. His fingers broke off, his ears, people tore at his clothes, and in 1922, James Patternard. sold the body to Luis Soni, who would become the owner of the Luis Soni Crime Museum. Luis Soni had a large collection of wax figures, but these figures were not ordinary.

They were of criminals, murderers, kidnappers, thieves. This collection was quite successful, and he received many visitors every week. But adding a real corpse, the body of Elmer McCarty, would make his business explode, and it must be said that his idea was a huge success. People paid large sums of money just to touch Elmer, to see him, to put coins in his mouth. Elmer McCarty was a huge success there for many years, and things went so well for Sony that he started renting the body for long periods. He made more money renting the corpse than opening the museum, so at one point, he closed

the doors and focused exclusively on renting Elmer McCarty. The business was going really well, but at some point, Luis Sony decided to retire. So, he put his great collection up for sale. Dozens of people were interested in buying it, offering $5,000, $8,000, $3 million, but in the end, it was bought by two entrepreneurs who wanted a space and pike to display Elmer in a cardboard box under the label, The Man of 1,000 Years. This is how, little by little, Elmer McCarty's story reached its end. For a long time, Elmer functioned as a mannequin.

His feet and arms were anchored to mechanisms that moved him forward to scare people, and he was hung from a rope to appear like a true hanging. But eventually, this sinister mannequin was discovered by the team from the $6 million man show. From there, the government took over the case, pulled strings, and tried to contact the family or descendants, but once again, no one, absolutely no one, claimed this body. So, this time, the U.S. government paid for the funeral of the this fugitive. But now it's your turn, what do you think of the case, and do you think it was fair what happened to this man? The end. This chilling story begins in 1981 in France,

where a woman named Encarnacion Guardia Moreno, originally from Granada, Spain, emigrated in search of work. She found a job as a housekeeper in a hotel, and there, she encountered a man with whom she would develop a passionate romance. Some sources claim he was the hotel's director, while others say he was just another employee. Regardless of his role, one thing is clear, this man introduced Encarnazion to a dark and disturbing world. Encarnacion was a deeply religious person, and it is said that she had been married before and had two children, aged 18 and 16.

However, her life in France took an unexpected turn. Her relationship with the man led her into the practice of Santaria, a religion combining elements of African traditions and Catholicism. She was even allegedly introduced to animal sacrifices and participated in a black mass. During one such event, she became pregnant, but not by the man she was involved with. This pregnancy was believed to be the result of a powerful, malevolent force. In 1989, Encarnacion returned to Granada with her family. Her relatives welcomed her back with open arms, as they, too, were very religious.

She chose not to tell them about the strange experiences she believed she had been going through, instead opting to let time pass. However, in early 1990, she learned that something strange was happening to one of her uncles, Bernardo Guardia Sear. According to reports from Granada, his mother-in-law had recently passed away, and soon after, unsettling events began to occur in his home. Some sources dispute this, claiming the woman did not die and that strange occurrences, such as whispers, shadows, and unexplained sensations of being touched, started happening overnight. Bernardo began to feel as though the ghost of his deceased nephew, Jose Guardia Alonso, who had passed away from leukemia five years prior, was haunting the house.

He would feel an unseen presence sit with him or push him while sitting or lying down. Eventually, other family members experienced similar feelings when they visited the house. They all reported feeling as though the ghost was following them, which led the family to believe something supernatural was at play. In an attempt to address the situation, the family sought the help of curanderos, individuals thought to possess spiritual knowledge and the ability to cleanse energies or interact with spirits. Their first step was to contact the Carandra from Zaden, who arrived at Bernardo's home, burned the belongings of the deceased, and turned his photos around. However, this ritual proved ineffective, so the family sought out a more

well-known curandero, Mariano Vallejo Fuentes, also known as the Baker. Mariano was a respected figure in the Albayasin neighborhood, known for being the son of a renowned medium. He was reputed to have the ability to heal through laying on hands and had extensive knowledge of rituals, magic, and spirits. The family hoped he could offer a solution, and on January 30, 1990, a ritual was conducted in Bernardo's home with almost the entire family present, including Incarnacion. During the ritual, a tense silence enveloped the room as Mariano instructed Bernardo to place a cross at the foot of his bed, and for everyone present to tightly hold on to a religious image of the Virgin. him. Without warning, Encarnacion fell into a trance, tilting her head back and closing her eyes, while her voice turned unnaturally deep.

In a voice eerily similar to that of her deceased nephew Jose, Encarnazion proclaimed that his spirit was indeed the one haunting the house, but that it would not rest until the family removed their mourning attire and ate the chicken they had promised him if he recovered from his leukemia. The request was bizarre, but the family, in a state of shock, went along with it. They went to a nearby restaurant, had chicken, and hoped that this was a little bit of a would appease Jose's spirit and allow it to rest. However, when they returned to the house, Encarnacion and Mariano stayed behind.

There, Incarnation revealed a dark secret, she believed she was carrying the child of the devil. She confessed to her involvement in the black mass and explained that she had become pregnant by a malevolent entity. Mariano, alarmed by this revelation, offered to help her rid herself of the evil influence. that evening, as Incarnacion's situation worsened, the family decided to perform an exorcism. The group, including her two cousins Isabel and Enricetta, gathered in the house and began praying. At around 1.30 or 2 a.m., the ritual began in earnest. They mixed a concoction of water, salt, orange juice, vinegar, and pepper, which Encarnacion was forced to drink in large quantities.

Unsurprisingly, she began to vomit, but what followed was far more disturbing. According to witnesses, the atmosphere in the room grew increasingly sinister. The candles on the table began to flicker, and when one went out, Encarnacion started convulsing. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her body twisted violently. Her face contorted with an expression of deep hatred, and her voice took on a guttural, almost demonic quality. The Currandero, Mariano, later described how Encarnazion would scream, lash out, and perform unnatural movements, forcing him to physically restrain her. As the ritual continued, Encarnacion reportedly went in and out of this trance, and during moments of clarity, she spoke in a voice that was not her own.

She demanded that her clothes be burned and that her jewelry be destroyed. This request was promptly followed, as her cousin stripped her, burned her clothes, and discarded her jewelry. Despite these efforts, Encarnazion's condition worsened. She continued to vomit, convulse, and scream, often sounding as though she was speaking in the voice of Lucifer himself. The family attempted to follow the instructions given by the curandero, who believed they were dealing with a genuine demonic possession.

In one instance, her cousin Enricetta allegedly spoke in Encarnazion's mother's voice, condemning her daughter for having slept with the devil. Encarnazion, in turn, claimed she was the wife of Lucifer, and that the exorcists would never be able to free her. As the hours dragged on, Encarnazion's condition deteriorated further. She was increasingly weak, unable to walk without help, and barely responsive. The Currandero and her family were at a loss, and by the morning of January 31, 1990, they decided to seek outside help.

Encarnacion's niece, Josefah Fahardo, was contacted, and despite initial reluctance, she eventually agreed to come to the house. When Josefah arrived, she attempted to help, but nothing seemed to work. Encarnacion was in agony, her condition rapidly worsening. The woman began to scream, her teeth clenched so tightly that her gum started bleeding. Desperate, Josefa decided to take a more drastic approach. She went to the kitchen, heated an iron needle, and returned to the room to perform what can only be described as a horrific procedure, believing it would expel the evil spirit from

Encarnacion's body. She used the hot needle in an attempt to drive out, the demon, and when that failed, she resorted to inserting her hands into Incarnation's body, both vaginally and rectally, searching for the supposed demonic fetus. After numerous attempts, Josefa claimed to have removed a bloody mass from Encarnacion's body, which she believed was the demon or the fetus that had been growing inside her. The woman was in excruciating pain, screaming in agony, but the family believed they were dealing with a genuine demonic possession. However, things took a tragic turn. On February 1st, 1990, after several days of unimaginable suffering, Encarnazion's family went to check

on her again. They found her lying unconscious in a pool of blood, her body covered in bruises and wounds from the ordeal. A decision was made to call an ambulance. Some reports claim the Curandero attempted to stop them, insisting that the ritual was not yet finished, but the family ignored his objections. The ambulance arrived, and Encarnacion was rushed to the hospital. She was placed in intensive care, but the damage to her body was too severe. The doctors discovered she had died from a cerebral edema caused by a lethal. amount of sodium. Encarnacion's family, devastated by her death, decided to press charges against the Currandero and the others involved in the exorcism. The case went to trial in 1992,

where the accused attempted to justify their actions. Mariano Vallejo claimed that the family had authorized the ritual, and that Encarnacion had given instructions on how the exorcism should proceed. Despite the defenses presented, the court found the actions of the curandero and the others to be criminal. The family members, including Isabel, Enriqueetta, and Josefa, were all convicted of participating in the ritual. In the end, justice was served, but the tragic death of Incarnacion Guardia Moreno remains a haunting reminder of the dangers of superstition and the belief in the supernatural. The case left an indelible mark on the people of Granada, and the events of those harrowing

days have become a tragic and chilling chapter in the city's history. The combination of mental illness, religious fervor, and a belief in the supernatural led to a series of actions that ultimately cost a woman her life. The court's ruling was a rare instance of accountability for such events, but the tragedy that unfolded in the house on Cayet San Luis is something that will never be forgotten. Picture this, it's a chilly, breezy afternoon in a bustling town square, where vendors line the cobblestone streets, their voices rising above the chatter of pedestrians. The place hums with energy, but it's not the cheerful kind.

People whisper in hushed tones, heads turning frequently towards the grand castle perched at the edge of town. Word has spread like wildfire, the king, once beloved, has grown distant and paranoid. Rumors of his erratic behavior are the only thing hotter than the bread rolls from the baker's stall. Now, let me tell you about Max Max isn't just your average guy in the kingdom. Well, okay, maybe he looks average with his scruffy brown hair, a tunic that seemed better days, and boots that squeak when he walks. But beneath that unassuming exterior lies a knack for getting into trouble, and a heart that's way too big for his own good.

Max doesn't go looking for adventure, it just sort of finds him. And today? Oh boy, Adventure was practically pounding down his door. Max had just settled into his favorite corner of the tavern, sipping on what could generously be called ale, when the door burst open. In stumbled an old man, clutching a satchel and gasping like he'd run from one end of the kingdom to the other. They're coming, the old man croaked, his voice raspy but loud enough to hush the room.

Every head turned. The bartender froze mid-wipe, The dice game in the corner screeched to a halt, and Max's mug hovered inches from his lips. Who's coming? Someone dared to ask. The old man's eyes darted around, wild and frantic. The king's men. Thereafter the satchel. This, this is important.

He staggered towards Max, collapsing into a heap at his feet. Max's boots let out a resigned squeak. Why me? Max muttered under his breath as he crouched down. Hey, old timer, you okay? the man shoved the satchel into Max's hands with surprising strength. You've got to take it. Protect it.

Whatever you do, don't let the king get his hands on it. Max blinked. Me? Why me? I'm not exactly hero material, you know, but the old man didn't respond. He'd gone still, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Dead. Just like that.

Max looked around, panic rising in his chest. The tavern patrons were already inching away. as if not being near the body would absolve them of any involvement. Great, Max muttered. Now what? Before he could think of a plan, the sound of armored boots marching in unison reached his ears. The King's guards. Of course.

Because why wouldn't they show up right now? Max tightened his grip on the satchel and bolted for the back door. The alley was narrow and reeked of something Max didn't want to identify, but it offered a sliver of safety. He could hear the guards shouting inside the tavern, their voices growing louder. He ducked around a corner and nearly collided with a young woman. She had sharp eyes, a dagger strapped to her hip, and a, I don't take crap from anyone,

or a. Watch it, she snapped, glaring at him. Sorry, sorry, Max panted. Look, I'm kind of in the middle of a, situation here. She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Let me guess. Trouble found you, Max held up the satchel. More like Trouble dumped this on me and ran off.

Her eyes flicked to the satchel, and her expression shifted from annoyance to intrigue. What's in it? No idea. But apparently it's important enough for the king to send his goons after it. She studied him for a moment, then sighed. You're hopeless. Come on, let's get out of here. Max didn't have time to argue. The guards were closing in, and, standing around, wasn't exactly a winning strategy.

The woman led him through a maze of backstreet's, moving with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. Eventually, they reached a run-down shack on the outskirts of town. Inside, she lit a lantern and turned to face him. Okay, let's see what's so special about this satchel, Max hesitated. Shouldn't we, I don't know, keep it closed. In case it's cursed or something, she rolled her eyes. If it's cursed, we're probably doomed anyway. Open it, with a sigh, Max untied the satchel.

Inside was a bundle of papers and a small, intricately carved wooden box. The papers looked like maps and notes, filled with symbols and scribbles that made Max's head hurt just looking at them. The box, though, was what caught their attention. It had a faint glow, and the carving seemed to shift when you looked at them too long. What is it? Max asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The woman shook her head. No idea.

But whatever it is, it's powerful. And dangerous, great. Just what I needed, Max said, sarcasm dripping from his words. So, what do we do now? She gave him a sly grin. We figure out what's so important about it. And then we make sure the king never gets his hands on it. Max groaned.

Why do I have a feeling this is going to get me killed? Because it probably will, she replied cheerfully. By the way, names Lyra. Max, he said with a sigh. Nice to meet you, I guess. And just like that, Max's life went from uneventful to dragged into a dangerous conspiracy. With Lyra by his side, they set off on a journey that would take them across the kingdom, dodging guards, uncovering secrets, and maybe, just maybe, saving the world.

Because, let's face it, when adventure finds you, running away is never really an option. The Melody Nakeyan kidnapping, a tale of intrigue, wealth, and resilience. On the morning of Monday, November 9, 1987, a three-year-old boy named Amir woke up feeling unwell. His mother, Quimera, decided to keep him home from school. She wasn't feeling her best either. For several nights, she'd been plagued by unsettling dreams that forced her awake, leaving her shaken and unable to fall back asleep. Exhausted and anxious, she made a call to her stepson, Raymond Jr., asking him to pick up

her five-year-old daughter, Melody, and take her to school. Raymond Jr., ever the dutiful son, agreed without hesitation. At 9.10 a.m., he pulled up to the family's estate, Villa Melody, in his BMW. you. With him were his wife and their three-year-old daughter, seated in the back of the car. Melody joined them, sitting on the right side of the back seat. Everything seemed ordinary as they left the house. However, just 100 meters down the road, their path was blocked by two vehicles, a white van in front and a regular car behind them. In an instant, the peaceful morning turned into chaos. For masked men, armed and organized, emerged from the van. The first man stayed near

the van, keeping watch. The second approached Raymond Jr., pointing a gun at his head. The third punctured the tires of the BMW to prevent escape, while the fourth forcefully removed Melody from the vehicle and carried her to the van. Within moments, the van sped off, leaving Raymond Jr. and his family paralyzed with shock. A high-stakes abduction begins, this was the beginning of one of Europe's most high-profile kidnappings. Melody Nakean, the beloved daughter of a wealthy and influential family, was now in the hands of criminals. Her father, Raymond Nkakian, was a Lebanese businessman born in 1932. Coming from a modest background, his father was an engineer, and his mother a homemaker, Raymond's early life was shaped by ambition. He spent his youth in a monastery

in Jerusalem before moving to England to study medicine. However, medicine didn't captivate him. Instead, he ventured into business and quickly found success. In his 20s, Raymond partnered with Peter man, a landowner, to open a nightclub called La Disketic. The venture was a roaring success, attracting celebrities and high-profile patrons. During this time, Raymond met his first wife. Despite her being pregnant with another man's child, Raymond embraced her and later adopted the baby as his own, naming him Raymond Jr. The couple had three more children together, but the marriage eventually ended in 1973. Raymond's business empire flourished, and rumors swirled about his dealings with Saudi royalty and alleged involvement in gold and arms trafficking.

While Raymond vehemently denied the arms rumors, he did confirm trading gold. By the 1980s, he was a wealthy, globetrotting tycoon. A royal match, Quimera and Raymond. In the early 1980s, Raymond's life took a romantic turn when he met Quimera, born Kim Hong He, in Paris. A descendant of South Korea's imperial Simla dynasty, Quimera was the third of five siblings. Despite her aristocratic roots, her true passion lay in music. However, under family pressure, she studied French literature and pursued a postgraduate degree in Paris. There, she crossed paths with Raymond, and sparks flew immediately. Their love faced obstacles. Quimera's family had strictly forbidden her from dating foreigners, let alone marrying one. But her heart was set on

Raymond. Defying her parents, the couple eloped to Egypt in 1981, where they married. Shortly after, Quimera became pregnant. The couple attempted to reveal their secret marriage during a Christmas gathering with her family in Seattle, but nerves got the best of Quimera. Instead, they fled to Las Vegas, where their first child, Melody, was born on January 4, 1982. Quimera, now free to follow her dreams, reignited her passion for music. She enrolled in the Akul Norma de Muzique de Paris to hone her operatic skills. By 1984, she released her debut album, Lost Opera, which became a massive hit, selling over 10 million copies and cementing her status as a global sensation. The glamorous life in Spain, with success came wealth and a pension for luxury.

In 1987, the Nakeans relocated to Spain's Costa del Sol, building a lavish 2,000-square-meter mansion in Estipona's Nueva Atolleia neighborhood. Dubbed Villa Melody, the home symbolized their deep love for their daughter. Melody attended the prestigious Aloha College International School, while the family threw extravagant-themed parties, quickly becoming the talk of the town. However, their high-profile lifestyle inadvertently painted a target on their backs. The aftermath of the abduction, when Raymond Jr. rushed back to Villa Melody to inform the family of Melody's kidnapping, chaos ensued. Raymond McCakean was furious, blaming his stepson

for not protecting the child. Tensions ran high, and Raymond reportedly vowed never to speak to Raymond Jr. again. Initially, Raymond hesitated to involve the police, fearing harm to his daughter. However, with no word from the kidnappers, he relented. Thirty hours after the abduction, the first call came through. The man on the line identified himself as, Oscar, a pseudonym. He claimed the kidnappers had left a letter with Raymond Jr. during the abduction, but Jr. denied ever receiving it. The caller demanded $13 million in various currencies, warning against police involvement.

Three days later, on November 12, 1987, the ransom letter was discovered under a typewriter in Raymond's office. The letter outlined strict instructions, deliver the money within four days, involve no police or media, and confirm compliance by placing an ad in the newspaper ABC stating, selling Korean antiques. Failure to comply would endanger Melody's life. A race against time. As the days passed, police gained crucial insights. Witnesses described the kidnappers' van as white, dented in the front, with Gibraltar plates. The van was later found in San Pedro D'Alcantra, Marbella, revealing it had been stolen and its plates altered. Meanwhile, despite the kidnappers' demand for media silence, the case became a media frenzy.

Speculation abounded, with rumors suggesting Raymond's alleged ties to organized crime might have prompted the kidnapping. Adding to the drama, Quimera's spiritual beliefs came into play. She consulted a Korean astrologer, who claimed Melody was being held by a married couple with children. Quimera, desperate for her daughter's return, appealed to the kidnappers through the media, pleading for empathy. The turning point came on November 16.

1887, eight days after Melody's abduction. Quimera performed a ritual, releasing a bird as a symbolic plea for her daughter's return. That same day, a woman named Paloma discovered a wallet near the Costa del Sol building in Benel Medina. Inside was a bundle of 500 franc bills and a handwritten note in French, a chilling transcription of one of the kidnappers' threats. Paloma turned the wallet over to a local church, and the priest, recognizing its significance, alerted the police. The rescue of Melody, the breakthrough came when authorities traced the kidnappers to a remote farmhouse. In a daring operation, police stormed the location, rescuing Melody unharmed. The kidnappers, a mix of seasoned criminals and opportunists, were arrested, bringing an end to the harrowing ordeal.

Aftermath and legacy, Melody's kidnapping captivated the world, highlighting the vulnerabilities even the wealthy face. For the Nkakakians, it was a stark reminder of the cost of fame and fortune. While the family returned to their lives, the scars of the event lingered. The case remains a testament to resilience in the face of adversity and the lengths parents will go to protect their children. Leah Roberts was an adventurous, free-spirited woman who, in her short life, experienced a series of tragic events that seemed to set her on a different path. Her disappearance in 2000, at just 23, remains one of the most perplexing unsolved mysteries

in recent history, with strange details and unanswered questions that have captivated true crime enthusiasts and puzzled investigators. Leah grew up in a privileged, loving family in Durham, North Carolina, the youngest of three siblings. Her childhood was comfortable, filled with sports, arts, and supportive family. She loved music, literature, and painting, but her academic focus was clear, she wanted to study anthropology and Spanish. Aiming high, Leah applied to several universities, but just as she was accepted, her father was diagnosed with a severe respiratory condition.

As his health deteriorated, Leah put her plans on hold to support her family. Things took a dark turn when, shortly after, Leah's mother passed away from a heart condition. The loss hit Leah hard, pushing her to withdraw from school for a while. She retreated to her room, pouring her grief into pages of writing, grappling with questions of life, death, and faith. After some time, she managed to rejoin her studies, determined to move forward. In 1998, though, tragedy struck again. Lya was in a devastating car accident.

A truck had run a red light and hit her car head on, leaving her seriously injured. Her femur was shattered, and she had a punctured lung. She came dangerously close to losing her life, but she pulled through after weeks of unconsciousness. Surviving this close brush with death gave her a new perspective on life. Once out of the hospital, Lia felt this experience was her second chance, a new opportunity to live more fully, embracing every moment. She threw herself into traveling, beginning with a trip to Spain, and later spent eight months in Costa Rica.

While there, she explored photography, guitar, and literature. Travel seemed to revive her, and she loved the sense of freedom and adventure. But returning home was tough, routine now felt suffocating. Leia began isolating herself from friends and family, feeling out of place and restless. Around the year 2000, Leah's life took yet another dramatic turn. She stumbled upon the works of Jack Kerouac, a prominent figure of the Beat Generation, whose book on the road chronicled his wild, unplanned travels across the U.S. The Beat Generation valued spiritual exploration and rejected mainstream norms,

values that resonated deeply with Liyah. The idea of heading west with no plan, just to find herself and experience the world, appealed to her. Inspired by Kerouac's journey, Liyah began thinking of her own cross-country adventure, one that would take her to the west coast in search of self-discovery. Lya proposed the idea to her roommate, Nicole Bennett, suggesting they explore the U.S. together. But Nicole, who had her own responsibilities, couldn't just abandon her commitments. Leah's wanderlust persisted, though, and it wasn't long before she acted on it.

In early March 2000, Yah had a long conversation with her sister Kara, where they spoke of her upcoming plans, babysitting for Nicole, and meeting up soon. But that meeting never happened. On March 10th, Nicole noticed that Leah's car was gone, and she hadn't thought. seen Leah in her room or around the house. This wasn't too strange initially, Leah was known to take off for a day or two without much notice. But as days passed without a word, Nicole grew concerned. When Leah still hadn't returned by Sunday, March 12, Nicole reached out to Kara, and together they searched Leah's room for any clues. What they found was unsettling,

Leah's wardrobe was empty, and her beloved cat, B, was missing. On her desk lay a mysterious note with a Cheshire Cat drawing from Alice in Wonderland, the famous feline who appeared and vanished at will. Inside the note was a goodbye of sorts, though Liyah emphasized that she wasn't sad or depressed, she was ready for a new adventure. She mentioned wanting to follow Carawack's footsteps westward, leaving her life behind temporarily to start fresh. Kara and Nicole were both frustrated and scared. Lia had a history of traveling impulsively, but she had never left with no real plan or contact information. So, on March 13th, they filed a missing person's report.

The police took the case seriously, and two lines of investigation began, was Leah struggling with depression or mental health issues, or was something else going on? Friends and family noted that while Leah had experienced a lot of heartache, she wasn't one to keep to herself or go off the grid permanently. Kara had access to Leah's bank accounts, thanks to a power of attorney Leah had granted her before leaving for Costa Rica. Through her credit card and bank activity, police could track her cross-country journey. Following her conversation with Kara, Leah packed her things, took her white Jeep Cherokee,

withdrew $3,000 from the bank, and started her journey west. She stopped in Memphis on March 10, where she paid for a night in a hotel. Her credit card was next used on March 13th at a gas station in Oregon. In just four days, she had nearly crossed the country, following a straight line west and skipping most tourist spots, only stopping for gas and essentials. On March 19th, which would have been Kara's birthday, the family was hopeful Ya would call. Instead, a letter arrived from the Watcom County Sheriff's Department in Washington, with news that stopped everyone cold. On the morning of March 18, a jogger on a remote road in the Mount Baker area had discovered clothing and personal

items scattered along the roadside, seemingly forming a trail. Following it, the jogger found a white Jeep Cherokee at the bottom of a steep embankment, completely wrecked. The vehicle, registered to Lear Roberts, showed no sign of her. Inside, investigators found some of Leah's belongings, including clothes, personal items, and a box of mementos. Strangely, there was no blood in the vehicle, and her seatbelt hadn't been used. It was as if the car had been abandoned and rolled down the embankment. Police began searching hospitals and questioned whether Lea could have survived the accident and wandered away, disoriented. But despite their best efforts, no nearby hospitals reported admitting a woman matching her description.

It was as if Liyah had vanished without a trace. Inside the wrecked jeep, police found an old cinema ticket to American Beauty, purchased on March 13th. With this, they created a rough timeline. After refueling in Oregon, Lia had driven north to Bellingham, Washington, where she watched a movie. Witnesses from the mall restaurant in Bellingham recalled her. She had been chatty, sharing details of her road trip and her search for her. meaning. A couple of people even noted that Leah seemed drawn to the life of freedom and spiritual growth she believed awaited her out west. One witness remembered her saying she was heading off alone to explore her thoughts, inspired by her favorite author's journey. The witnesses also

described two men who had interacted with her that night. One man, who called the police after seeing Leah's missing posters, confirmed her solo travel and desire to find herself. The other man, a mechanic, claimed to have seen her leave the restaurant with a man named Barry, giving police enough of a description to create a composite sketch. However, no one could identify Barry, and despite canvassing the area, investigators found no further leads. With no evidence of foul play and a trail gone cold, theories began to form. Some suggested that Leah had staged the scene, leaving the car to pursue a new life. The peculiar arrangement of clothes and belongings surround the crash site fueled this theory.

Others believed she had been the victim of a crime, noting her attachment to a family ring she was found to have left behind in the Jeep. Leah's friends and family were divided, some thought her spontaneous nature could explain the trip, while others were sure she wouldn't have left without a clearer plan or destination. Authorities conducted extensive searches of the area using helicopters and tracking dogs, but found no sign of Leah. Over the years, sightings of her have been reported, though none have been confirmed. In 2001, Unsolved Mysteries featured her case, and in 2005, a memorial caravan retraced her steps

in her memory. The lack of answers has left a hole in the lives of those who loved Leah. As detectives continued to review the case, they noted that parts of the Jeep had been overlooked. But even with advancements in forensic science, no new evidence emerged. Leah's fate remains one of the great modern mysteries, with theories but no answers. The mystery of Lear Roberts continues to haunt her family, who still hoped that one day the truth will be revealed. A mystery that shocked Spain, the story of Roscio Wanenkov, the entire nation of Spain was in disbelief. If Dolores Vasquez wasn't the culprit, then who was? Whose DNA was at the crime scene, and why wasn't it in the database? How could someone commit such

a crime and remain invisible? These questions swirled as confusion and fear gripped everyone. Then, unexpectedly, a woman walked into a police station to reveal a chilling story that would twist this case in ways no one saw coming. The day it all began, it was October 10, 1999. A worried mother decided to go out for a walk. She hadn't heard from her youngest daughter since the day before. At first, she assumed her daughter might have stayed at a friend's house. After all, the nineteen-year-old had gone to the fair the previous evening, likely lost track of time, and maybe decided to sleep over.

It wasn't that unusual for someone her age. But as she wandered, her gut began telling her something wasn't right. And then she saw it. Off the side of the road, near a vacant lot, lay something that sent chills down her spine, They weren't just any shoes, they were identical to her daughter Rosseos. As she got closer, her worst fears started to materialize. Those were Rossio's shoes, no doubt about it. And right next to them.

Blood. A trail of it, leading to a disturbing scene. This was the start of one of the most shocking cases in Spain's history, the disappearance of Rosio Waninkoff. Who was Rossio? Rossio Wanenkov was born on November 9, 1979, and in Mijas, Malaga. She was the youngest of three children born to Alicia Hornos and William Waninghof, a Dutchman living in Spain. While Alicia hailed from Jane, Racio's father was an expat.

Despite their differences, Racio's parents started a family together. By all accounts, Rossio was the kind of person everyone liked. Sweet, kind, and always smiling, she wasn't the type to stir up trouble. Friends described her as cheerful and empathetic, someone who never sought conflict. But her home life was complicated. Her parents' relationship, especially toward the end, was fraught with arguments and turmoil. Around 1982, her mother, Alicia, decided to leave her husband and started a relationship with a woman named Maria Dolores Vasquez. Dolores, highly educated and working in hospitality, seemed to offer Alicia stability and companionship.

For a time, the two women were happy. Alicia's children, including Rossio, adjusted to their new life. However, as the kids hit adolescence, tensions rose. Dolores, known for her strict demeanor, clashed with Alicia, who was much more relaxed. These differences eventually led to the couple's breakup in 1988. By the mid-90s, things soured further as Dolores and Alicia fought over shared property. Alicia moved on with a new partner, Juan Cirillo, and the family settled into a new home in Mijas. Life seemed to stabilize, but the baggage of the past would eventually resurface in the most tragic way.

A night out ends in tragedy. On October 9th, 1999, 19-year-old Roscio left her house around 5.30 p.m., dressed in a white Nike shirt, purple pants, and sneakers. She was heading to see her boyfriend, Antonio Jose Girado Trujillo, who lived just 500 meters away. Their relationship was new, and the young couple was practically inseparable. After spending some time together, Racio told Antonio she needed to go home to shower and change before heading to the Fue Angerola Fair later that evening. Usually, Antonio would walk her home at night, but he was exhausted and decided to stay in bed. Rossio left alone. That decision would haunt everyone involved.

The morning after, the next morning, Antonio woke up feeling uneasy. Racio hadn't returned any calls, and no one seemed to know where she was. When Racio's sister, Rosa, knocked on his door asking for her, his unease turned into alarm. Antonio shared what little he knew, Racio had gone to the fair, but without him. This struck Rosa as odd, Racio wasn't the type to vanish without a word. The hours dragged on, and panic began to set in. Rossio's mother, Alicia, grew increasingly desperate. With no leads and no idea where to turn, her partner Juan suggested they take a walk to clear

their heads. That's when Alicia stumbled upon the shoes, and the blood. She immediately called the civil guard. Within hours, search teams, volunteers, and media outlets descended on Mihis, hoping to find Racio alive. Hope and horror, despite the grim scene, Alicia clung to hope. She even consulted psychics, who assured her that Racio was alive but injured, possibly trapped somewhere. These reassurances kept her going as the days passed. A reward of 12 million Positas was offered for Racio's safe return. But investigators weren't optimistic. The evidence told a darker story.

Blood trails suggested Racio had been gravely injured, likely stabbed, before trying to flee. A handkerchief found at the scene bore traces of her blood, indicating she had tried to stop the bleeding. The trail ended in a large pool of blood, alongside tire marks. It appeared the assailant had dragged Rassio's body, discarded her shoes, and fled in a small car. Nearby, investigators found a cigarette but from a Royal Crown cigarette, an uncommon brand in Spain at the time. DNA testing revealed a male profile, but it didn't match anyone in their database. The investigation begins, the police turned to Racio's inner circle. Statistically, victims of violent crimes often know their attackers.

Racio's mother was adamant, her daughter would never willingly go with a stranger. The first person under scrutiny was Antonio, her boyfriend. At just 19, Antonio was overwhelmed by the attention. His nervous demeanor didn't help. When police asked what Racio had been wearing, he couldn't recall, a fact that raised eyebrows. For days, he was grilled by investigators and public. publicly vilified. Yet, his alibi and lack of evidence eventually cleared him. With Antonio ruled out, attention shifted to another familiar face, Dolores. Suspicion falls on

Dolores. At first, Dolores was a supportive figure, helping Alicia and joining the search efforts. But her past relationship with Alicia made her an easy target for gossip. Their breakup had been messy, marked by heated arguments and unresolved bitterness. Police began noticing coincidences that tied Dolores to the case. A vehicle resembling hers had been spotted near the crime scene shortly after Rassio's disappearance. Furthermore, fibers found on Rousio's body were a potential match for something Dolores might own. Dolores was brought in for questioning multiple times.

Her calm, collected demeanor only fueled suspicions. To investigators, she seemed too composed, cold, even. An undercover officer described her as, calculating and aggressive, adding to the narrative that Dolores was capable of violence. A grim discovery, on November 2nd, 1999, the case took a devastating turn. The owners of a tennis club near Marbella called police after discovering a body in a wooded area behind their property. The corpse was severely decomposed, but evidence at the scene confirmed the worst, it was

Rassio. What the evidence revealed, the state of Racio's body painted a horrifying picture of her final moments. Found beneath a tree, she was nude, with her legs positioned unnaturally apart. Two garbage bags covered her, while a third bag contained some of her clothing, including the white Nike shirt she had worn the night she disappeared. Her pants and underwear were missing. Forensic analysis revealed the sequence of events. Initial attack, Rossio was struck in the face, then stabbed in the neck and abdomen. She had tried to stop

the bleeding with her handkerchief before fleeing. Final assault, the attacker caught up to her, stabbing her eight more times in the back. The force of these blows fractured her and ribs. Attempt to conceal, the killer poured a flammable liquid over her body and tried to burn it, but the attempt failed. Strands of pink fibers were found on Racio's abdomen, possibly from the attacker's clothing. While investigators couldn't determine if Racio had been sexually assaulted, they theorized the crime was motivated by revenge. The arrest of Dolores Vasquez, on September 7, 2000, nearly a year after Racio's murder, Dolores Vazquez was arrested. Despite a lack of direct evidence, circumstantial details and public opinion were enough

to build a case. The trial was a media circus. Dolores was portrayed as a jealous, vengeful woman who couldn't handle Alicia moving on. In 2001, she was convicted and sentenced to 15 years in prison. But the story didn't end there. A new suspect emerges. In 2003, while Dolores was still in prison, another young woman, Sonia Carabanty's, disappeared under eerily similar circumstances. Her body was found days later, and DNA evidence linked her murder to the Royal Crown cigarette but found at Rossio's crime scene. The match led investigators to Tony Alexander King, a British expat living in Spain with a history of violent crimes against women. King confessed to both murders, exonerating Dolores. She was released, but the damage to her

life and reputation was irreparable. Aftermath and reflection, the case of Roscio Waninkoff remains a stark reminder of the dangers of rushed judgments and media-fueled hysteria. While Tony King now serves time for his crimes, the shadow of injustice lingers over Dolores Vazquez's life. Delores Vazquez's story is one that seems straight out of a thriller, yet it's heartbreakingly real. Her life was turned upside down, repeatedly shattered by accusations and a system that refused to believe her. This is the full account of what happened, retold in detail and expanded to explore every nuance of the events, ensuring clarity and depth in a narrative that gripped an entire nation. Dolores maintained her innocence from the very

beginning. She firmly denied any involvement in the crime she was accused of, stating that on the night of the tragic events, she had an alibi. Typically, Dolores would spend her evenings jogging with a close friend, but that specific night, she stayed home to care for her elderly mother and her niece's young daughter, a toddler barely two and a half years old. The only time she left her house that evening was for a brief moment to take out the trash and purchase cigarettes from a bar directly across the street from her home. The bar was only seven meters away, a very short distance. Dolores claimed she quickly ran to the bar, bought the cigarettes, and returned home. Furthermore, she made several phone calls that evening from her landline, one between

10.34 p.m. and 11.10 p.m. and another at 11.17 p.m. Based on this timeline, it seemed physically impossible for Dolores to have committed the crime she was accused of. Despite this alibi, the Civil Guard did not trust Dolores. Their suspicions about her were made public, and soon, the entire town of Mijas was gossiping about her involvement. The accusation snowballed, and Dolores became the target of immense scrutiny. The media broadcast her image everywhere, capturing footage of her without her consent. Her presumption of innocence was utterly disregarded, with her name splashed across radio,

television, newspapers, and magazines. Everyone seemed convinced of her guilt. The family of Racio Vaninkov, the victim in this tragic case, was adamant that Dolores was responsible. In response, the Civil Guard conducted a thorough search of Dolores' home. They confiscated several items, including T-shirts, one of which happened to be pink. The evidence was sent to the Institute of Toxicology for analysis. When the results came back, the fibers on the pink T-shirt appeared to match those found on Raccio's body. Based on this, Dolores was arrested and imprisoned while awaiting trial.

The trial that followed was anything but ordinary. Dolores wasn't just being judged by a popular jury but also by a prosecution that, despite lacking any concrete physical evidence, focused on discrediting her character. A total of 21 circumstantial pieces of evidence were presented against Dolores. The prosecution emphasized that she had previously threatened another woman named Alicia, described her as cold, calculating, and vengeful, and highlighted the tensions she had with Rosseo. To bolster their case, they brought forward. several witnesses. The first witness was an employee from the Oasis Bar, the establishment

Dolores had visited the night of the crime. This employee claimed that Dolores had entered the bar around 11.30 p.m. and appeared agitated and nervous. When asked about her demeanor, Dolores reportedly said she had just been outrunning. The second witness was a psychic who alleged that, in the weeks leading up to Racio's death, Dolores had visited her and expressed a desire for revenge. The third witness was a Ukrainian employee who stated that she had once seen Dolores stab a poster of Rossio multiple times while shouting, this is my problem. While these testimonies painted Dolores as a suspicious character, they did not provide concrete evidence of her guilt. In fact, the physical evidence contradicted

the accusations. The DNA from a cigarette but found at the crime scene belonged to a man, not Dolores. The tire tracks near Roscio's body did not match those of Dolores' car, which was a new Toyota with wide tires. Nonetheless, public opinion was overwhelmingly against her. Her strong personality and assertive demeanor made her seem guilty in the eyes of many. The prosecution struggled to prove that Dolores had rented a car on the day of the crime or that she had been at the crime scene. Meanwhile, her defense team worked tirelessly to refute the circumstantial evidence and clear her name. They requested a second analysis of the fiber samples.

While the initial test conducted by the Institute of Toxicology suggested a match, the second test, carried out by the Civil Guard's criminal investigation laboratory, concluded that there was no similarity between the fibers from Dolores' clothing and those found on Rassio's body. The defense also brought forward character witnesses to vouch for Dolores. One such witness, Rosa Maria Diaz, described her as a kind, generous woman who adored children and cared deeply for the elderly. She testified that Dolores had never shown any violent tendencies and always behaved impeccably. Despite this, when the defense requested Dolores' provisional release, the judge denied it.

The lack of physical evidence didn't seem to matter, the circumstantial evidence and public perception of her character carried more weight. According to the prosecution's theory, on October 9, 1999, Dolores went out jogging and encountered Rossio. An argument ensued, escalating to the point where Dolores allegedly attacked Roscio with a knife. The prosecution claimed that Dolores first hit Roscio, then slashed her throat, and finally stabbed her in the abdomen.

Supposedly, when Racio tried to flee, Dolores pursued her, tackled her to the ground, and stabbed her in the back. After realizing what she had done, Dolores allegedly returned home, waited a few hours, fabricated an alibi, and later used a car to dispose of Racio's body, even driving over the bloodstains to cover her tracks. The presence of male DNA on a cigarette but at the crime scene led to speculation that Dolores might have had accomplices. In September 2001, a popular jury found Dolores guilty of murder. On September 25th of that year, she was sentenced to 15 years and one day in prison and ordered to pay 18 million Pissetas in compensation. The sentencing document, spanning six pages, did not clearly specify the evidence against

her. Shocked by the verdict, Dolores' defense team appealed to the Superior Court of Justice of Andalusia. In February 2002, the court declared the trial null and void and ordered a retrial. Dolores spent 17 months in prison, a period marked by psychological torment. She had recurring nightmares in which she dreamed of killing Rossio, despite being certain of her innocence. The pressure in isolation she experienced were so intense that she began to suspect her cellmate was an undercover agent trying to extract a confession. After her release, Dolores avoided the media for seven months.

When she finally held a press conference in her backyard, she demanded justice, both for herself and for Roscio. Her retrial was scheduled for the fall of 2003, but it was unexpectedly suspended due to another shocking crime that bore a striking resemblance to Roscio's murder. This new crime involved Sonia Carabanty's. Sonia Carabante's Guzman was the youngest of three children in a loving family. Two years before her death, Sonia and her family had lived in Switzerland, but by 2003, they had settled in Coyne, Malaga. Sonia, a bright and cheerful teenager, was studying in her fourth year of secondary school. In August 2003, the town of Coyne was celebrating its annual fair, and Sonia, like most teens,

was eager to join the festivities. On the evening of August 13th, she went out with friends, enjoying several hours of fun and laughter. Around 4.35 a.m., Sonia and a friend began walking home. The two parted ways just 200 meters from Sonia's house. Tragically, Sonia never made it home. The following morning, Sonia's friends called her house, but her father answered and found that Sonia was not in her room.

Alarmed, he contacted the civil guard. A large-scale search ensued, and just 50 minutes. meters from Sonia's home, authorities discovered a pool of blood. The scene bore chilling similarities to Rassio's case. Bloodstains were also found on the hood of a car parked nearby, suggesting that Sonia had been attacked near her house and then abducted. Dozens of volunteers scoured the area for days. On August 19th, Sonia's body was found. It was naked and partially buried under a pile of stones in a wooded area known as El Pinar. Sonia's remains were taken to the Forensic Institute in Malaga for examination.

Despite the decomposition caused by high temperatures, forensic experts uncovered crucial details. Sonia had suffered a brutal death, with 37 injuries across her body, including 15 external wounds and 22 internal ones. Her jaw had been struck so forcefully that a tooth was dislodged. She had internal bleeding in her face and chest, a fractured collarbone, and numerous bruises.

After the initial attack, Sonia had been dragged to a second. and it was around midnight when the central courtyard began to fill with a thick fog, a fog that devoured the light from the lamps and drowned out the sound of the water. It was then that the soldier believed he heard footsteps approaching him. They were firm and steady steps, so he narrowed his eyes and asked the following question, who goes there? Let us begin. The Tower of London is surrounded by a great number of legends. But perhaps the most well-known is the one that says that if the ravens inside ever disappear, the tower will fall, and with it, the British Empire.

According to this legend, there must always be at least six ravens roaming the tower, and currently, there are a total of seven residing there. Trusted individuals feed these animals and ensure their health is optimal. These seven creatures cannot fly, so they never escape the fortress. But why are there so many legends about the tower? Is there something inside it that makes the English fear? it? Let's find out. Over the years, this stronghold has undergone a great number of changes, structural changes, changes in function, but throughout them all, it has served as a symbol of the

strength and immense power of the English crown. In the year 1066, near the River Thames, a tower was raised by William the Conqueror. Due to its strategic position, it was fortified so that anyone attempting to attack London from the water would fall long before reaching the city. As the years went by, this fortress grew stronger. More towers were added, a deeper moat was dug, and it is even said that wild beasts were placed inside to frighten off enemies. What started as a simple castle slowly evolved into what you see on screen. The central building is the famous white tower, where the Lord or Kings resided. Around it, more and more towers were built, each with a specific function.

I will now mention the most notable ones, which will play a key. role in the story I am about to tell you. The first building to mention is the Wakefield Tower, built between 1220 and 1240 by Order of King Henry III. It takes its name from the Battle of Wakefield, and its function has always been that of a prison. The Lantern Tower, or Lantern Tower, was built around the same time as the Wakefield Tower, but it suffered a fire and had to be rebuilt several times. Many even said that the fire was caused by ghosts. The Beecham Tower was constructed in 1281 by Order of Edward I and also served to imprison inmates. However, this one is quite unique because its walls are filled with graffiti written by the

prisoners themselves, graffiti with dates, names, and words expressing the pain they endured. Its name is closely tied to its function, as it is named after Thomas De Beecham, who was imprisoned there from 1397 to 1399. Next, we have the Bloody Tower, which, as its name suggests, was not only a prison but also a place of terribly cruel executions. Inside, there are luxurious apartments used to hold high-profile prisoners such as Bishop Thomas Cranmer and William Laude of Canterbury. During the Tudor reign, many notable people died here, like Henry Percy, 8th Earl of Northumberland, who in 1585, upon seeing that he would be condemned for treason, took his own life inside the bloody tower.

Later, Sir Thomas Overberry died here as well, poisoned on the orders of James I. The Green Tower is also a very important place, and though it shares the same function as the others, a prison for important individuals, many suffered here. Those who stayed there never knew their fate until the last moment, which was a particularly cruel reality. The last place you must know to understand the story is the Royal Chapel of St. Peter Advincula, dated to 1520. This chapel is known for being the burial place of the notable figures who died in the Tower of London, and the way they were buried was truly dramatic.

Those who were beheaded were carelessly buried in small, simple coffins, with no headstone, and were directly hidden in the crypt. Now that you're caught up, I think it's time to tell you the horrors of this fortress. So, get comfortable, because now your new nightmares begin. Since the year 1060, the Tower of London began functioning as a prison. Inmates arrived by boat and then crossed the trader's gate with their heads lowered. That's when the crowds would go completely mad, they booed, through rotten fruit. It was a great spectacle, and everyone looked forward to that moment each day. Once you entered, you knew you'd never see sunlight again.

And as you passed through, either all your loved ones were already dead, or you would be the one to die. unknown author. For a hundred years, people feared ending up in the Tower of London just for associating with the wrong person. But that fear turned into absolute panic when the condemned began to die without even being judged. Let me explain. On Tuesday, December 29th, 1170, King Henry II ordered the assassination of Thomas Beckett, who was Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of England. Several soldiers, after being instructed, entered Canterbury Cathedral, and while Beckett prayed, they ended his life in an extremely cruel way. This death, of course, deeply impacted the English people. Beckett was beloved and

died simply because the king opposed his actions, actions that supposedly represented God's will. However, the king believed the people would eventually forget, that the matter would be swept under the rug, and no one would remember it with time. But as the years passed, kings ordered the reconstruction of various parts of the Tower of London, and that's when strange things began to happen. Many workers suffered accidents, scaffolding collapsed, walls crumbled, and many claimed to have seen the ghost of a man wandering the tower. That's when people began to say the ghost must be Thomas Beckett, who had died unjustly in the name of kings. It doesn't make much sense, Canterbury is outside the tower, but to the people, it made perfect sense. In 1173, Thomas

Beckett was declared a saint, and with that status, his spirit could supposedly travel wherever it wanted, and haunt the place it deemed appropriate. As the centuries passed, the story of Beckett's ghost faded into oblivion. No one seemed to remember what had happened during the tower's restoration. However, in May of 1471, a terrible event revived the legend. In 1470, Henry VI was dethroned and imprisoned in the Tower of London. From then I'm on, his home would be the Wakefield Tower, and it was there that his life came to an end. One morning, while in his chapel, soldiers stormed in and killed him, in the name of King Edward the 4th. In the following weeks, the tower staff began reporting strange events in that chapel.

Workers claimed that at night, the ghost of Henry VI would appear in that space, his prayers echoing through the halls, his shadow cast on the altar, and his kneeling figure vanishing when touched. Edward IV, upon hearing these rumors, remained unmoved. He thought they were tales invented by the lower classes to spice up their lives. However, after his own death, those stories became real again. Edward IV died of illness, and the throne passed to his 12-year-old son, Edward V of England. But what happened? The boy needed a Lord Protector, and this turned out to be none other than Richard Richard III, Duke of Gloucester. Richard III was a man of great greed and thirst for power.

As the protector of the future king, he sentenced many to death, accusing them of plotting to kill him. To be continued. Ricardo III was a very greedy man with a lust for power. Being the protector of the future king, he sentenced many people to death, accusing them of attempting to kill him. And supposedly, to protect the future king, he sent Edward V of England. and his younger brother Richard of Shrewsbury to the Tower of London so that the soldiers could watch over them.

Unfortunately, after crossing the walls of the fortress, no one ever saw these boys again. They weren't seen in the central courtyards, nor did they write letters to anyone, it was as if the earth had swallowed them up. People wondered what the hell had happened to them. Edward V of England was the legitimate king, and Richard of Shrewsbury, if the former died, could also be a legitimate king. But now, with the boys gone, there was no one left to occupy the throne of England, no one except the Duke of Gloucester. So the people were very clear, this man had killed the children. The how wasn't known, but the wear was clear.

At the beginning of the year 1484, several soldiers began reporting the appearance of two child ghosts dressed in white who wandered the halls of the bloody tower holding hands. They were heard singing, crying, whimpering, and seen passing together through all the walls of the Bloody Tower. But royalty turned a deaf ear, as if these ghosts were simply the product of gossip. However, it should be noted that in 1674, during a restoration of the Bloody Tower, inside a wall they found the skeletons of two boys aged between 12 and 8 years old, the same age Edward V of England and Richard of Shrewsbury would have been when they were supposedly murdered. It is said that the ghosts of the children stopped appearing once their bodies received

a Christian burial, and that happened the same year their remains were discovered. Don't think these were the only deaths that stained the Tower of London with blood, they were just the beginning of a long list of crimes committed in the name of the king. Dozens of notable men passed through here and lost their lives in atrocious ways. Next, I will mention the most notable deaths. In 1536, and Bullen, the second wife of King Henry VIII, was publicly accused of adultery. If a humble woman received such an accusation, the greatest punishment was public humiliation and abandonment by her family. But since she was a lady of high rank, the punishment had to be exemplary, especially since her husband had also accused her of incest.

So, the woman was sent to the Tower of London to await trial and was only allowed out to pray in the chapel of St. Peter Advincula, where it is said she prayed almost compulsively. The English people didn't like in Boulin, because she obtained the throne as the king's mistress. But they also didn't like having to wait to find out what would happen to her, would she be tried, not tried, die, not die? Then the king's plan was discovered, he had requested a French executioner to behead and Boulin. That's why she took so long to receive a trial and to die, because the executioner had to travel halfway across the world to reach England and end her life. Early in the morning of May 19th, 1536, exactly 1,000 days after marrying the king, and Bullen was beheaded before the watchful eyes of the English people. Dozens of people watched as her head was severed and then saw how the coffin chosen by the king himself was too small to fit her body. It was too small and also too humble to belong to a queen.

No funeral was organized in her name, and prayers for her were outright forbidden. Her headless body was buried without any kind of ceremony in the crypt of the chapel of St. Peter Advinkula. From then on, her spirit decided to roam in search of vengeance. People claimed to see and Bullen's ghost walking above the walls of the Tower of London whenever the city was shrouded in fog, during storms, on the darkest nights, her ghost was there. But especially, this specter appeared every anniversary of her death. One of the most notable sightings happened in the winter of 1864 at nightfall, during a guard change. The soldiers had to remain standing until the sun rose. They were forbidden to speak during their shifts and, of course, to fall asleep. But one of the soldiers apparently disobeyed

the orders. Around midnight, the central courtyard began to fill with a thick fog, a fog that devoured the light of the lamps and drowned out the sound of water. That's when the soldier believed he heard footsteps approaching him, firm and steady steps. He narrowed his eyes and asked, Who goes there? No one answered. So he asked two more times. Then, from the fog, emerged a strange figure. It was the body of a woman dressed in white, but what was strangest of all was that her head was not on her shoulders but under her right arm. The soldier, gripped by panic, quickly took his rifle and tried to stab the figure with his bayonet, but he couldn't, as the figure seemed to be made of smoke. That's when fear, terror, and panic made him collapse unconscious. At dawn,

the soldier was brought before the military tribunal and accused of falling asleep at his post. He defended himself, saying he didn't fall asleep but fainted. Everything seemed against him, until two more soldiers and an officer backed his story. All three men swore they had seen the same headless spectre on different days, always near the Green Tower, where in Bullen had spent the last days of her life. Upon hearing this, the jury quickly dropped all charges against the soldier, no longer doubting his words. Three years after in Bullen's death, Henry VIII ordered Margaret Pole,

countess of Salisbury, imprisoned in the Green Tower. The king's idea was to eliminate anyone who could claim the throne of England. So Margaret Pohl was imprisoned with her grandson Henry and the son of Exeter. For two and a half years, these three people were treated practically like royalty, with servants and excessive luxuries. But on the morning of May 27, 1541, when the woman was 67 years old, a servant of the king entered her room to announce that in just one hour she would be beheaded in front of 150 people. Margaret Pohl had not been tried and didn't even know what crime she was accused of. So panic overtook her. She screamed, ran, tried to escape, but several guards grabbed her arms and slowly dragged her to the place where she would die, inside the green tower.

Being a woman of high status, her execution was not public. But it was the most talked about of all because she fought for her life until the end. several men had to wrestle her to get her neck onto the block, and when they finally succeeded and the executioner struck the first blow, it didn't kill her. Because she had moved so much, the first blow struck her back. The woman continued to fight, escaped the scaffold, was pursued by the guards, recaptured, taken back to the scaffold, and struck a total of 11 blows before her life finally ended. Eleven blows that made her agonized to her last breath. It is said that due to the terrible suffering she endured before dying, the soul of Margaret Pohl still finds

no rest and manifests in the Green Tower every anniversary of her death. On June 6, 1553, King Edward the 6th died at age 15, and 10 days after his death, his court announced that his fiancé Lady Jane Grey, a girl of just 16 years, would become queen. The young woman adamantly refused to accept the title, but of course, it wasn't up to her. So she said, She had to comply and do what the court asked. Shortly after Edward V.I.'s death, the girl was forced to marry Wilford Dudley and on July 10th was sent to the Tower of London to await her coronation. Unfortunately, something happened that ruined her plans, Mary the First, daughter of Henry VIII and his first wife, claimed the throne of England. And it must be said,

this woman was more popular than Lady Jane Gray. So to avoid problems, on July 19th, Mary the first was crowned queen, and Lady Jane Gray was accused of usurping the throne. She and her husband were then separated, he was sent to the Tower of South Sea, and she to the Tower of Beecham. On February 12th and 14th, 1554, the couple was publicly beheaded. Since then, it is said that Lady Jane Grey's cries can be heard every night through the courtyards of the Tower of London. There are countless wandering ghosts within this structure. In fact, it is is said that so many have been seen that full-blown ghost processions have been witnessed marching through the gardens of the Tower of London. However, I'd like to end this video by mentioning

two very special entities. The first is Sir Walter Rawley, the famous explorer. King James the first accused him of plotting against him and imprisoned him in the Tower of London from 1603 to 1616. Due to lack of evidence, he was released for two years, then imprisoned again and condemned to death inside the tower. The next entity is not human. If we go back in time, we remember that this place was also the royal menagerie, where the most exotic pets of England's kings were kept. Lions, crocodiles, snakes, bears, though eventually, all animals were sent to zoos.

It is said that many of their spirits still wander through the Tower of London. And to prove it, we have the following experience. One night in 1816, long after animals were removed from the place, a soldier reported being attacked by a bear. But when he tried to defend himself, the animal seemed made of smoke. Sadly, this man died days later in a hospital due to injuries sustained during the attack. Today, it is said there is only one building in the entire complex not haunted by ghostly entities, and that is the white tower. It is believed that, long ago, to avoid bad luck, an animal was sacrificed inside it, specifically, a cat.

And during a restoration, a cat skeleton was indeed found in one of its walls. So now it's your turn, what do you think about this case? Do you believe the Tower of London is truly haunted, or is it just a children's tale? The end. Shaker is a teacher at a government school in Patavala, a village near Kakinada in East Godavari, Andhra Pradesh. He has been teaching math for five years in the same school. He holds a high reputation in the village as every year one of his students tops the state in the 10th class exams. He has also contributed to a lot of good work within the village. Shaker's daughter,

Shravonti, age 23, is pursuing engineering at a college in a nearby town, 10 kilometers from the village. It was Sunday early in the morning, with the clock ticking at 3. She found it difficult to sleep that day. She didn't know what it was, but something kept bugging her. She was scrolling through her phone for some diversion. While she was at it, she suddenly saw a shadow passing through her window towards the hall. She was scared. After a moment, she gathered courage and went out to check who it was.

Cursing the officials for the power cut, she switched on a flashlight on her phone and went towards the hall. To her relief, it was her brother who was out for some water. Her shoulders finally relaxed, and before she could utter something, the landline beside her started ringing, scaring her again. Noticing her disturbed sister, Sarath asked her to get a glass of water first. The landline kept ringing, so he picked it up. It was from the police, asking the family to come to the hospital in the nearby city as soon as possible. Sarruth was taken aback, and before he could ask someone.

something, the call was cut. While Chavondi kept asking what happened, Sarath rushed to his parents' room to inform his father. To their shock, he was not in his room. The mother had no idea. Sarath, who was as confused and shocked as his family, gathered his senses, knowing it was on him to stay strong and calm the family down. He took his bike out and left for the hospital along with his sister and mother. A couple of police personnel outside the hospital worsened their fears. With everything happening early in the morning, there weren't any people or workers in the hospital. Every step inside increased the fear in the family. They all could hear their hearts beating. As soon as they found blood on the floor on their way, the mother fainted. Sarath, with the help

of one of the constables, lifted her and made her sit on a bench while Shravandi brought some water. Leaving their mother there, they both went towards the ICU to see their father being treated by doctors. Shravondi started crying, seeing her father in such a state, while the police explained to Sarath what had happened. Shaker was found at the outskirts of the city with his tongue cut and an envelope with cash amounting to one lack. The police brought him to the hospital after receiving a call made from Shaker's number. They are yet to find out who made the call. The doctor said that the cut was very deep. Shaker might not be able to speak again and might need a few weeks to recover from the coma.

They also found a wound on his head. As the sun's rays spread to lighten the village, the news did too, but to terrify the people. The village wasn't exposed to much crime. The people were friendly among themselves, and apart from a couple of quarrels, they lived in peace. The case was assigned to S. I. Cushie, an officer who once held a high reputation but was posted in the village as a punishment posting after being accused of letting a murderer escape. She started with the doctors to know about the nature of the injuries.

The doctors said that the unevenness in the cut suggested the tongue was cut with a blunt knife, and it was cut from the side, not the top as usual. Whoever cut it wanted shaker to experience every bit of the pain. The hands and legs had marks which suggested they were tied down, which the constables who brought him to the hospital also reported. Everything the doctors said pointed to one thing, it was a crime of passion. But why did Shaker go to the outskirts of the village at such a time with that amount of cash? The family didn't know anything either, from what they told in the inquiry.

Is it a case of blackmail, and was one lack only part of the cash involved? If so, why was he tortured like that? Why was he spared alive if the criminal hated him so? so much. What made Shaker, a man with a very good reputation, cave into someone? What is he hiding? There were so many questions. Kushi was unable to round in on any suspects. Shaker had no major issues with anyone in the village. His phone was thoroughly checked to find any evidence of blackmail. It was a village, so there were no CCTV cameras around. The case seemed to hit a dead end. Three days later, Kushi finally got the warrant approved to search Shakers' home.

Kushi knew that if there was something to be found, it should be in there. The police looked in every nook and corner of the house and made a mess of it all for nothing. They even emptied the dustbin in the hope of finding something. Nothing helped. Kushi disappointedly asked the police to help clean and decided to leave the house. On her way out, she stepped on a crumpled piece of paper. She kicked it into the pile of dust emptied from the dustbin nearby, and suddenly something struck her mind. The paper had a postal stamp attached to it. Something felt fishy as posts aren't usual

for even a village like that. She picked it up and slowly opened it, praying for something worthy to turn up. One lack, village outskirts near the temple, this Sunday's sharp 1 a.m., read the card. There was also a photo of Shravanti and a boy kissing each other inside the post. Kushi decided to keep this to herself. She asked ASI Basha to call the family for interrogation without revealing anything. Chravonti was called first, and Kushi was straight to the point. She showed her the picture and the envelope straight away. Shravonti had no words, she started crying and pleaded with Kushi not to reveal it to the family. Kushi replied that she would try her best, but she needed full cooperation with the investigation.

She inquired about the boyfriend and, to cover up for Shravanti, carried out a routine investigation with Sarath and his mom. Kushi immediately asked Basha to bring in the boyfriend, V.J. to the station. Vijay, an orphan, studied in the same college as Shravanti and lived in a flat nearby the college with his friends. When Basha reached the flat, he came to know that Vijay was absconding. His friends were not able to reach him for four days, i.e., from the day of the incident. His phone was switched off from the same date. VJ now became a prime suspect in the case. The police, after getting all the permissions and personnel, went on a search for VJ a couple of days later.

A couple of days passed by, and it was Monday again. The police were still in search of VJ. It was around 2.30 in the morning when Cushy's phone started ringing. She picked up the phone, and what she heard blew her mind and her sleep. She rushed to the hospital. It was a person with a cut tongue and a head injury found at the outskirts, reported by an unknown person with the victim's phone. It was like Deja Vue. They even found cash of one lack nearby.

The only difference was that it was a different person and a different village. Kushi knew she was into something big with this. She went late to the station that day after a good sleep, as she knew she wouldn't be having much of that in the coming days. She was going through the statements of family members of the victim when Basha walked in with Vijay, who was found in the town that morning. Kushi hurried Vijay into the interrogation room. She learned that Vij, tired of life, had gone to Udi for some fresh air.

He had switched his phone off to avoid any disturbance. His alibis checked out, and the train he boarded only arrived at the station after the incident. This brought the case back to square one. With both crimes looking so similar, Cushy assumed the modus operandi might be the same too. The second victim, Coyan, was also a teacher in a government school in his village. While Cushy got the search warrant for Coyan's home, this time the police knew what they were looking for. They found a post in Kalyan's work folder. Kushi opened it to find a picture of Koyan outside what seemed to be a brothel, with,

more available, one lac, village outskirts near Temple, Sunday, 1 a.m. sharp, written on the back. Kushi was now sure that both these crimes were committed by the same person. From blackmailing teachers through posts to cutting their tongues from the side with a blunt knife, everything was just like a replica of the other. This was not just blackmail for money, as it was the second time the ransom was not taken by the perpetrator. Kushi felt that if they could find some connection between Shaker and Koyan, they might be able to find the motive of the criminal. When they inquired with the families, they didn't know each other. Kushi wanted to dig deeper, going across the schooling, college, and other details of both.

Everything was futile as they weren't able to connect both of them in any way. Cushy was frustrated. This case was her chance to get back to the top after the mishap in her earlier one, which led her here. Basha stepped in, suggesting that this could be the work of some kind of black magician, as both crimes happened near the temple of the village deity. Cushy is a very devout girl but was never a believer in superstitions. She struck the claim off. Basha explained that while black magic might not exist, there might be some of the same. lunatics practicing it and doing these things in the process.

Kushi found it reasonable. She asked Basha to thoroughly verify the crime scenes again to find anything that suggests the role of a black magician. While Basha was added, Kushi wondered why it was government teachers both times if it was by some black magician. It couldn't be a mere coincidence. Basha returned, reporting that there were no such signs present to indicate black magic in both crime scenes.

Kushi, thinking it over, asked Basha about a serial killer angle. Basha replied that there were no killings, the criminal, whoever he is, merely cut a tongue and even called the police immediately after the incident. Kushi said that the way their tongues were cut from the side instead of the top, and with a blunt knife, meant the criminal wanted the victims to suffer as much as possible. These are traits of a psycho. if he is one, he might be doing more of these. Basha was scared at the thought of a psycho. Kushi said that with only two incidents, it is really difficult to find many patterns.

They should work with what they know and do it fast. If they assume it was a psycho, here is what they know for now, the victims were both government school teachers, so his next target might be one too. This is just an assumption, as these two might have something else in common, but their profession is what they know for now. The second thing is that both victims were blackmailed through post and were called to the village outskirts on a Monday morning. The time gap between both crimes was one week, so most probably, the next one will happen next Monday.

They need to tighten the security in the village outskirts, but no one should know. They can't afford to alert the criminal. Kushi will ask for the extra personnel required for the job. They need every village covered on this. Kushi went to the commissioner to ask for extra police personnel to carry out the operation. The commissioner didn't seem to care. With the local MP holding a rally during the weekend, the commissioner said they needed the personnel for security. Kushi then guilt-tripped him, saying that if anything happens, he will be to blame.

The commissioner agreed to arrange the personnel for it. It was Sunday again. The village outskirts were all guarded by police secretly. It was around 1 a.m. in the night. Kushi alerted all the personnel. An hour passed by. There was no report of any movements near any outskirts. All the shoulders of the police went down in relief.

Kushi asked them to keep put until the morning, monitoring the situation. It was around 2.30 when Kushi's phone rang again. She immediately switched her phone. phone off to check Facebook. What she saw made her fall onto her chair. It was a live video of Mahitha, a government school teacher, cutting her tongue from the side, weeping out loud, but not stopping. She called the police before doing so. It took a phone call from Basha to bring Kushi back to her senses. He asked Kushi to rest for some time, assuring her that he would handle the situation. Kushi tried to sleep, but the visuals of Mahitha weeping.

out loud while helplessly cutting her own tongue kept flashing before her. She got ready and rushed to the hospital. Basha saw her coming and immediately went to her, telling her that he had the situation under control and requested her to go and get some rest before the hectic day ahead. Kushi asked Basha if the girl was okay. Basha told her she was doing fine and insisted on Kushi going back home for some rest. Tears started rolling down Kushi's eyes. Basha was quick to spot it and brought in a chair for her to settle down. Wiping her tears, she asked Basha how she could sleep after seeing what happened to that girl. How can one be so cruel?

I have seen some nasty crimes throughout my career. After the first few, I got used to them. Though I felt bad, they didn't disturb me until today when I saw that video. What about others who watch it? I am not resting until I put an end to this, said Kushi. Basha nodded and said, ma'am, I have worked for 15 years under so many good officers and good people. You are right up there in both aspects, and I am sure whoever is doing this will be rotting in jail for a long time. Kushi thanked Basha and asked him if the family

had been informed. Basha, with a shrunk voice, told Kushi that Mahitha was an orphan. His head went down as he said that. Kushi nodded her head in disappointment. Basha asked Kushi about what the criminal had on her that made her do this. Kushi told him that they would only get to know if they got hold of the posts. She asked Basha to get the video taken down first thing in the morning. Unfortunately, it didn't help. By the time it was taken down from Facebook, the video had already found a way to survive by crawling quickly into multiple devices in a chain.

The video made the case, which was just some two random incidents. in a remote area, become a national sensation. Kushi was summoned by the commissioner, who looked very tense when she reached his office. He asked Kushi to brief him on the case and the progress so far. Kushi explained everything in detail to him. Looking at her on top of everything, not even needing to look into files even for a minute of the details, his tension waved goodbye to him. While he was a bit relieved, he didn't show it as he knew these goodbyes mostly have a

see you soon attached. When Kushi completed the brief, he said, look, Kushi, I always believe you are a very good police officer. But due to what happened last time, you are not in a very good position. Because I believe in you, I got you a week before the CID takes over the case. Crack this, and you will be back in the game, or you will have to rot here with nothing to do all your life. Cushi thanked him and told him she wouldn't let him down, to which the commissioner replied, don't let yourself down. Cushi actually doesn't care about her career. She was someone who did what she felt was right in the moment, no matter the consequences. She could bear anything but not doing what she likes and feels is right to do. All she wanted now was to put an end to this

terror. Basha, meanwhile, was ready with the search warrant for Mahitha's home. She lived in a small home with a room and a kitchen. The rooms had dried blood marks all over the floor. They searched for the post but didn't find it. Basha went into the kitchen and found some ashes spread mostly near the stove. He understood what had happened. While they were going to the station, they got a call from the hospital that Shaker had come out of the coma and was in a condition to respond. Kushi and Basha immediately rushed to the hospital.

Shaker was in bed with his family and their tears around him. Kushi requested the family to stay out for some time. She sat beside him and held his hand to express her grief. Shaker immediately took his hand away. Kushi apologized, seeing his bandages around his arm due to deep cuts that happened from being tied down. Kushi hadn't observed them earlier as she was thinking about the case and how Shaker could help. While Kushi asked him, Shaker thought for a while and raised his hand, pointing towards his arm. Kushi thought there was something in the arm, but apart from the bandaged area, it seemed pretty

normal. Seeing them confused, Shaker lifted his other hand and started making signs like he was writing something, pointing towards his left hand. Kushi asked for confirmation if he was saying the criminal was left-handed, to which Shaker nodded. They went back to the station. The rest of their team, meanwhile, went through the details of posts delivered over the last two to three months to these households and, surprisingly, there were none. Kushi was perplexed.

If the posts were not delivered through the post, someone should have given them to the victims directly. Whoever was doing this was too clever to directly give it or leave a trail by giving it to someone asking them to deliver it. The only chance would be slipping them into the victim's possessions without them knowing. Not everyone has access to do that, especially to all three victims. Kushi thought this was something she could use to narrow down the search for suspects. She asked Basha if the three didn't know each other, as per their families.

Shaker confirmed it too, so who was it that connected these three? Could it be a common interest, something like a shop which all three of them go to or a newspaper they get? They needed to get their daily routines for this. As they were thinking through this, the head constable came in and marked his attendance. Kushi fumed at him for being late on a day like this. The constable apologized and said his son had fallen off a bike last Saturday while coming from the teacher's meet, so he had to take care of a few things. Kushi and Basha looked at each other. Basha immediately asked what this teacher's meet was.

The constable told them that the district collector, disappointed with the performance of school in the region, had arranged teacher training every Saturday near the collectorate, where the better performers helped the others in getting better. Kushi shouted, this is it. It must be happening there. She asked Basha to get the details of everyone who had been to the meeting, including the Pians and helpers, etc. Basha brought in the list in an hour. Kushi asked to get them entered into a computer. The meetings happening on Saturday were just the perfect time for the criminal, as it left less time with the victims to even think of something. After the data got entered into the computer,

Kushi became like an average Snapchat user, trying out different filters on it. She first eliminated the persons who missed any of the meetings. Basha pitched in, saying the criminal must be someone with good strength to carry out everything this smoothly, so he couldn't be too old. He said they should be looking for a male aged around 25 to 35.

The list came down to 50. from around 120. They still had an important clue up their sleeve. They sent the list to the respective schools to round in the left-handed people from these 50. The schools sent them a list of four people. Cushi and Basha were very upbeat about their chances this time. For the first time during the entire case, they seemed to have the upper hand. Cushy and Basha went to the homes of the four teachers with a warrant and interrogated them. While a couple of of them were out of town during the first incident, the other two checked out well too. Cushi had all four under secret surveillance anyway. It was Saturday again, and Basha felt

that they should get the meeting canceled to avoid giving the culprit a chance. Cushie replied, if we do that, the culprit might escape and come up with a different way to reach the victims. We should let everything be normal but should have control of the place. I have a plan for that. Basha got convinced with Kushi's plan. It was Saturday afternoon, and the teachers started coming for their training. As soon as they got in, the police sent them in a queue through the backdoor to check everything they carried with them to the meeting. Nothing was found with any of them.

The meeting went on with the police keeping an eye on everything, and the teachers were sent back one after the other. The plan didn't work. While Basha was happy that no post was passed on today, Kushi wasn't sure. They tried their best. It was Sunday night, or what had been a very dark night over the last three weeks. The police, with multiple vehicles, patrolled throughout, and the outskirts were also guarded heavily by the police. The clock struck two, and Kushi alerted everyone. Every second passed felt like an hour. Two hours passed by, and nothing happened, at least to their knowledge. Kushi didn't want to take any chance.

chances after what happened the last time. The sun slowly rose, killing the dark night inch by inch. Still, there was no sign of any crime or even a minor irregularity. It took half a day for Kushi to even believe that they had one this time. Two days passed by, and it was like nothing had ever happened before. The cat didn't catch the mouse, but the mouse seemed to have gone into hiding in a place where it had to starve. It was Wednesday, and maybe the The mouse could not bear the starving. It came outside. It was 2.30 a.m. when a live video started on Facebook.

It was Avonash, one of the left-handed guys whom the police had inquired about and one of the two who were in the village when the first two incidents happened. There were no viewers, given it was night, and it was a locked profile visible only to his friends. But he still started wishing the people watching. He went on saying, I.M.P. Avonash, and today I am here to take responsibility for blackmailing Shaker, Kalyan, and Mahitha, cutting the tongues of Shaker and Kolihan, and then making Mahitha cut hers herself.

I also want to clarify that what happened to them is them reaping what they sowed. Three years back, Asif, a 12-year-old, made a mistake in a math problem in his exam. His teacher slapped him so hard that he stopped there. He called him a Ksab and said people from his religion. can only become Kasabs. That teacher was Shaker. Another 10-year-old, Deepak, had to clean his school toilet as punishment for touching his teacher by mistake. That teacher was Koyan. An eight-year-old boy was molested and tortured in school by his teacher, and he stopped going to school altogether. That teacher was Mahitha. When children come to school, teachers are expected and trusted to make them

better humans. How can these people do that while they are horrible themselves? What surprised me is that the parents didn't want to complain. Anyway, speaking of horrible humans, I am much worse than these people combined. I raped a minor girl, a girl whose parents trusted me with her tuitions. She is alive, but I took away her life from her. I only realized how horrible I am when I had a daughter of my own. That was the day I decided to do all this. I have made sure those guys won't be able to teach again. There are many more rotten people,

but I have to stop here as the police have almost reached me, and I deserve more than jail time for what I did. I have kept the knife I used for cutting their tongues inside my cupboard as proof. He picked up a knife, said he was sorry, and cut his neck. His blood flowed like a river all over the place. The morning video went viral, and people who were earlier terrified now felt happy that it happened. Basha was one of them. He was also happy that he didn't need to pull all-nighters anymore.

Kushi was asked to close the case as the crime weapon was declared legitimate. Basha went to Kushi, saying finally it was done. Kushi smiled and sent the files to be signed to get the case closed. Avanash did good by mentioning the police as a reason for stopping everything. Three months passed, and on one fine morning, Kushi, collecting the newspaper, found a post inside it. The newspaper slipped from her hand. She could feel sweat rolling down her forehead. She started trembling.

Gathering courage, she sat down on her sofa and started opening the post. It had a letter which read, Today 4 p.m., Dukshine Haveli, Kukinata, Table No. 5, Come Alone. Cushy's blood pressure, which had hit the roof, slowly started getting normal. She was now confused about what she should do. She knew she would be okay as it was a public place, but it was still a big risk walking into something like that. She decided to go there but asked Basha to send in a constable to monitor the place for the day.

It was finally Sunday afternoon, and Cushi went to the restaurant. She was tense but put on a brave face, reaching the table sharp. at the said time. The officer staying a few meters away from her was all ready to jump in if something went wrong. She sat there for five minutes, constantly tapping her foot on the floor. As she was waiting, a waiter came in with a bowl of lip-smacking chicken biryani and a glass of Coke. He said, these items have been ordered for you, and you have been requested to have them. Cushy, who was confused, asked the waiter who had ordered the dish. The waiter replied, we have been asked and not to speak about anything until you finish these.

The response only invited anger from Cushi, who threatened him by saying she was from the police and he would be in trouble if he didn't answer her. The waiter, in a trembled voice, said, ma'am, I want no trouble for myself. I will tell you everything, but we have also been told to inform you that if you don't finish whatever is served without questions, you will be the one at a loss. It was said that you would understand if we say this. If you still want to go on, I comply to whatever that keeps me out of trouble. Kushi thought it over for a while and sat down to serve some biryani onto her plate while

declining the waiter who leaned in to offer help. She loves biryani, but this felt more amazing. The tender chicken that melted in her mouth only made it tough not to show her adulation. She got too much into eating it that she forgot the Coke that was lying beside her. She drank it after eating, completing everything that was served. It had been a long time since she had a meal as great. The waiter now came in and handed her a card, saying he was asked to give this after she finished. Cushy's heart skipped a beat on seeing the card with halftime and, 4 to 0, written on it.

She comprehended that it was the number of victims. Her head started spinning, but she gathered herself together and asked the waiter who had sent these, that she wanted no bullshit this time but the answer. The waiter took her to the manager, who gave her a post. A post with money and all instructions to be followed. A lot of thoughts started running in her mind as she took the post as evidence from the restaurant. Kushi reached the station and told Basha about the card. She asked Basha to schedule a meeting with the commissioner about reopening the case.

Basha asked Kushi if they had enough to reopen the case. They had all the evidence from Avanash's room, including the crime weapons. They didn't have anything solid, and reopening the case only meant panic. Kushi agreed with Basha but said they still couldn't brush this under the carpet. They needed to discuss what they should do next with the commissioner. The commissioner had his hands on his head upon hearing this. Kushi said that reopening the case might not be plausible with what they had right now, but this should be taken seriously.

The Post was the modus operandi of the criminal for the three incidents they knew, except for the suicide. The elections kept cushy busy while a month passed. It was Saturday night, and the Sarpanch of a nearby village was at a lone theater with a seat exactly in the middle reserve for him. His driver had to bear the brunt, having to spend the night in a car for most of the time. The movie didn't interest the Sarpanch much, except for some bits here and there. Half an hour into the second half of the movie, he heard a voice through his left ear. If you shout, you will be done. While he was about to turn to see who it was, he felt something pinching his shoulder.

He saw an injection pointed at his hand. His eyes widened, but he shut his mouth. This is a rare snake venom which can kill you in 40 to 45 minutes. So don't have any plans of running off. You won't make it if I inject this into you, whispered the guy in a hood sitting beside him. The Sarpanch, who had already started sweating, gasped, okay, twice in reply. The guy continued, ask your driver to go, leaving the car here. The Sarpanch did as he said. He offered the guy to take all the money he had and leave him.

The guy raised his other hand and put a finger on his lips, making a shush sound, signaling the Sarpanch to be silent. An hour passed, with every second feeling like a minute for the Sarpanch, with no word spoken. He tried to see who the guy was, but the hood covered him well. Five minutes to the end, he heard him again. I have the antidote for this with me, so you are fine until you listen to what I say. The Sarpanch felt the needle go into his body, piercing his skin, and his heart started racing. The guy continued, as soon as the movie ends, follow me. into your car. Don't try to raise your head. You are safe until you listen to me. The Sarpanch followed him to the car, and both of them got in. The guy asked the Sarpanch to take the driver's seat

and told him to break the glass in the front. He then sat in the back and said, drive to the river on the back of the hospital. Go at 50, nothing less, nothing more. The Sarpanch started driving the car as he saw a patrol vehicle coming from a distance. The kidnapper asked the Sarpanch to take care of it if required. The sight of the Sarpanch's car on a Saturday night was nothing unusual, given his habits, so the patrol didn't even care to stop the vehicle. They reached the river in about 25 minutes, and the guy gave the Sarpanch another injection, which he called the antidote.

The Sarpanch slowly lost his senses and went into sleep, begging the guy to leave him. The next thing the people of the village woke up to was the news of the Sarpanch admitted to the hospital with his tongue cut off. This happened a long time ago, when I was a kid. My hometown, well, it wasn't the kind of place people wrote postcards about. It was small, tucked away, and chronically underdeveloped. The kind of town where the biggest news was usually the mill-threatening layoffs again, or the high school football team losing another game. We were in a slow decline, and everyone knew it, even if they didn't say it out loud. Hope was a scarce commodity, something people clung to in whatever form they could find it.

And that's where the disappearances came in. It was a known problem, a quiet, persistent ache in the community fabric. Kids, mostly teenagers, but sometimes younger, would just, vanish. One week they'd be in class, complaining about homework or dreaming about getting their drive. license, and the next, their desk would be empty. Their locker would stay shut. Whispers would start. The official line, the one that settled over the town like a comforting but threadbare

blanket, was that they'd run away. Gone to the city, seeking a better life, adventure, opportunities that are stagnant town couldn't offer. And people, by and large, chose to believe it. It made a grim sort of sense. Who wouldn't want to escape? Who wouldn't yearn for something more than the dusty streets and the resigned faces? But even as a kid, something about it pricked at me.

Why would everyone who left cut ties so completely? No letters home, no calls, not even a rumor trickling back through a friend of a friend. It was as if they'd stepped off the edge of the world. Families would grieve, of course, but then they'd latch on to that, better life narrative. It was easier than confronting the void, the awful. echoing silence these kids left behind. Believing they were thriving elsewhere was a bomb, a way to keep the creeping despair of our town at bay. It allowed a sliver of vicarious hope, if they could make it out, maybe the town itself wasn't a complete dead end. I didn't have many

friends, preferred my own company mostly. My walk home from school was usually solitary, a straight shot down Main Street, then a turn on to Elm, and a few more blocks through a quieter residential area. It was routine, predictable. Until that one afternoon, the day started like any other. School droned on. The final bell was a release. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started the familiar trek. The air was that specific kind of late autumn cool, crisp but not yet biting. Leaves crunched underfoot. I was about halfway down Main Street when I first noticed him. He was standing across the road, near the boarded-up storefront of what used to be a pharmacy. What caught my eye wasn't that he was there, but that he didn't fit.

Our town had its share of eccentrics, but this was different. He was wearing a suit. Not a work suit like Mr. Henderson, the bank manager, wore. This was darker, a bit too formal, and it seemed, stiff. Like it wasn't made of normal fabric. And it was impeccably clean. which was an oddity in itself in our perpetually dusty town. He was just standing there, not looking at anything in particular, but his stillness was alert,

like a heron waiting by the water. I didn't think much of it at first. Maybe a salesman who'd taken a wrong turn. Or someone visiting family. I kept walking. When I glanced across the street again a block later, he was still there, but he'd moved. He was now parallel to me, keeping pace. but on the other side. A faint prickle of unease started on the back of my neck. It was probably

nothing. Coincidence. I made the turn onto Elm Street. It was quieter here, fewer cars, fewer people out and about. I chanced to look back. He'd made the turn too. He was still across the street, but definitely following. The distance between us was the same, but the casualness was gone from his posture. He was walking with a distinct purpose now, his gaze fixed in my general direction. My heart started to beat a little faster. This wasn't right. Salesman didn't follow kids home like this. I told myself to be calm. Maybe he was just going the same way. But Elm Street didn't lead to any businesses, just more houses and, eventually, the old scrapyard at the edge of town. I picked up my pace. Not quite running, but a fast, determined walk. I risked another

glance. He matched my speed effortlessly. The suit didn't ripple or bunch, it moved with him as if it were part of him. His face was indistinct from this distance, shadowed, but I could feel his attention on me like a physical weight. Panic began to bubble up, cold and sharp. This wasn't a coincidence. I needed to lose him. My mind raced. I knew these streets like the back of my hand. He didn't. Instead of continuing straight towards my house, I made a sharp, unplanned right onto a narrow alleyway that cut between two houses. It was a shortcut I sometimes used, overgrown with weeds and usually littered with overflowing trash cans. It smelled damp and forgotten. I broke into a jog, backpack thumping against my spine. When I emerged onto the next

street, breathless, I looked back. For a glorious few seconds, the alley was empty. Relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. I'd lost him. Then, he stepped out of the alley. He didn't look rushed or out of breath. He just appeared, smooth and silent, and turned his head, his gaze locking onto me instantly. The distance was shorter now, maybe half a block. I could see his face a little better. It was pale, unremarkable in features, yet utterly devoid of expression. No anger, no curiosity, just a blank, waiting stillness.

The suit was still pristine. Terror, raw and undiluted, seized me. This was not normal. This was wrong. My only thought was to run. I bolted. My house was still several blocks away, but in the opposite direction now, thanks to my detour. Ahead of me, at the end of this less-traveled road, lay the town's unofficial dump, the scrapyard. It was a sprawling mess of rusted cars, discarded appliances, mountains of junk, and treacherous piles of debris. Kids sometimes dared

each other to go in, but it was generally avoided. It was vast, chaotic, and dangerous. It was also my best bet. I ran harder than I thought I could, legs pumping, lungs burning. The scrapyard fence, a rickety chain-link affair with several convenient holes, loomed closer. I didn't dare look back. I could hear his footsteps, though, a steady, rhythmic beat on the pavement behind me, never getting closer, never falling further behind. It was an unervingly consistent sound. I dove through a gap in the fence, scraping my knee, the pain a distant throb compared to the fear coursing through me.

The scrapyard enveloped me. The smell was overwhelming, rust, oil, decaying upholstery, damp earth, and something else, something faintly sweet and rotten. Towers of junk rose on either side, creating narrow, winding pathways. I scrambled deeper into the maze, hoping the sheer complexity of the place would be my salvation. I ducked behind a teetering stack of bald tires, heart-hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I strained my ears, listening for his pursuit over the sound of my own ragged breathing. Silence. Or what passed for silence in a place like this, the groan of stressed metal,

the rustle of unseen things in the weeds, the distant hum of the highway. Maybe, Just maybe, I'd actually lost him this time. The thought was a fragile flicker of hope. He wouldn't know these paths. He'd give up. I waited, crouched and trembling, for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute or two. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, leaving me shaky and cold. I had to get out of here, but not back the way I came.

There was another, more dilapidated section of fence on the far side of the yard, closer to the woods. If I could reach that, I could cut through the trees and circle back to my neighborhood. Slowly, cautiously, I peaked around the tires. The narrow passage was empty. I took a deep breath and started to move again, trying to be as quiet as possible, weaving through the metallic skeletons of forgotten vehicles and mountains of discarded household goods. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long, distorted shadows that rived and shifted with every gust of wind. The light was turning that burnished gold that signals the end of the day. I was nearing what I judged to be the far edge of the scrapyard. I could see the ragged line of trees

through a gap in a pile of twisted metal. Freedom felt tantalizingly close. I navigated around a rusted out hulk of an old pickup truck, its windows long gone, and then I froze. He was was there. Standing directly in my path, not ten feet away, by the very gap in the fence I'd been aiming for. He was just, there. As if he'd been waiting. As if he'd known exactly where I was going. My blood ran cold. Every nerve screamed. There was no surprise on his face, no triumph. Just that same blank, patient watchfulness. The impeccably clean suit seemed to absorb the fading light, making him look darker, more solid. He took a step towards me. A strangled sob escaped my throat. I didn't think, I reacted. I spun around and plunged back into the labyrinth of junk,

deeper this time. There was no plan, just a desperate need for distance. This time, I heard him coming after me immediately. And he was faster. Much faster. His footsteps weren't the steady, Rhythmic pace from before. They were quick, unervingly light, yet covering ground at a speed that didn't seem humanly possible for someone in a suit, navigating this treacherous terrain. It was like he was gliding over the debris. Panic clawed at my throat, making it hard to breathe. I scrambled, tripped, caught myself, pushed onward. My lungs ached.

My scraped knee throbbed. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision. I could hear him getting closer. I spotted a small, dark opening beneath a pile of flattened car bodies, the kind that had been crushed into grotesque rectangles. It looked like a shallow cave of rusted metal. Without a second thought, I threw myself to the ground and wormed my way into the tight space. It was cramped, filthy, and smelled of stale oil and damp earth.

Jagged edges of metal pressed into me from all sides. I squeezed myself as far back as I could, until my shoulders hit the unyielding, cold ground at the very back. I was completely hidden, enveloped in oppressive darkness, save for a sliver of grayish light filtering through a small gap near the front of my metallic tomb. I held my breath, listening. Silence. Then, footsteps. Slow now, measured. Moving around the pile of cars I was under. I could hear the crunch of debris beneath his shoes, the occasional soft metallic scrape. He was searching.

Through the tiny gap, I saw a sliver of his dark trousers pass by. Then again, he was circling. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I pressed my face into the dirt, trying to muffle the sound of my own terrified gasps. Every instinct screamed at me to stay still, to become part of the earth and rust around me. The sun was definitely going down now. The already dim light filtering into my hiding spot was fading rapidly. The shadows outside were lengthening, merging, swallowing details. Then, he spoke. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but it carried an unnatural resonance that vibrated through

the metal around me. Come on out, kid. A pause. There's no need to hide. We can just talk. talk. The absurdity of it was a fresh stab of fear. What could we possibly talk about? I stayed silent, frozen. I know you're in here somewhere, his voice continued, still calm, but with an edge now, like a carefully sharpened blade. This yard isn't that big. I'll find you, he moved again, his footsteps methodically covering the area around my hiding spot. I could hear him shifting debris, the screech of metal on metal. Each sound sent a jolt of terror through me. The light through my gap was almost gone.

It was becoming truly dark under the cars. And then, the voice changed. Sweetheart, are you in there? It's mommy, my blood turned to ice. It was my mother's voice. Not just similar, it was her. The exact tone, the cadence, the little lilt she had when she was worried. The sound of it, so familiar, so comforting in any other context, was now the

most terrifying thing I had ever heard. Baby, please come out. I was so worried when you didn't come home. What are you doing in this awful place? Come out, it's getting dark. Let's go home. A part of my brain, the logical part, knew it wasn't her. Couldn't be. But the raw, primal fear, coupled with that perfect imitation, A tiny, treacherous part of me wanted to believe it. Wanted to crawl out and find her there, to have this nightmare end. Please, honey, the voice pleaded, laced with a perfect imitation of maternal distress. You're scaring me. Just come out.

Everything will be okay. Tears were flowing freely now, silent tears of utter terror and confusion. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from making a sound, tasting the coppery tang of blood. He was trying to lure me out. He knew my mother's voice. How? How could he know that? The last vestiges of daylight vanished.

The scrapyard was now plunged into near total darkness, relieved only by the faintest ambient glow from the distant town lights, which barely penetrated this deep into the junk. Under the cars, it was absolute black. I was blind, relying only on sound. I thought I was doomed. He would find me. He was patient, methodical.

It was only a matter of time. The voice, her voice, had stopped. There was only silence for a moment, a heavy, pregnant silence. Then, a new sound. A low-grown, guttural and pained. It wasn't human. It was followed by a rasping, wet growl, like an animal in distress. It seemed to come from right outside my hiding spot.

My fear ratcheted up to a level I didn't know was possible. What was happening? The growls intensified, mixed with harsh, choking sounds. It sounded like he was in agony. Like the darkness itself was hurting him. And then, his own voice again, but ragged now, strained, filled with a furious, desperate anger that was far more terrifying than his earlier calm. damn it all the light gone too soon another pained snarl then chillingly clear his words cut through the night seeming to echo in the sudden stillness i will find you eventually kid

just in another day perhaps there was a strange rustling sound then like dry leaves skittering across concrete or sand pouring from a height it lasted only a few seconds and then nothing Absolute silence. No footsteps. No breathing. No pained growls. He was gone. I stayed huddled in that metallic coffin for what felt like hours, too terrified to move, too shocked to process. Eventually, the cramping in my limbs and the desperate need to escape the crushing darkness forced me to act.

Trembling uncontrollably, I slowly, agonizingly, pushed myself out from under the cars. The scrapyard was utterly dark, save for the sliver of moon that had risen. I stood there, shaking, expecting him to reappear at any moment. But there was nothing. No sign of him. Where he had been standing, or where I thought he had been from the sounds, there was just, dust. A faint, fine layer of something dark on the ground, already being disturbed by the night breeze.

It looked like a patch of exceptionally dry soil, out of place amongst the dam. earth and rusted metal. I didn't wait to examine it. I ran. I ran out of that scrapyard the way I'd come, not caring about the noise I made, fueled by a primal terror that lent my legs impossible strength. I ran through the dark streets, not stopping until I slammed through my front door, gasping for breath, collapsing in a heap in the hallway. My parents were frantic. I was covered in dirt, grease, my knee was bleeding, my clothes were torn, and I was hysterical. I tried to tell them. I babbled about a man, a suit, the scrapyard, his voice, my mother's voice. But it came out as a jumbled, incoherent mess. They thought I'd had

a bad scare, maybe got chased by a dog, or had a run-in with some older bullies. They cleaned me up, bandaged my knee, and put me to bed. I never told them the full truth. How could I? How could I explain that the man who chased me, the man who sounded like my mother, had turned to dust when the sun went down? They would have thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. But I knew what I saw. And I knew what I heard.

That thing in the suit wasn't just a serial killer or a kidnapper. It was something else. Something that couldn't stand the night, or perhaps, couldn't exist without daylight in its physical form. something that hunted in the full light of the sun the disappearances in our town i started to see them in a new light were they all just kids running away for a better life or had some of them like me taken a wrong turn on their way home on a day when the sun didn't set a little too quickly had they been lured by familiar voices out of hiding into the waiting darkness the thought made me sick that promise i will find you eventually, kid. Just in another day, perhaps, has haunted me ever since. I moved away

from that town as soon as I could. I try to live a normal life. But I'm always aware of the sun. I don't like being out alone when it's full day. And sometimes, on quiet evening, when the shadows grow long, I think I hear a faint rustling, like dry leaves, or sand. I don't know why it seemed to turn to dust. I don't know what it was, but I know it was real, and I know it wanted me. The gaps in our town weren't just kids leaving for the city. Some of those gaps were torn open by things that thrive under the daylight the END. The storm had been raging for hours, a relentless howl that made the old house grown with every gust of wind. Rain lashed against the windows, obscuring the view of the cliffside and the dark sea below. Inside,

a group of six gathered in the grand drawing room of Hawthorne Manor, each looking more uneasy than the last. Detective Charlotte Green had arrived just before the storm hit. She had been called to investigate a murder, but the case was unlike any she'd encountered before. There was no body. At least, not yet. The murder had been predicted, by the victim himself. The host of the evening, Lord Edmund Hawthorne, a reclusive billionaire with a pension for peculiar hobbies, had invited each of his guests under mysterious circumstances. A former diplomat, a renowned actress, a retired surgeon, a best-selling author, a journalist, and Charlotte herself had all received the same cryptic invitation, come to Hawthorne Manor tonight.

A secret will be revealed. One of you will die, and none of you will escape until the truth is known. When Charlotte had arrived, Lord Hawthorne had greeted her with a strange look in his eyes. You're the one I trust most, Detective. I need you to solve the mystery before it happens. Can you do that? Charlotte had been skeptical, dismissing it as the ramblings of an eccentric man. But the atmosphere in the house now was anything but playful.

It was tense, thick with unspoken fears. I believe a murder will happen tonight, Detective, Lord Hawthorne said again, his face pale and drawn. I just don't know which one of us it will be. Charlotte looked around the room at the others. Each guest seemed just as uncomfortable, their eyes darting to the corners of the room, as if expecting something, or someone, to leap from the shadows. They were all in their late 50s or early 60s,

yet they seemed almost childlike in their fear. The journalist, Charles McKenna, was pacing near the fireplace. His hand twitched as he fidgeted with a notepad. You must understand, detective, he said, his voice shaky, Hawthorne's obsessed with death. His fortune was built on it, in a way. Charlotte raised an eyebrow. Explain, McKenna swallowed nervously.

He has a collection, of people, not just objects. People whose lives were shaped by tragedy or crime. Each of us, we have a dark past that he's, well, catalogued. Edmund nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. And tonight, one of us will become part of that collection. Only I don't know who. Suddenly, the lights flickered, plunging the room into darkness. A collective gas beckoed through the group.

When the lights returned, the room was eerily silent. Everyone was still in their places, but there was something wrong. Something was missing. Charlotte's gaze snapped to the fireplace, where the shadows seemed darker than they should have been. The air felt thick with a sense of dread. A scream shattered the silence. Turning quickly, Charlotte saw Lady Amelia, the actress, standing near the edge of the room, her face twisted in horror.

She pointed to the back corner of the room, near the large antique mirror. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. The mirror reflected a figure, tall, cloaked in black, with something gleaming in their hand. But when Charlotte looked directly at the corner, her, it was empty. Did you see it? Amelia asked, her voice trembling. There was someone standing there. A figure in black. I saw it, Charlotte frowned. Calm down, Amelia. There's no one there, but her instincts were screaming at her. Something was off. They were being watched. I'm going to search the house, Charlotte announced, her voice from. Stay here.

Don't open any doors or windows. The guests reluctantly nodded, their faces filled with uncertainty. Charlotte moved swiftly through the halls, her flashlight cutting through the shadows. She checked every room, every closet, and even the servant's quarters. But there was no sign of the cloaked figure, no evidence of anyone lurking in the house. By the time she returned to the drawing room, the storm had worsened. The wind howled louder, rattling the windows. The group was still gathered, but there was a distinct change in their demeanor.

They were more subdued now, as though they were waiting for something, anything, to happen. Charlotte stood by the door, considering her next move, when a voice broke the silence. I think I know who the murderer is. It was the retired surgeon, Dr. Hugh Pearson, a man who had been oddly quiet throughout the evening. He was sitting near the window, his face shadowed by the dim light. Go on, Charlotte said, her curiosity peaked. Dr. Pearson stood up slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. The murder is inevitable, isn't it?

But I think the real question is, who will be the one to do it? Charlotte's eyes narrowed. What are you implying? You see, I've been watching everyone closely, Pearson continued. And I've realized something, one of you is not who you say you are. the room fell silent, all eyes turning to Pearson. Charlotte stepped forward. Who do you think it is? I don't know, Pearson said, his voice low.

But I believe that one of us is pretending to be someone else. Someone from the outside, someone who has an interest in Hawthorne's death, a cold chill swept through the room. Before anyone could react, there was a sudden crash from upstairs. The group rushed to the staircase, and Charlotte led the way. They reached the second floor and found the door to Lord Hawthorne's private study ajar. Inside, a body lay sprawled across the floor. It was Lord Hawthorne.

But the strangest part, his face was twisted in a grotesque expression of shock, and his eyes were wide open, as if he had seen something he wasn't meant to see. And beside him, on the floor, lay a single piece of paper. It was a note, scrawled and hurried handwriting, the silent witness always knows. Charlotte picked up the paper, and as she read it, a chilling realization washed over her. The murder had already happened, but not in the way she had imagined. The figure in the mirror, the figure they'd all seen but couldn't identify, had been the true

witness. The one who had orchestrated it all. And now, Charlotte was faced with a new question, who among them had been the silent witness, and who had been the murderer. The girls always talked about him on social media. They appeared together in stories and photos, but slowly that stopped happening. From time to time, she would post something, upload a small story, made a TikTok with him, but the last photo she posted with her partner was on October 31st, 2020.

We begin on the morning of Saturday, November 28, 2020. A public works operator was driving through the streets of Houston in his vehicle. Everything was going fine, no incidents occurred, but suddenly, on the side of the road, he saw what appeared to be a mannequin. It was completely naked, in a rather strange pose among bushes and snow. It was all so bizarre that it didn't seem real, it was a slim, almost perfect body, which at first glance looked like a doll. But as he drove past, the man couldn't stop thinking about it.

Was it a mannequin? A doll? A lifeless body? What the hell was that? So he pulled out his phone and called a co-worker. The co-worker had to pass by the same spot, drive by the car next to that doll, and when the co-worker arrived, he confirmed it was a lifeless body. When the police arrived at the scene, they couldn't believe it.

It was the lifeless body of a 26-year-old woman. It was clean, perfect, with no wounds, and at least for the moment, they didn't know who she was. But a missing person report shed light on the matter, the young woman appeared to be the influencer Alexis Sharkey. Alexis Lee Robinalt was born on February 6, 1994, in Pennsylvania, the eldest of three daughters of Stacey Clark and Michael Robinolt. According to those who knew her, she was a brilliant, very positive, generous, and affectionate girl, deeply attached to her loved ones. In fact, she was very traditional and loved spending the holidays with her. with her whole family. Physically, she was described as a beauty, but mentally, she was also beautiful. They say she was very smart and even made it onto her school's honor roll. During high

school, no subject was hard for her, and she was good at all sports. After graduating, she enrolled at the University of Pittsburgh, where she studied biology, nutrition, and psychology. According to her family, she graduated Summa Cum Laude. sources disagree on whether she graduated in 2015 or 2016, but the vast majority say it was in 2016. When one finishes their studies, they often feel lost. A lifetime of studying and reading books, and when it's over, you don't know what to do, where to look for a job, where to begin, what to do with your life. And in the middle of this crisis, Alexis decided to make a drastic change, she decided to leave her homeland, pack her bags, and moved to Texas, specifically

to the city of Odessa. Once there, she looked for an ordinary job, something completely unrelated to everything she had studied, and became a waitress at a sports bar called Twin Peaks. At this stage of her life, it is said that Alexis was very happy. She made many friends and got engaged to her longtime boyfriend. But in 2017, that relationship ended, and the girl who had always been so positive fell apart. She had always supported others. If someone felt bad, she'd call them, text them, and now everyone returned the favor. They called her at all hours, met up with her, gave her support.

Even the customers did the same, they'd come to the bar, tell her jokes, entertain her. Among them was a 45-year-old man named Thomas Sharkey. Tom, as everyone called him, was a very funny guy with a job. that allowed him to travel a lot. Some sources say he worked in sports, but the most reliable ones indicate he worked in the oil industry. Physically, he was athletic, muscular, about 1.80 meters tall, with tattoos, and Alexis loved that. He was recently divorced and had two children, aged 12 and 9, kids he saw very little, as custody belonged to his ex-wife.

Yes, he was a father. Yes, he was divorced. Yes, he was older than her. But Alexis didn't mind. He seemed like a good man, a good person. He was very attentive to her. So, just a few months after meeting, the couple started dating. Soon after, they began planning a future together, maybe travel, live together, get married,

they lived everything with great intensity. But there was a big problem, Alexis made very little money. As a waitress, she earned very little, long hours, hard work, and low pay. So she started looking for other jobs besides Twin Peaks to earn more. That's when she found a company called Monat, which makes skin and hair care products. Monat is a multi-level marketing company, those at the top earn a lot, and those at the bottom earn very little. However, Alexis was very lucky. She joined the company, started selling products,

gaining clients, recruiting others, and within just a month, she made more money at Monat than at Twin Peaks. She shared Monat's products on her Instagram page and gradually gained more and more followers. Things were going so well that she left Twin Peaks to dedicate herself full-time to Monat, posting photos, stories, giving her opinion, attending meetings, recruiting more clients. Over time, she accumulated more than 20,000 followers on Instagram and became an executive director at Monat. She worked hard to get where she was. Seeing so much success in someone who is only two years older than me was absolutely amazing, said Brittany Pember, a friend of Alexis. As time passed, things kept getting better. She was happy with her partner, with her job, with her

influencer life. Her Instagram became the perfect image that Monat wanted to sell, a beautiful girl with amazing hair, perfect skin. She herself was the face of the brand. She posted stories and photos every day, answered calls on the first ring, replied to WhatsApp messages immediately. She was very active on social media, and all her friends knew she'd always be there. If they needed advice, they'd message her, and she'd reply within seconds. In 2019, Alexis and Tom moved to Colorado, and shortly after, they got married, so she took his last name, Sharkey. Gradually, she expanded to other social platforms, including a YouTube channel. She uploaded her first video on May 23, 2019, a travel vlog covering 25

days on the road through New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Colorado. From there, she uploaded more videos, more trips, Monat meetings, clothing halls. In her videos, we see the same thing as on Instagram, a perfect life, full of luxury and travel, a dream life. While she was posting all of this, she bought an apartment in Houston, Texas, with her husband. Since she didn't know anyone there, she downloaded an app to make friends, and that's how she met someone who would become one of her best friends, Tanya Ricardo. This part of the story is very interesting because Tanya wanted to be famous. She wanted to be a model, actress, be on TV, and in May 2019, she appeared on Inside Edition claiming she had undergone surgery to look like Megan Markle.

That might seem silly, but this detail will come up again later. Alexis's life was perfect, but when the pandemic hit, the trip stopped. She had to stay locked up with her husband, and somehow had to find entertainment, something to reach more clients. So, she created a TikTok page. She did typical lip sinks, dances, showed Monat products, and little by little gained more followers. Many couples struggled during lockdown, and it seems Alexis and Tom were one of them.

The girls always talked about him on social media, they appeared together in stories and photos, but that slowly stopped happening. From time to time, she would post something, a small story, a TikTok with him. But the last photo she posted with her partner was on October 31st, 2020. After that, she never spoke of him again.

In November 2020, Alexis went on a trip with three friends, Lauren Bro, A Real Kyle, and Carrie Hager. It was a girl's trip, so their partners weren't invited. They first went to Marfa, Texas, took staged photos there, and then went to Tulum, Mexico. Throughout the trip, the girls noticed Alexis was acting very strange. She seemed distant, quiet, and not as cheerful as usual. So at one point, Lauren asked her about it, if she was okay, if there was a problem with Tom. And Alexis told her the following, she said Tom was treating her very badly, and that in recent months, they were going through a crisis.

She confessed that the man was physically abusive and that at that point, she feared for her life. We were walking back to our hotel room and she confided these things in me. I looked at her and thought, she's petrified. This girl is afraid for her life. Alexis said Tom would sometimes strangle her until she passed out. We don't know the context, some sources say it was part of Tom's sexual games, while others claim it was physical abuse. That he humiliated her, beat her, and among all that, strangled her.

Each source says something different, and they don't agree. However, we have this, throughout the trip, he sent her horrible, disturbing messages. But one night, when she and I were alone, she said, He strangles me, chokes me, I pass out, and then I wake up on the bathroom floor. When they returned from the trip, things got even weirder. Alexis stopped answering messages, stopped calling her friends, and barely posted anything on social media. She was always extremely active online, so this sudden silence was very noticeable. On Thanksgiving, November 26, 2020, she went to.

went to have dinner at her friend Tanya's house. Tanya said Alexis was very quiet and didn't want to talk much. She stayed for a short time and left. The next day, on Friday, November 27th, Alexis and Tom were supposed to go to dinner at another couple's house, some friends of his. But she never showed up. Tong told everyone that Alexis had left the house after an argument and had gone into an Uber. According to him, she had taken some things and left without telling him where she was going.

But something didn't add up. Alexis always told someone where she was going. She always answered her phone. She was very close to her mom, her sister, her friends, she was never off the radar. That Friday, none of them could reach her. Not through Instagram, not by phone, not by text, nothing. Her mom, extremely worried, called Tom, but he just kept repeating the same thing, that she had left after a fight.

He didn't know anything else. On Saturday, the family contacted the police to file a missing person report. That same day, a worker found her body on the side of the road. When the autopsy results were released, the cause of death was listed as strangulation. She had been murdered. The police focused the investigation. on her closest circle. They interrogated her friends, her co-workers, and, of course, her husband.

But when they tried to question Tom, he refused to cooperate. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to hand over his phone. He didn't even want to give a statement. After a few days, he left the state of Texas and moved to Florida to live with his daughter. From that moment on, he became unreachable. Months passed. The police had evidence, suspicions, testimonies, but no arrest warrant.

However, everything pointed to him. In fact, in September 2021, they finally got a warrant for his arrest. Police officers went to the house where Tom was staying in Florida to arrest him for the murder of Alexis Sharkey. But before they could do it, Tom took his own life. He shot himself in the head just before being handcuffed. And with that, the case was closed. He was never tried. There was no trial, no formal confession, and many people still wonder what really happened.

Why did he do it? Was it a crime of passion? Was it an accident? Was there something darker behind it all? Alexis's family is heartbroken. Her mother says she warned her multiple times. That she noticed her daughter was not doing well. that she feared something might happen, but she never thought it would end like this.

Her friends still post about her. They say they miss her, that she was a light in their lives, and that they will never forget her. Alexis Sharkey was 26 years old. She had her whole life ahead of her. But one night, when she and I were alone, she told me, he strangles me, he chokes me, and I pass out, and then I wake up on the bathroom floor. According to what they say, Alexis went with her friends to get away from Tom. She wanted to travel, distance herself from him, escape a little, meet more people. And when they arrived in Tulum, Mexico, she met a guy her same age whom she really liked,

and his name was Sebastian Marmallejo. Sebastian was a DJ in Houston and went by the name DJ Seabas. They exchanged numbers and started talking a lot, but aside from that, officially, there was a nothing else. Time passed, and Thursday, November 26th, 2020, Thanksgiving Day, arrived. As I said before, Alexis was a very family-oriented girl, and like every year, she would have gone to Pennsylvania with her loved ones. But on Wednesday the 25th, she called her mom and told her she wouldn't go. They had been planning and talking about it for weeks, and at the last minute, Alexis canceled everything. She didn't give explanations, she just said they couldn't see

each other that day. On the morning of the 26th, Alexis called her mom, they talked for a while, chatted about a few things, and that evening she went to her friend Tanya's house. They had some drinks, dinner with more friends, but Tom didn't attend that gathering. Nobody asked about him, and nobody wanted to know anything. After dinner, Alexis left with her friend Sebastian. on. She stayed with him until 3 a.m., and at that time she grabbed her phone and sent a message to Tanya, saying she would soon go to her house to pick up a few things. But Tanya didn't read those messages. Alexis arrived at her friend's house and saw that everything was dark, so she got in the car and left. Friday, November 27th was Black Friday, and all the brands were going crazy,

ads everywhere, offers, discounts. So Alexis should have been very important. active that day, posting stories, discount codes, photos, but hours passed, and she posted nothing. That behavior caught her friend's attention, but no one dared to say anything. Hours went by, and at 5.30 p.m., she asked in the group chat if anyone had plans, if they were going to have dinner, do something, take a trip. All her friends said they weren't partying, they'd be with their families. Still, they arranged another dinner for the following day at Tanya's house, and Alexis promised she would go. The last message she sent in the group chat was between 6 and 6.30 p.m., and it was simply

three emojis. From that moment, there was silence. No stories, no photos. Alexis Sharkey had disappeared. And the disappearance became official as hours passed, because Tom, who was married to Alexis, grabbed his phone and sent a message, not to one of his friends, but to a friend of Alexis. Specifically, a guy named John. In that message, he said that she had disappeared, that he didn't know where she was, and

that he didn't know who to talk to. John was baffled. If your partner has disappeared, you don't send the message and wait for a reply, you call everyone, your partner's parents, siblings, friends. You don't just send the message and sit back. So, at 11 p.m., John picked up the phone and called Tom. The call lasted 45 minutes, and during all that time, Tom didn't know what to say. Different sources give different versions, and they say Tom didn't know which was the real one.

First, Tom said they had argued that he and Alexis started shouting, and that at a certain point the girl put on a hoodie, some sneakers, and left through the door. She didn't have her phone, didn't take her keys, she simply left without explanation. But this version makes no sense. We're talking about late November, early December in Houston, Texas. The temperature at that time is very low, and the streets are all snowy. It makes no sense that this girl went out without a coat, without bundling up. And it also makes no sense that Alexis left without her cell phone, she was glued to it.

She was always posting stories, uploading photos, super active on WhatsApp. This story was impossible. So Tom changed his version. He said they hadn't argued, and that Alexis just left. This time, he said she took her phone, wore a hoodie, sneakers, and that a black car picked her up. He said he tracked her phone with an app he had installed, that he followed the black car for a while, but at some point, he lost the signal, and therefore lost Alexis. After that chase, Tom said he went to a gas station and spent two hours thinking about whether

or not to call Alexis's friends. Both versions make no sense, so John didn't know what to believe. Saturday, November 28th came, and Alexis still hadn't posted anything, not a photo, not a message, not a post. It was like the earth had swallowed her. Hours passed, and the dinner at Tanya's house came, but Alexis didn't show up. Her friend called her cell phone, and once again, there was no answer. Tanya got dressed. bundled up, and went to her house. But when she rang the doorbell, no one answered. So she took out her phone and called Alexis's mom, Stacey Robinolt.

Everything was so strange that they reported her disappearance that same night. And since 24 hours had passed, the police jumped into action. Family and friends distributed her photo everywhere, they asked for collaboration, for clues, for anything to find her. But unfortunately, on Sunday morning, the police informed the family that her lifeless body had been found. That morning, a public works operator found her naked body on a roadside located just four minutes from her house. There were no signs of violence, so quickly, speculation began, maybe she was poisoned, maybe it was a drug overdose. And this last theory drove the family mad.

Alexis didn't use drugs, she was a healthy, sporty girl who was a good. took great care of herself. It made no sense that she died like that. The media quickly picked up the story. They talked about her as if she were a huge influencer. And that made many curious people go to her social media, and in a few days, she went from 20,000 followers to 70,000. All her platforms exploded, she got lots of views, likes, and followers. All the profiles of her loved ones also gained attention, especially that of Tom Sharkey. It said that even before Alexis's lifeless body was found, Tom was already speaking about her in the past tense. And because of that, people started accusing him, calling him a murderer, threatening him.

The man defended himself as best he could. But here comes the interesting part, while Alexis's friends described her as very positive, Tom said the opposite, that she had anxiety, depression, that she wasn't happy. My wife was an incredible woman. She really was. There's always another side to every story. I was the one who held her, embraced her, and rebuilt her. I don't need to make things clear. I'll let the facts unfold. I know what my life with my wife was like. On January 19th, 2021, the Harris County Institute of Forensic Sciences released the results of the autopsy. It confirmed that the girl did not die of natural causes, but was murdered. At first glance, the body had no wounds, but if you looked closer, you could see that she

had actually been strangled. Someone strangled her, undressed her, and left her in the snow. But that, someone remained a mystery. To this day, no one knows who it was, no one knows who could have done that to her. So several hypotheses have emerged. The first is that she really did argue with Tom and went out into the street. She put on a hoodie, sneakers, went out the door, walked alone, and then some random person kidnapped her, strangled her, and abandoned her. The second hypothesis circulating online is that Sebastian, Alexis's friend, had something to do with it. That maybe he wanted to be with her, found out she was married, and in a fit of jealousy decided to kill her. The third hypothesis is that Alexis's friends had something to do with

it, especially Tanya Ricardo, who, let's remember, wanted to be famous, a model, actress, appear on TV. After Alexis's death, she spent all her time talking about her, seeking attention and recognition, so some have pointed to her as a suspect. But once again, there's no evidence. The fourth hypothesis is the one pointing to Tom Sharkey as the culprit. Alexis confessed that she was afraid of him, and that on several occasions he had strangled her. Because of this, many people believe that Tom, in a fit of jealousy, strangled her, undressed her, and abandoned her. Something very interesting that I mentioned earlier is that Tom had been married before, and his ex-wife said he was a very unstable man. She said he threatened her, did very strange things, and that's why she got full custody of the children.

If he wanted to see them, it had to be on very specific dates, and always with supervision. That inevitably raises all the alarms. When Alexis died, her family asked to bury her in Pennsylvania, and Tom agreed. When a married person dies, it's the spouse who decides where the body will be buried. And at first, Tom wanted to bury her in Pennsylvania. He talked to her parents, they agreed, filed papers, but at the last minute, he disappeared. He didn't reply to messages, didn't answer calls. The family went crazy. They kept calling him, sending emails, but Tom ignored them. Time passed, and Alexis's body was in limbo.

So the Robin Alt family sought legal help and recovered her body. To this day, we know that Alexis's family is still fighting to discover the truth. They continue investigating, still looking for the culprit, but sadly, they have nothing. So now it's your turn. What do you think happened to Alexis Sharkey? The end. I am her mother. I will always be her mother. I will do anything and everything for my baby to prove to the world that she did not die by falling off that cliff. I want the truth. I owe my daughter the truth. And I will go to my grave. On July 26, 2015, two found the lifeless body of a young woman in a party area. The girl had died in a zone where a wakeboarding festival was being held at that time.

Young people were drinking, dancing, having fun, and often jumped from cliffs to cool off. So the police didn't consider it a crime, but rather an accident. The case was immediately closed. But the girl's family insisted there was something more, something the police didn't even want to look into. Lauren Taylor Agee was born on August 19, 1993, in Biloxi, Mississippi, daughter of Sharon, aka Sherry, and Brian Agee. Shortly after her birth, her parents divorced, and custody was given to her mother Sherry, who rebuilt her life with a man named Michael Smith. Lauren had three siblings, Joshua, Jordan, and Allison, and it must be said that all of them

spoke very highly of her. According to those who knew her, she was an incredible girl, outgoing, friendly, spontaneous, and with a very contagious laugh. She was also an artist from head to toe. Throughout her life, she won many medals in gymnastics, appeared in a music video, and was part of the Hendersonville High School dance team, Golden Girls and Company, for four years. She was so good that she earned a scholarship to study dance at Bethel University. But unfortunately, she didn't want to pursue it as a career. She loved dancing, singing, acting, but what she really wanted to study was criminal justice. So she enrolled at Ball State Community College in Gallatin.

She was full of sugar and a little spice, lighting up every room with her energy and spirit. She was lovely, disarming, beautiful, and hilarious. She loved making people laugh, singing and dancing with everyone around her, and then laughing even more. With her bubbly personality and hysterically quick wit, she stood out. According to her mother, Sherry Smith, Lauren was the kind of girl everyone liked. She was cheerful, spontaneous, fun, and she quickly caught the attention of all the boys. But she only had eyes for one of them. She had been in a stable relationship for several years, and they were already making plans to live on their own one day. They wanted to live together, start a

family someday. But their big plans were cut short in July of 2015. On Thursday, July 23, 2015, Lauren, then 21 years old, asked her mother for permission to go away for the weekend to Wakefest. Wakefest was a water sports festival that took place on July 24, 25, and 26, specifically at Center Hill Lake, a reservoir in Middle Tennessee, about an hour and a half from Hendersonville, where Lauren lived. During the day, the festival featured wakeboarding and water skiing competitions. At night, everyone partied, drinking, dancing, having fun, and slept in various cabins. People could sleep in cabins, boats, or tents. In Lauren's case, she planned to sleep in a cabin. It was something that seemed safe and well-organized, but even so, Sherry didn't fully like the idea. Three days of partying,

drunk people, out-of-control situations, it made her uneasy. But Lauren was 21 years old. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was studying, in a relationship, and was a very responsible girl. So Sherry trusted her and asked directly who she would be going with. That's when all the alarm bells started ringing. Lauren said she was going with Hannah Palmer. Hannah Palmer had only recently become friends with her daughter, but in that short time, she had shown herself to be selfish. She only called when she wanted to meet a guy, needed a win woman, or wanted a pretty girl to go out partying with. She only contacted Lauren when she needed something, never when she was sick, sad, or had a problem.

Sherry obviously didn't like this girl at all. But Lauren didn't seem to realize it. She believed Hannah was a good person. Yes, she was a bit strong-willed, a little out of control, but she was still her friend. So, trusting her daughter's word, Sherry let her go, not knowing she would never see her again. Depending on the source, the girls headed to the festival on Friday the 24th or Saturday the 25th. But based on their social media, it seems they left on the 25th. The weekend plan was simple, the two girls would attend the festival for a couple of days, sleep in a cabin, swim, hang out with friends, and just have a great time. So with that in mind, Lauren didn't pack much.

She brought a sleeping bag, maybe the sheets in the cabin wouldn't be clean, or there might not be any at all. She packed a change of clothes, it was just a couple of days, no need for fancy outfits. And finally, she only brought flip-flops. They weren't going hiking or climbing walls, just to see water sports, enjoy the heat, and get wet. So wearing sneakers made no sense. She packed her bag, hugged her mom tightly, and left with her friend. During the whole trip, the girls had fun. They posted photos on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter.

But once they arrived, Lauren's social media went silent. Because what she found there didn't amuse her. Lauren knew there would be other people at Center Hill Lake, more friends, more acquaintances, but what she didn't know was that those people would include Aaron Lilly, Hannah's new boyfriend, his best friend Christopher Stout. She thought it was going to be a weekend among friends, not a double date. Had she known that, she wouldn't have gone, because, as mentioned before, Lauren already had a boyfriend. Let's recap. First, Lauren was going to the festival with friends to have fun and relax, not to hook up or meet a new boyfriend. Second, she was supposed to spend

the night in a cabin, a safe, comfortable place. But neither of those things happened. Hannah, her boyfriend, and his best friend had already decided behind Lauren's back that they were going to camp out in the middle of the mountain. From the very beginning, that was the plan. They had no intention of paying for a cabin, didn't reserve one, didn't speak to anyone. They just brought a tent and a hammock, and that was it. As I said before, Lauren brought flip-flops, a sleeping bag, and one change of clothes. She was not prepared to camp in the mountains. And of course, had she known there would be another guy and that it would be a double date,

she wouldn't have gone. But worst of all, the way they planned to camp wasn't safe either. Hannah and Aaron would sleep together in a tent, and Chris and Lauren, very close together, in a hammock. A hammock tied between two trees, with a cliff on either side. If the boys moved, stumbled, or fell by accident, they could have died. And sleeping with a guy who was wasn't her boyfriend made Lauren very uncomfortable. On the screen, you can see the marked location where these kids were supposed to spend the night, a proper, supervised area. But the place where they actually camped was completely different. To get there, they had to use a canoe, then climb up several ropes to reach the top of a cliff. It was dangerous, unsupervised, isolated.

But for some reason we don't know, Lauren ended up agreeing. During the day, the group of apparently had a great time. They watched competitions, danced, sang, and at some point, decided to do something very common in that area, cliff jumping. The problem with the area, as you can see from the pictures, is that the cliffs are treacherous. They are full of sharp rocks, and in the water, in various spots, there are also rocks that can't be seen until it's too late. Hannah, Christopher, and Aaron jumped into the water, and none of them had problems. But when Lauren jumped, she hit the back of her head on one of the rocks and was knocked unconscious for several seconds. After the shock, she kept going, she kept swimming, dancing, and singing.

So the group let it go. When night fell, they all decided to go to a bar. They kept drinking, kept dancing, but at a certain point, Lauren's fun ended. She had drunk a lot, and if the campsite didn't seem safe during the day, it felt even worse at night. They had to take a canoe, climb the mountain in the dark, hold on to ropes, walk along narrow paths, and finally sleep in a hammock at the edge of a cliff. So she started looking through the crowd for someone she knew, looking for girlfriends, classmates, neighbors, someone who could let her stay for the night, someone who had rented a cabin. And eventually, she found Casey Franks. Casey had gone to school with her.

They trusted each other, they were friends, spoke from her. time to time. But unfortunately, Casey's cabin was full. So Lauren decided to go home. That's when something happened, and there are different versions of it. Lauren clearly didn't want to spend the night with Hannah, Christopher, and Aaron. So she took out her keys and started walking toward her car. But Hannah blocked her and took the keys. There are two versions. According to Hannah, she took Lauren's keys because Lauren had been drinking, and if she drove drunk, she could have an accident. So Hannah was being a good friend and took the keys for her safety.

But the second version says that Hannah, Christopher, and Aaron had been bothering Lauren all night, laughing at her, pushing her, teasing her constantly. And at one point, they took her keys just to annoy her. It wasn't because she was drunk. It wasn't for safety. It was just to mess with her. Either way, the four of them left the bar at it. 2 a.m. To be continued. The second version of event says that Hannah, Christopher, and Aaron

spent the entire night bothering Lauren. They laughed at her, pushed her, constantly joked, and at one point, they took her car keys just to mess with her, not because she was drunk, not for safety, but simply to annoy her. Either way, the four friends left the bar at 2 a.m., and from that point on, no one ever saw Lauren Taylor Agee again. To reach the camp site, they had to take routes that were already difficult even when sober, but under the influence of alcohol, they were even worse. They had to use a canoe, walk among rocks, use ropes along narrow paths, and finally, Lauren and Chris were to share a hammock at the edge of a cliff. But miraculously, the four of them made it to the end of the trail.

Hannah and Aaron got into the tent, and Lauren and Chris lay down in the hammock. The next morning, Sunday, July 26, 2015, there was no sign of Lauren. Her belongings were under the hammock, so the boys thought she had gone off to party alone, met up with someone, or gone back home. They thought of a thousand different possibilities. So, throughout the day, they acted like nothing happened. They went to the competitions, danced, drank, hung out with others, and eventually started asking around if anyone had seen Lauren. They ran into Casey Franks and asked if she had seen her, but Casey knew nothing. Everyone they asked knew nothing about Lauren. No one, absolutely no one, knew anything about her.

And still, neither Hannah nor Christopher, nor Aaron reported her disappearance. They just carried on with their dream weekend, kept dancing, kept drinking, kept partying. Meanwhile, Sherry Smith, Lauren's mother, kept calling her daughter's phone again and again throughout the entire day. She called once, twice, three, four times, but obviously Lauren didn't answer, her phone was still under her hammock. At 4.30 in the afternoon, a couple of fishermen at Center Hill Lake discovered the lifeless body of a young woman floating face down. They immediately got out of the water and called the police. Two officers arrived by boat. This is when strange things began to happen. As the officers entered the water and headed toward the body, they crossed

paths with Aaron Lily's canoe, which was headed in the same direction. Aaron interrupted them and told them that the girl was his friend Lauren, who had been missing since the night before. He gave details, her age, her full name, where she lived, why they were there. He gave all the information, and then he left. How did he know that the body belonged to Lauren if it was floating face down. Where had he seen it from to be so sure it was her? How could he have known? There was no way, but still, the police didn't pay much attention. They simply pulled the body from the water and performed an autopsy, which revealed the following. The girl had a contusion on the back of her head, which occurred when she jumped into the water the day before. She had many bruises

and injuries all over her body, scratches, bruises, especially on her back and shoulders, and her nose and several fingers were broken. Her legs also had injuries, particularly two bruises on her thighs, as if something or someone had applied pressure to that area. She had a mark on her chest that looked like a bite, a bite made from the side. There was a triangular mark on her abdomen that matched the front of a canoe, as if Lauren's body had been transported in that part of the canoe. For such a mark to form, Lauren's head would have had to be inside the canoe and her legs outside. Her blood alcohol level was double the legal limit. A pathologist, after seeing this evidence, was very clear, Lauren Taylor Aegee had died as a result of an accident. She fell off

the cliff, rolled, broke her nose and fingers, got a bruise on her chest, and when the officers pulled her out of the water, the canoe mark was left on her belly. Cause of death, drowning. This is when all the alarms went off. If someone dies by drown, in water, the lungs fill up, and due to the weight, the body sinks. If Lauren had drowned, her body should have been underwater, not floating face up. That's when the expert clarified a few things, Lauren had died of dry drowning. According to two zero menudo's.es.es.es, dry drowning occurs when the lungs don't receive enough oxygen, even without being submerged in water. This typically happens due to a larynge spasm, an involuntary contraction of the laryngeal muscles,

part of the respiratory system. This type of death usually occurs in people with respiratory problems. But Lauren was perfectly healthy. She was an athlete. So her family couldn't believe it. The case of Lauren Taylor A.G. was closed almost immediately, declared an accident. But to her family, nothing made sense.

So in February 2016, Sherry Smith hired a private investigator, and he agreed with her. On the screen is an image of where everything happened. Here is where the group camped, and here is where Lauren's body was found. At first glance, everything seems logical. The body falls off the cliff into the water, and the current carries it here. But what happens is, the current doesn't flow in that direction. To prove that this wasn't possible, the investigator conducted an experiment. He created several mannequins with the same height and weight as Lauren and threw them off.

the cliff, once, twice, three times, up to fifty times. In none of those attempts did the mannequins reach the water. From the start, it was impossible for the girl to have fallen and reached the water. She would have gotten caught in rocks, branches, or bushes, and under no circumstance would she have reached the water. So the theory that Lauren rolled off the cliff, fell into the water, and was dragged by the current made no sense. If, let's say, Lauren did fall from the cliff and reached the water, which was already improbable, it made no sense for her body to appear in the opposite direction of the current. Unless someone had deliberately placed it there. That would explain the triangular mark on her abdomen. According to the

investigator, the mark formed when Lauren's body was placed at the front of a canoe. To counterbalance the weight, there would have had to be several people in the canoe, one or two at the opposite end, and a third in the middle, rowing. The police investigation claimed the mark appeared when Lauren's body was retrieved, but the private investigation suggested something much darker. Her body was deliberately placed where it was found, by the three people who claimed to be her friends. They also said there were signs on her body proving it wasn't an accident. First, there was the chest mark that looked like a bite, which the original pathologist dismissed as a bruise. Then the bruises on her thighs, two marks caused by someone

or something applying pressure to that area. She had more bruises all over her body, back, shoulders, arms, but the combination of the thigh bruises and the chest mark suggested someone pinned her down while someone else bit her. Third, there's an even more disturbing piece of evidence. Sherry Smith could not identify the clothes Lauren was wearing as her own. She said the shirt and pants weren't Lauren's, they belonged to someone else. A new review confirmed that Lauren was dressed poorly.

That might sound odd, but when you hear the details, it makes perfect sense. First, her bra strap was twisted, which is uncomfortable to wear. And of the three hooks on the back of the bra, only the top one was fastened, as if someone had quickly dressed her. As if someone had undressed her, and then hurriedly put different clothes on her. Faced with all this, Sherry Smith asked for a test to determine. if Lauren had been assaulted before dying. But unfortunately, they refused. They said that since Lauren was dressed, and had a tampon inserted, there was clear evidence she hadn't been. So, they closed the case without further consideration. At this point, many will ask, what happened to

Lauren's three friends? Were they not interrogated? The answer, no. Yes, they did speak with police, and yes, they were asked about Lauren, but they were never considered suspects. The area where the group was partying was full of people dancing, drinking, and jumping into the water, so the idea that Lauren had been killed seemed absurd. Therefore, the three weren't seen as suspects, just as sources of information to learn more about Lauren. But it must be said, when the police asked them how Lauren could have ended up there, none of them agreed. Hannah Palmer changed her version several times,

first saying Lauren might have gone off with an older man, then that she might have returned to the bar, and finally that she had gone home. Aaron Lilly said Lauren might have left with someone she knew. Christopher Stout said Lauren got up from the hammock to pee, and after that, he didn't know anything more. The boys made very strange comments to the police, they whispered, muttered, laughed.

And Aaron Lilly was very domic. the entire time, he told the others not to say anything, that he would speak, and that they should all stick to the plan. Despite these comments, none of the boys were considered suspects. They weren't interrogated, weren't investigated. And after the weekend ended, Aaron Lilly posted a photo on Instagram titled, Best Weekend of My Life, none of them attended Lauren Taylor A.G.'s funeral. They didn't call her family. They didn't offer condolences. They acted as if they never knew her. Still, authorities insisted this wasn't evidence of anything, and the case remained closed.

When the private investigator took over, he realized the police investigation was flawed from every angle. At the campsite, not only did they find all of Lauren's belongings, but also remains of a campfire. Campfires are common when camping, but after an incident like this, they should be examined immediately. Criminals often use fire to destroy evidence. Sherry Smith needed more grounds to accuse the three friends. So, the investigator looked into their records. And two of them had criminal backgrounds. Aaron Lilly had been arrested for driving under the influence,

and previously reported for domestic violence. That report came from none other than Casey Franks. Casey had dated Aaron and filed an injury report that included bruises and bite marks. very similar to those found on Lauren's body. Christopher Stout had also been arrested for DUI. But Hannah Palmer had no record. Even with all this, the justice system insisted they had nothing on these kids, that past records meant nothing, and that Lauren had died accidentally.

Christopher started dating a girl, and Hannah and Aaron moved into an apartment in Florida. I am her mother. I will always be her mother. I will do anything and everything for my baby to prove to the world that she did not die by falling off that cliff. I want the truth. I owe my daughter the truth. Two months after Lauren Taylor A.G.'s death, social media was flooded with negative comments.

Someone using a fake account insulted Lauren repeatedly, calling her names, saying she got what she deserved. So Sherry Smith asked the private investigator to trace the IP address, and surprisingly, it led directly to the street where Aaron and Hannah lived. Now it's your turn, what do you think about this case? And who do you think sent those messages online? The end. It was a day that shook an entire nation, a story so chilling it leaves you breathless,

the disappearance of two children and their father's eerie conness through it all. On the afternoon of Saturday, October 8, 2011, a call was made to emergency services. A man claimed he couldn't find his kids, Jose, aged two, and Ruth, aged six. They were last seen playing in a park in Cordoba, Spain, Cudad de Los Ninos, a place usually filled with laughter and life. The father, Jose Breton, said he arrived at the park with the kids around 6 p.m. But in the blink of an eye, they vanished. Or so he claimed. Frantic, he called his relatives first, hoping they'd rush to the park and help find the children. When that failed, he dialed emergency services at 6.41 p.m.

Hello, I'm in Cordoba, in the park near Ciudad de Los Ninos. I've lost my children. One is two years old, the other is six. Please help me, the operator, trained to handle emergencies, asked basic questions. But Jose's answers were strangely robotic. Yes, I'm their father, he confirmed, though something about his tone made the operator hesitate. Was he panicking? Crying.

Distraught. No, he sounded, oddly constantly. When the police arrived, they expected a father in tears, someone pacing frantically, calling out for his kids. But Jose Breton wasn't anything like that. He stood there, eerily composed, unable to provide clear answers. Where exactly did you last see them? What were they wearing?

What direction might they have gone? He shrugged or deflected the questions entirely. A look into Jose Breton's past. Born in Cordoba, Spain, in 1973, Jose's early life isn't well documented. We know he attended a religious school and later joined the military, where he was deployed to Bosnia. It said that what he saw there changed him deeply, although not in ways that earned him admiration. Despite receiving several medals, Jose later told authorities he didn't understand why he was rewarded. He thought of himself as cowardly. His romantic life wasn't

much steadier. At one point, a girlfriend left him abruptly, offering no explanation. Heartbroken, Jose attempted suicide by overdosing non-pills. Although he survived and briefly sought therapy, he soon abandoned treatment. He later worked various odd jobs, primarily driving trucks and vans. In the early 2000s, Jose met Ruth Ortiz Ramos, a veterinary student. The two began dating, and in 2002, they married. Initially, they lived in Cordoba, but Ruth, originally from Welva, struggled to adjust. She often felt isolated and unfulfilled, with Jose's

frequently speaking poorly of her family, further alienating her. Jose didn't want children. He was clear about that from the beginning, insisting that if they had kids, it would be Ruth's responsibility to care for them. Nevertheless, their daughter Ruth was born in 2005, followed by their son Jose in 2009. Though outwardly a doting father, friends and family noticed a stark contrast behind closed doors. Jose Breton, a man obsessed with control, by all accounts, Jose was a man who demanded perfection. He had a low tolerance for noise, especially during meals, and even wore earplugs at the dinner table if someone dared to crunch on hard bread or carrots nearby.

Dermophobic, he carried tissues everywhere to wipe down surfaces obsessively. When he lost his job, Jose took on the role of a stay-at-home dad. But caring for the kids didn't bring him joy. Instead, he grew increasingly resentful, especially as Ruth began thriving professionally in Wellva. She finally had a job, family nearby, and a renewed sense of independence. In September 2011, Ruth decided she'd had enough and filed for divorce. Jose was devastated, or more accurately, enraged. At first, he tried to win her back, sending flowers and apologetic letters.

But when those efforts failed, his anger turned vengeful. Ruth still wanted Jose to have a relationship with their children, so she proposed a custody agreement. The kids would stay with her during the week and spend weekends with their father in Cordoba. It was a compromise meant to keep the peace. The weekend of horror, on Friday, October 7, 2011, Jose picked up the kids for their scheduled weekend visit. That morning, he had stopped to buy several jugs of fuel, an act that seemed innocuous at the time. After a brief visit to his sister Catalina's home, Jose took the kids to a family property known as Las Quimidillas, located on the outskirts of Cordoba. Los Quimidillas was an isolated estate with an eerie quietness, surrounded by industrial areas.

Jose dropped off the kids at his parents' house for a while but later took them back to Las Quimidillas. Witnesses noticed a peculiar sight that evening, thick, black smoke rising from the property, accompanied by an acrid, almost chemical smell. The next day, Jose followed through with his plan to take the kids to see you dad de los Ninos. Or at least, that's what he wanted everyone to believe. Surveillance footage from the park showed Jose arriving alone. There were no children with him. The investigation begins. When Jose reported the children missing, the police immediately found his behavior suspicious. His inconsistent stories raised red flags. At first, he claimed to have eaten lunch with friends before heading to the park. But when asked for names

and addresses, Jose faltered, eventually admitting he hadn't met anyone. Police were also puzzled by Jose's calm demeanor. Even as the hours turned into days, he showed little emotion. He didn't actively participate in searches or ask for updates. When officers visited Los Quimidillas that night, they found a massive pile of ashes near a toppled metal table. Jose explained it away, saying he'd burned some of Ruth's old belongings, as well as animal carcasses. But investigators weren't convinced. Mixed in with the ashes, they found tiny fragments of bone. At first, forensic expert Josefina Lama's declared these remains belonged to animals, possibly rodents. This conclusion delayed the investigation by months. The truth emerges.

It wasn't until nearly a year later that renowned forensic anthropologist Francisco Etzebaria re-examined the bones. His findings were chilling, the remains were human, belonging to two children. A third expert, Jose Maria Bermudas de Castro, confirmed this, leading to Josefina Lama's removal from the case. By this point, the pieces of the puzzle were coming together. Jose had lured the children to Los Quimadillas under the pretense of a weekend visit. There, he sedated them with Orphidal and Motivan, prescription medications for anxiety and depression. Once they were unconscious, he built a makeshift crematorium using 80 liters of fuel and a metal table to intensify the fire's heat.

The blaze reached temperatures exceeding 1,000 degrees Celsius, effectively erasing nearly all traces of the children. It was a level of premeditation that horrified even the most seasoned investigators. The trial, Jose Breton's trial began in June 2013. Despite overwhelming evidence, Jose maintained his innocence, insisting he loved his children deeply. His defense argued that the chain of custody for the bone fragments had been compromised, rendering them inadmissible. But the jury saw through these claims. Ultimately, Jose Breton was convicted of two counts of murder.

The court ruled that his actions were fueled by a desire to be. punish Ruth for leaving him, a final, irreversible act of control. Reflection, the story of Jose Breton isn't just one of tragedy but also of the complexities of human behavior. How could a father commit such an unspeakable act? Was it years of suppressed rage, jealousy, or something darker? While these questions may never have satisfying answers, the case serves as a grim reminder of how far anger and resentment can push a person. As for Ruth Ortiz, her life will never be the same. She lost her children to a man. she once trusted, a man who should have protected them. But in the face of unimaginable pain,

she remains a symbol of resilience, carrying the memories of Ruth and Jose in her heart. She was arrested, processed, and released a waiting trial. From here, strange things started happening. People began to rumor that Angelina had snitched, and rumors spread that someone wanted to take revenge on her. One day, the young woman returned to her house and found everything turned upside down. Items were thrown on the floor, the mattress was flipped, and the cabinets were open. Naturally, Angelina called the police and filed a report. The days went by, and Angelina felt uncomfortable at home. She believed she was being followed, watched, and thought that someone might want to kill her.

On March 11, while she and her brother were cleaning the house, she decided that she didn't want to sleep there anymore because the place no longer felt safe for her or her daughter. So, she called Will on the phone and asked if she could stay at his house that night. Will agreed. First, the girl packed her daughter's things and took them directly to her mother-in-law's house. Then, at 8 p.m., she went to the Pizza Hut where Will worked and spent some time with him. Afterward, the girl went to Will's house, and his uncle Ralph opened the door. That's when Angelina decided to organize Will's room.

She saw that the entire room was in disarray, So as a way of thanking him, she cleaned, organized, and sorted everything. By 9.30 p.m. Will returned home, and the two of them went to buy food at a fast food restaurant. There, they bought coffee, pre-cooked food, and beers. They stopped by Angelina's house to pick up a few things and then went straight to Will's apartment. Inside, they were greeted by Ralph and a friend of Will's named Justin. The four of them sat together, and according to Angelina, they had dinner and drank a bit.

Angelina claimed that she didn't drink alcohol, but the others drank a lot, especially Will, who consumed beer after beer, a bottle of wine, and shots. The guys went outside the house, inside the hall, and the bathroom. At some point, things took a turn. Angelina got up from the table and went to the bathroom, and then Ralph decided to follow her and listen from behind the door. He claimed to have heard her breathing heavily.

Then, Will approached and told him that the girl was using drugs in the bathroom. Will lost his temper, started shouting, banging on the door, demanding that Angelina come out and repeatedly threatened to take custody of her daughter away. Angelina tried to calm him down, telling him again and again that she wasn't using drugs. She then took her phone, turned it off, and hit it. This argument lasted between 15 and 20 minutes, and during this time, Justin and Ralph decided to leave. Justin went to his house, and Ralph went to his room to try to sleep. When Will and Angelina were left alone, the intensity of the argument started to die down. They calmed down,

apologized to each other, and at some point, they ended up going to bed. Will had drunk so much that he quickly fell asleep. Then, Angelina got out of bed, put on pants, went to the bathroom, and then got back in bed. At 4.05 a.m., Angelina heard the front door open slowly. After the drinking and the fight, the guys had forgotten to lock it, and now, a complete stranger had just opened it and was walking toward Will's room. She reached the door, and although she couldn't see his face, she could make out in the dark that he was a tall guy wearing a baseball cap. At that moment, something very strange happened. The man entered the room, and Angelina jumped out of bed and ran out. She didn't wake will, didn't shake him,

didn't scream, she just jumped out of bed, grabbed a t-shirt, and ran out into the street. Once outside, she realized that one of her pockets had the car keys, so she got in, started the engine, and drove directly to a friend's house. From there, she called 911. The girl wasn't dressed warmly, she didn't even have socks, shoes, or a jacket. Still, she was so scared that she told the police over the phone that if they didn't go to Will's house, she wouldn't return. After hanging up, she went straight to her father's house and asked him to accompany her to Will's house.

But he told her he needed to shower first. So Angelina gathered her courage and went alone, barefoot, without asking her friend or father for shoes, and went to meet the police just as she had left Will's apartment. When the officers arrived, Ralph opened the door. He told them that he hadn't heard or seen anything strange, let them inside, and allowed them to look around. After walking around the house a couple of times, the officers entered Will's room, where they discovered a complete bloodbath.

Will's body was on the floor in a fetal position, lying in a pool of blood. He had received 25 stab wounds, two of which were fatal. It was at this moment that the forensic team discovered several striking details. First, many of the stab wounds were concentrated on a tattoo that the guy had on one of his arms, a tattoo with his daughter's name. Next, Will had very few defensive wounds, and most of the stabbing were made from behind. Given the large amount of alcohol in his system, the forensic experts thought that will have been attacked while he was completely asleep.

Third, there were three hairs tangled in Will Palmer's hands, one of which seemed to belong to Angelina, but the other two no one knew who they belonged to. And fourth, near the blood pool, there was a male boot print, one that didn't belong to Ralph or the police. With all this evidence, the police began to interrogate Angelina Lewis. During the entire interrogation, Angelina kept asking about Will Palmer, what had happened to him, if he was okay, if he was in the hospital. The police didn't want to answer her questions, they wanted her to keep a clear

mind. They told her that once they knew something, they would let her know. From there, they began asking her questions about her name, where she lived, what she had done that day, and then, they asked if we'll had any enemies. She said no, but that she, in fact, might have them. Do you remember when Angelina's house was turned upside down? Well, she told the police that there was someone following her, someone who considered her a snitch and probably wanted her debt. She said that she was very convinced that the man who entered the house that night wasn't looking for will, but for her. She told the police that she jumped out of bed and ran, that she passed by that man in the dark and was able to escape. At this point, the officers began noticing cracks in her story.

First, it made no sense that if a man was trying to kill someone or looking for a specific person, he would let them escape, let them pass by, and run away without stopping them. Then, she claimed that the car keys were in her pocket, but this didn't make sense, especially since, according to some sources, the pants she was wearing didn't have pockets. Third, it didn't make sense that she would get in the car and go straight to a friend's house when her father's house and a phone booth were much closer. If you're scared and want to call the police, you wouldn't go to a friend's house first, you'd go to your father's house or a phone booth. But she decided to drive further and go to a friend's house.

Fourth, she claimed to have done everything quickly, jumping out of bed, grabbing a t-shirt, running outside, and getting in the car, but if it was all so quick, why did she have wet hair during the interrogation? Why did it seem like she had taken a shower before escaping? This didn't make sense to the police, so they decided to make further investigations. First, they thoroughly inspected the crime scene, not just the place where the murder occurred, but also the rest of the house, the living room, hallways, other rooms, and the bathroom. The shower was wet, exactly as if someone had showered a couple of hours before.

And in the laundry basket, they found a pair of socks with bloodstains. She had left the house without socks or shoes, so those items might have belonged to her. The police began to think that maybe Angelina killed Will, took a shower, removed her socks, and then left. Following the timeline of events, the police interrogated her friends. They revealed some things too. The friend who went to see Angelina was actually a group of people who lived together in one house. All of them said that when Angelina came in, she told them that something had happened to Will, that she was worried about him, and that she needed to call 911.

They gave her a phone, and while she called the police, she took her phone and hid it under a mattress. The night before, Will had taken her phone and hidden it, clearly suggesting that the girl was hiding potential evidence. So, she immediately became the main suspect. Her behavior was too strange, so she was taken to prison, awaiting trial. In 2011, Angelina Lewis was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole for at least 25 years. However, this sentence was overturned due to misconduct by the prosecutor, who was accused of of making inappropriate comments to the jury. This led to an appeal, and as a result, Angelina's trial had to be repeated.

In September 2014, a new jury found Angelina Lewis guilty of second-degree murder with aggravating circumstances, and this time, the judge in Cochise County sentenced her to 16 years in prison plus 21 months for altering physical evidence. The physical evidence I'm referring to was hiding her mobile phone under a mattress. Angelina's release is scheduled for 2029. But with that said, there is still a small mystery. What happened to the hares and the footprint at the crime scene? The hares and mitochondrial DNA were available before both the 2011 and 2014 trials

and could have been used as part of her defense at any time in either trial. The fact that the state didn't present the hares as evidence didn't prevent the defendant from presenting them in her defense in either or both trials. According to Judge Terry Bainan's statements in 2017, the judge allowed lawyer Harriet Levitt to begin processing evidence from the crime scene, including those hairs. The DNA was compared with a man who, in 2011, stabbed an elderly man, but unfortunately, it didn't match. It was also compared with Will's uncle, but again, it didn't match. Now, they are trying to find out who these hairs belong to, and in the meantime, Angelina Lewis, plans to file an appeal. So now it's your turn. What do you think about the case? Do you think

this girl is 100% guilty? Finn. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, as Mark adjusted the straps of his weathered backpack. The remote trailhead was eerily quiet, far removed from the bustling city life he had eagerly left behind. This weekend marked his first solo camping trip, a chance to reconnect with nature and himself. Armed with a map, a compass, and a sense of determination, Mark felt ready, even though a small part of him whispered doubts about venturing alone into the untamed wilderness. The forest welcomed him with a symphony of rustling leaves and birdsong. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of pine and damp soil. Mark followed the narrow trail, his boots crunching against the gravel.

He marveled at the towering trees, their branches intertwining to form a cathedral of green overhead. The deeper he ventured, the more he felt the world's noise. fading away, replaced by the serenity of the wild. After hours of hiking, Mark reached a clearing by a tranquil lake. The water mirrored the fiery colors of the sunset, and a sense of peace washed over him. This was the spot. He set down his pack and began to pitch his tent, the rhythmic motions calming his lingering unease. As he worked, the forest around him seemed to hold its breath, the usual chatter of wildlife diminishing as twilight descended. With the tent finally erected, Mark lit a small fire and prepared a simple meal.

The crackling flames cast flickering shadows, illuminating the encroaching darkness. He sat back, sipping hot coffee from a tin cup, and gazed at the stars as they emerged, one by one, in the inky sky. Out here, far from city lights, the heavens seemed vast and infinite. Mark felt a profound sense of insignificance, and liberation, under the cosmic expanse. But as the night deepened, the forest's tranquility took on a different tone. The one soothing rustles and creaks now felt amplified, each sound tinged with an edge of unfamiliarity.

Mark tried to shake off the unease, attributing it to the novelty of being alone in such isolation. Yet, he couldn't ignore the sensation that he was being watched. It was irrational, he told himself, just his mind playing tricks in the dark. He retreated into his tent, zipping it up securely and cocooning himself in his sleeping bag. The fire outside still crackled faintly, its glow visible through the tense thin fabric. Mark closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But the forest seemed alive, its nocturnal inhabitants stirring in the shadows.

A distant owl hooted, and something rustled in the underbrush nearby. Mark's heart quickened, but he reminded himself it was likely just a deer or a raccoon. The sound came again, closer this time. A deliberate, crunching footstep. Mark froze, his breath caught in his throat. He strained his ears, trying to discern if it was an animal or something else. The footsteps continued, circling his campsite. He reached for the hunting knife he packed, clutching it tightly.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the tension in the air palpable. And then, silence. Mark waited, every nerve on edge, but the footsteps didn't return. Eventually, exhaustion overtook his fear, and he drifted into a fitful sleep. The morning sun filtered through the trees, bathing the campsite in a soft, golden glow. Mark emerged from his tent, groggy but relieved to see nothing amiss. The forest seemed peaceful again, the events of the night before feeling like a distant nightmare. He shook off the lingering unease and decided to explore the area before packing up.

As he wandered along the lake's edge, Mark noticed something odd. A set of footprints, too large and heavy to belong to an animal, pressed into the damp soil. They circled his campsite before disappearing into the woods. A chill ran down his spine. He wasn't alone out here. Mark's first instinct was to leave immediately, but curiosity held him in place. Who had been there, and why hadn't they approached? He resolved to stay one more night, determined not to let fear ruin his trip. He spent the day gathering firewood, fishing in the lake, and trying to shake off the sense of being watched. By evening, he felt more at ease, convincing himself that the footprints could belong to another hiker who had stumbled

upon his camp by accident. The second night fell quickly, the forest embracing darkness with an unsettling finality. Mark's fire burned bright, a small bastion of light against the encroaching shadows. He ate his dinner in silence, ears attuned to the forest's every sound. The night seemed quieter than before, as if the woods were holding their breath. And then it came again. steps, deliberate and unhurried, approaching from the tree lean. Mark's pulse raced as he grabbed his knife and flashlight.

The bean cut through the darkness, revealing nothing but trees and undergrowth. Who's there? he called, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his chest. No response. The footsteps stopped, replaced by an oppressive silence. Mark's flashlight darted around the perimeter of his camp, searching for the source of the noise. The fire crackled, its light dancing wildly as if in response to his fear. He was about to retreat into his tent when a low, guttural sound echoed through the trees. It wasn't an animal's cry, it was something else, something unnatural.

Mark's instincts screamed at him to run, but his legs felt rooted to the ground. He stood there, gripping the knife tightly, as the sound grew louder, closer. The fire suddenly sputtered, as if some unseen force had drawn the air from it. His flashlight flickered and died, plunging him into darkness. Panic surged through him. He fumbled to relight the fire, his shaking hands barely able to strike the matches. The guttural sound stopped abruptly, leaving a void of silence that was almost more terrifying. When the fire finally roared back to life, Mark scanned the woods again, his heart pounding

in his ears. Nothing. No footsteps, no figures, no sounds. The forest stood still, as if mocking his fear. didn't sleep that night. He sat by the fire, knife in hand, watching the shadows until the first light of dawn. As soon as the sun rose, he packed up his gear and began the hike back to the trailhead, his senses on high alert.

The forest that had once seemed serene now felt menacing, each rustling leaf a potential threat. When he finally reached his car, Mark felt a wave of relief wash over him. He glanced back at the trailhead, the towering trees standing as silent sentinels. He couldn't shake the feeling that something, or someone, had been out there, watching, waiting. Mark drove away, vowing never to camp alone again. The wilderness had offered him its beauty, but it had also shown him its darker side. As he merged on to the highway, leaving the forest behind, he couldn't help but wonder, what would have happened if he'd stayed one more night.

This story doesn't begin with the victim, as one might expect, but with the person behind one of the most horrific crimes in England's history, Claire Nichols. was born in 1981 in Portsmouth, a small town in England. Not much is known about her family. Her mother was Janet Hall, she had a younger sister whose name remains unknown, and a brother named Simon. Many sources speculate she had a rough childhood, perhaps troubled relationships at home, poor grades, and few friends.

Unfortunately, none of this can be confirmed because the details of her early life are murky at best. What we do know is that Claire's story takes a turn around the age of 18 when reliable information about her life begins to surface. At 18, Claire was working at a charity shop where she met her first partner, John Peterson, a 46-year-old former radar operator for the Royal Navy. The age gap between them was striking, but there's something even more important to note about John, he had a criminal record involving minors, a detail that will become crucial later. They were together for about three or four years, during which they had three children. On the surface,

life seemed fine. They were a family living in Portsmouth with jobs and in a growing household. Eventually, they decided to move to Newcastle, and that's when things began to unravel. According to John, Claire's behavior shifted dramatically. She became controlling, possessive, and violent. In his words, she'd hit me four or five times a week for years. It was horrible. She was obsessed with controlling everything. If I went to the store without her, she'd attack me. If I stepped outside to the garden, it was the same. She'd throw my shoes, hit me, and constantly berate me for the smallest things. John's situation became unbearable, especially since he started to worry Claire's violent tendencies might extend to

their children. In desperation, he called social services to report her, despite fearing that it might lead to losing custody of the kids. Shockingly, instead of investigating Claire's behavior, social services turned their attention to John's record and found his past offenses. They informed Claire about his call and gave her an ultimatum, either leave John or risk losing the children. Predictively, Claire chose the former. In 2003, without warning, Claire packed up and left with the kids while John was at work. When he returned home, the house was empty, and Claire had vanished. The explanation for how she pulled this off lay with a man named Stephen Martin, her mother's ex-boyfriend, and, disturbingly, Claire's former stepfather. Stephen wasn't just a

father figure to Claire, he became her lover. John even suspected that Claire's youngest child wasn't his but Stevens, as the timing and resemblance seemed to match. Stephen, described by those who knew him as having a low IQ and being easily manipulated, did whatever Claire asked. Their relationship was tumultuous, marked by constant breakups and reconciliations. Stephen couldn't resist Claire's hold over him, even when he tried to move on. And when Claire decided to start a new relationship, she moved on to Andrew Garner, her sister's ex-boyfriend.

In 2005, Andrew and Claire's paths crossed again during a class. for people with learning difficulties. Claire's presence there was puzzling, as she reportedly didn't have such issues, but the meeting led to a rekindled connection. Andrew, who struggled socially and was vulnerable, became an easy target for Claire's manipulative tendencies. Within months, their relationship was official,

and Andrew moved in with her and her children. Andrew's family quickly grew concerned. Once close to them, he now rarely visited, never called, and stopped sending messages. When they tried to check on him, Claire would answer the door with excuses, he was sleeping, working, or otherwise unavailable. They suspected something was wrong but felt powerless to intervene. Since Andrew was an adult, the police wouldn't take their concern seriously.

From the outside, it was obvious something sinister was happening, but the extent of Claire's cruelty remained hidden. Inside the home, Claire treated Andrew horribly. She blamed him for everything that went wrong, from their lack of money to household chores. She berated him constantly, calling him lazy and worthless. She even controlled his food, cooking for herself and the children while forcing Andrew to sit on the floor and watch them eat. If he tried to sneak food, Claire would find out and punish him.

She even cut the pockets off all his pants to prevent him from hiding food. To make matters worse, she began weighing the food in the house and keeping a meticulous inventory. By 2006, Claire's children, influenced by their mother, started to join in the abuse. They mocked, hit, and humiliated Andrew. Claire's punishments escalated further. She deprived him of sleep, waking him up with blows and forcing him to stay awake for hours. He became her personal servant, running errands, cleaning, and taking care of the children, all while enduring physical and emotional abuse.

His self-esteem was so broken that he believed he deserved the mistreatment. One day, in desperation, Andrew fled to his parents' house. They were horrified by his appearance. He was gaunt, with sunken eyes and open wounds on his feet. Despite their pleas for him to stay, Andrew refused, too terrified to defy Claire for long. He ate quickly, put his shoes back on, and left. A few days later, he sent his mother a text message saying goodbye and that they'd never see him again.

His family's attempts to contact him went unanswered. In 2008, Claire, Andrew, and her children moved to a small house on Arthur Street in Chilton, The town was tiny, with fewer than 900 residents, making it even easier for Claire to isolate Andrew. Adding to the household were Claire's brother Simon and Stephen Martin. The presence of two more adults gave Claire even more power over Andrew, and the abuse intensified. Simon and Stephen became active participants in tormenting Andrew, who by this point was too weak and malnourished to defend himself. The violence became increasingly sadistic. Claire, Simon, and Stephen beat Andrew with objects, burned him with lighters and matches,

and even forced his body against hot radiators. One time, they carved a tic-tac-toe board into his skin and painted the wounds with nail polish. They mocked him relentlessly, and Claire took pleasure in his suffering. She even began a twisted ritual where, after brutalizing Andrew, she'd have sex with Stephen next to his battered body. Andrew's physical state deteriorated rapidly. By 2009, he weighed just 57 kilograms despite being 175 centimeters tall. He had over 100 injuries, including broken ribs, infected wounds, and severe internal damage.

His body was failing, and he could barely move. For Claire, this meant he was no longer useful as a punching bag or a servant. On March 13, 2009, the abuse reached its horrifying conclusion. That day, Claire, Simon, and Stephen launched their final attack. attack. They beat Andrew mercilessly, punching, kicking, and slamming his head against the floor. Claire jumped on his chest, breaking his remaining intact ribs. When he finally lost consciousness, she had sex with Stephen beside his lifeless body. Hours later, they realized Andrew was dead. Panicked, they concocted a story to cover their tracks. At 11.30 p.m., they called emergency

services, claiming Andrew had been mugged and attacked while out of the house. Claire insisted the injuries had occurred just 30 minutes prior, but paramedics immediately saw through her lies. Andrew's body was cold, and the injuries were extensive and varied in age. Authorities were notified, and an investigation began. The trial took place in 2010, and the details that emerged were chilling. Despite overwhelming evidence, Claire, Simon, and Stephen maintained their innocence, sticking to their fabricated story. However, forensic experts and witnesses painted a damning picture of prolonged abuse and torture. Ultimately, all three were convicted and sentenced to life in prison.

Claire, then 28, received a minimum of 32 years. Simon, 22, got a minimum of 25 years, and Stephen, 44, was sentenced to a minimum of 20 years. This case left an indelible scar on the small town of Chilton. Neighbors grappled with guilt and disbelief, wondering how such horrors could occur in their quiet community. While justice was served, the tragedy of Andrew Garner's life and death remains a haunted wanting reminder of the darkness that can hide behind closed doors. Every day, this criminal becomes more confident, boldly contacting his victim's family with cryptic messages and demands.

He sets up meetings at various locations, always staying a step ahead of the police. One day, he takes it a step further, insisting on a payment of €2,000 for more information. Let me tell you the story of a man who terrorized Barcelona with his heinous acts, leaving a trail of fear and confusion in his wake. This harrowing tale begins with a 49-year-old woman named Mary Angels Robo. Mary Angels had a happy life. She worked at a real estate agency, was married, and had four children. She lived in Puchet, one of Barcelona's most upscale neighborhoods. Her building had a parking garage, and Mary Angel's spot was number 15 on the fourth floor. Every day, she followed the same routine, leave her house, drive to work,

and return home. Once home, she parked her car, took the elevator, and went straight to her apartment. On Saturday, January 11, 2003, Mary Angels followed her usual routine. She left for work early and called her daughter around midday to say she'd be home soon to have lunch together. However, that moment never came. As hours passed, her two children grew worried and decided to check the parking garage. They grabbed the keys, took the elevator to the fourth floor, and found her car parked neatly in Spot 15.

But there was no sign of Mary Angels. They called out for her, searching between and even under cars. Then, near the staircase, her daughter spotted something chilling, her mother's wedding ring. Fear struck, and the two children ventured down the stairs. In the darkest, most secluded corner, they found their mother's lifeless body. The police were immediately alerted, and what they uncovered turned the entire city upside down. The crime scene was particularly grim.

Mary Angel's body lay partially hidden beneath the staircase, surrounded by a pool of blood and partially covered by a garbage bag. There were two distinct shoe prints, one on the floor and another on her coat. Nearby, they found two cigarette butts, eerily clean of blood, suggesting the killer had smoked them after the attack. Intriguingly, Mary Angels still had her jewelry, earrings, a watch, but her handbag, containing her wallet, was missing. The autopsy shed light on the sequence of events.

Mary Angels arrived at the garage around midday, parked her car, and locked it. As she headed toward the elevator, she was ambushed by her attacker. A violent struggle ensued, involving punches and pushes, until the assailant pulled out a knife and stabbed her. Despite her injuries, the attacker dragged her to the stairwell, forcing her to the most isolated floor. There, he used a hammer to deliver the fatal blows to her head. After hiding the body under the stairs and covering it with a garbage bag, the killer lit two cigarettes, smoked them, and stole her handbag before disappearing into the city as though nothing had. it happened. At first glance, the crime seemed like a robbery gone wrong. But the excessive violence

puzzled investigators. If the motive was simply theft, why not just grab the bag and run? Why kill her with such brutality? Why not take her jewelry if money was the goal? These unanswered questions left the police grasping for clues. While investigators pieced together the puzzle, Mary Angel's husband received a chilling SMS from her phone. The message read, I'll call you tomorrow. The text sent shivers down his spine. DNA from the cigarette butts revealed a profile, but the criminal had no record, leaving the police with no matches in their database. Determined, the police pursued two main leads, examining nearby surveillance footage and tracking the use of Mary Angel's stolen credit cards. The breakthrough came when the killer used her card shortly after the murder.

He withdrew 300 euros from an ATM on Balm Street, then attempted another withdrawal at a different machine on Brook Street, though it failed. Fortunately, a surveillance camera captured him during one of these attempts. However, the footage was blurry, offering only a vague description, a tall, slim man with dark hair, possibly in his late 20s to early 30s. The following day, January 12th, the killer tried to use another ATM on Marambla. This time, the bank had been alerted, and the machine retained the card. From this, the police obtained a fingerprint, but it was faint and provided little DNA evidence. Once again, they were at a dead end.

On January 13th, Mary Angel's husband received a phone call from the murderer. The voice on the other end demanded compliance and hinted that he could reveal more about Mary Angel's death. The devastated man contacted the police, begging them to stop this torment. However, they urged him to cooperate, hoping the killer might slip up. Over the next few days, the killer toyed with Mary Angel's husband, sending him on a wild goose chase across Barcelona. The criminal called from public phone booths, insisting he visit specific locations.

Plainclothes officers discreetly followed him, but the killer remained elusive. Through this charade, investigators learned two key details, the perpetrator was fluent in both Spanish and Catalan, and he frequently used three specific phone booths near public transportation hubs. The calls escalated until the killer demanded 2,000 euros, to be left behind the toilet brush in a bar called Nostrum on Consell Descent Street. Mary Angel's husband resisted, demanding proof of his wife's PIN code. The killer recited at number by number, demonstrating his knowledge. A meeting was arranged, with police staking out the bar in nearby phone booths.

However, the rendezvous turned out to be another cruel hoax. No note, no package, no killer. As the investigation stalled, the city's terror was reignited by another murder in the same parking garage. On January 22nd, Maite de Diego, a 46-year-old gym owner, was killed in eerily similar circumstances. Like Mary Angels, Maite was a successful, married woman with children and bore a striking resemblance to the first victim. Most chillingly, she also parked in Spot 15, though hers was on the first floor. Maita, frightened by the earlier murder, had asked her husband to accompany her to the parking garage, but he dismissed her fears. That evening, she was ambushed, restrained with handcuffs, and tied to a railing.

Her feet were bound with a cord, and her head was covered with a garbage bag before being struck twelve times with a hammer. Once again, the attacker stole her handbag and vanished. Her husband found her body hours later. The similarities were undeniable, the isolated stairwell, the extreme violence, the stolen bag, and the lack of witnesses. Barcelona was gripped with fear. Why these women? Why parking spot 15? The city demanded answers, and the police faced

mounting pressure. The killer continued using Maité's stolen cards, attempting withdrawals at ATMs across the city. This provided more surveillance footage, revealing a new detail, the perpetrator had a receding hairline. Further investigation linked his movements to the city's train system, specifically the FGC line, with Padua Station near the crime scene. Surveillance footage from the station showed him buying tickets, but his His face remained frustratingly indistinct. Desperate for Leeds, the police took a bold step. They sent undercover officers to Barr Nostrum, posing as regular patrons.

Over time, they identified three potential suspects. One man, however, stood out. He was tall, dark-haired, and had a noticeable bald spot. He was a regular, chatting with the bartender and playing billiards. When the light hit his head just right, officers were certain they'd found their man. When the suspect left the bar, officers approached him under the guise of a routine identification check. His ID revealed his name, Juan Jose Perez Rangel.

Born on April 20, 1978, in Barcelona, Juan Jose had studied administration and once worked in the textile industry. On the surface, he appeared unremarkable, with hobbies like motorbiking and billiards. But beneath this façade lay a deeply troubled man. One Jose had rented a parking spot at Puchet in 2002 but never returned the key after giving it up. He lived beyond his means, accumulating debts over 9,000 euros. His financial troubles coincided with his increasing cocaine use and erratic behavior. On January 11th, the day of Mary Angel's murder, he was supposed to meet a Russian woman through a dating agency. Instead,

he arrived hours late, disheveled, with scratches and blood on his clothes, claiming a car accident. After Ma, on a chilly Friday morning, December 17, 2004, a seemingly joyful couple proudly introduced their newborn, Abigail, to their friends and family. But their story wasn't exactly what it seemed. For nine months, the mother showed no signs of pregnancy. This left the husband skeptical, thinking he might be the victim of some elaborate deception. Then, suddenly, on December 16th, she gave birth. She claimed she'd gone shopping in Topeka that day, visited friends, and then, bam. She started having contractions. Everything moved so fast that she barely had time to react. Since this wasn't her first child, labor progressed quickly,

and before she knew it, Abigail was born. Discharged from the hospital just hours later, she called her husband to pick her up, and the two were over the moon. But their bliss didn't last long. The next day, the FBI knocked on their door with questions about Abigail's birth. While the husband happily recounted their miracle, the wife's story unraveled. First, she said She'd been with friends during labor, then claimed she was alone. She couldn't even keep her story straight about how she got to the hospital, an ambulance or her car. Eventually, under pressure, she cracked and admitted the truth, Abigail wasn't her baby.

What followed was a chilling tale that shocked the nation. This tragedy begins with Bobby Joe Stenet, born December 4, 1981, in the tiny town of Skidmore, Missouri. Bobby Joe grew up in a loving home, adored by her parents and younger brother. She had a quiet, kind demeanor and a passion for animals, particularly rat terriers. Her love for these dogs became more than a hobby, she dreamed of being a breeder. High school was a happy time for Bobby Joe. Though shy and studious, she found her soulmate in Zeb Stenette, her high school sweetheart.

Their love story was classic, prom nights, inseparable weekends, and eventually, an engagement after graduation. Both landed steady jobs at the Kawasaki factory in nearby Maryville, saved up, but bought a modest house, and tied the knot in 2003. After getting married, Bobby Joe left her job to dedicate herself to breeding and showing rat terriers, a career she genuinely loved. With their modest home doubling as a kennel, Bobby Joe launched a small business called Happy Haven Farms.

Her website showcased adorable puppies, competition wins, and a lively forum called Rat or Chatter, for fellow dog enthusiasts. The community thrived, and Bobby Joe became a trusted voice in the rat terrier world. She was the kind of person everyone loved, passionate, warm, and generous with her time. Life was nearly perfect. Then, in April 2004, Bobby Joe and Zeb got even better news, they were expecting their first child. They couldn't have been happier, preparing for their baby girl, Victoria Joe, due in January 2005. Bobby Joe's online community shared her excitement.

Among the well-wishers was Lisa Montgomery, a fellow Ratter-Chatter member who claimed to be pregnant with twins. Lisa said she tragically lost one twin but was due to deliver the surviving baby a month before Bobby Joe. Their shared experiences bonded them, and the two began chatting regularly about motherhood, baby names, and their dreams for the future. In December 2004, a potential buyer named Darlene Fisher, contacted Bobby Joe through her website, claiming she was interested in purchasing a puppy. Darlene said she lived just 25 minutes away in Fairfax, Missouri. Bobby Joe hesitated initially but eventually agreed to meet Darlene at her home on December 16th. She planned to show her the puppies and discussed the sale.

That afternoon, Bobby Joe spoke with her mom, Becky Harper, around 2.15 p.m. They planned to meet later that day. But shortly after they hung up, Bobby Joe's doorbell rang. She told her mom goodbye and went to greet her visitor. It was the last time anyone heard from her. When Bobby Joe didn't show up to pick her mom up after work, Becky got worried. She called her daughter's home repeatedly but got no answer. Finally, Becky drove over, only to find the front door slightly open.

Inside, she discovered a nightmare. Bobby Joe was lying in a pool of blood, unresponsive, her abdomen gruesomely cut open. Becky immediately called 911, but it was too late. Bobby Joe was pronounced dead at 4.27 p.m. The autopsy revealed horrifying details. Bobby Joe had been strangled until she passed out, and the killer used a knife to perform a crude caesarian section, stealing her baby. Bobby Joe had briefly regained consciousness during the attack, but was too weak to fight back.

Her hands, clutching strands of her attacker's hair, showed she had fought desperately to survive. A neighbor reported seeing a red Toyota Corolla parked outside Bobby Joe's house around the time of the crime. Its Kansas plates were a crucial lead. Investigators also combed through Bobby Joe's online activity, discovering her correspondence with Darlene Fisher. The FBI traced the IP address from Darlene's emails to Melbourne, Kansas, the home of Lisa Montgomery. Lisa owned a red Toyota Corolla. On December 17th, FBI agents arrived at Lisa's home.

Inside, they found Lisa calmly cradling a newborn. Her husband, Kevin, appeared oblivious to the horror that had unfolded. Lisa initially stuck to her story, claiming she'd given birth to her. the day before. But her inconsistencies and mounting evidence led her to confess. DNA tests confirmed the baby was Bobby Joe's daughter, Victoria Joe. Miraculously unharmed, the baby was reunited with her father, Zeb. The nation was stunned. Bobby Joe's funeral drew hundreds of mourners, and the crime-dominated headlines. Meanwhile, Lisa Montgomery's dark past came to light. Born in 1968, Lisa endured a nightmare childhood. Her mother was an

abusive alcoholic, and Lisa suffered years of sexual abuse at the hands of her stepfather. She was forced into a marriage with her stepbrother, Carl Bowman, who continued the cycle of abuse. By the time she married Kevin Montgomery, Lisa's mental health had deteriorated severely. Lisa's lies about pregnancies were a recurring pattern. She had faked multiple pregnancies over the years, using them to gain attention and sympathy. By 2004, her web of deceit had grown unsustainable. Facing the collapse of her marriage and desperate to keep her husband from leaving, Lisa concocted a plan to steal a baby. Despite her attorney's appeals, Lisa was executed by lethal injection on January 13, 2021, the first woman to face federal execution in nearly seven decades.

Okay, uh, hello, um, I need police and a forensics team to my address, please. What do you mean? What's happened? My friend and I got into an altercation and I'm the only one who came out alive. It all started on a morning in February 2014 when several teenagers began receiving messages from a phone they didn't have registered. It could have been advertising, or it could have been a chain message from a classmate, but as they opened the messages, they realized someone was sending photographs of a bloodied body. Who could be doing this, and more importantly, whose lifeless body was it? Breck David Bedner was born on March 17, 19, 1999, in Surrey, England, as the eldest of four children in the marriage of Loren

Lapham and Barry Bedner. Lorraine and Barry were from the United States, but due to work reasons, they moved to England in 1996. Barry worked in the oil industry and would earn much more money with this move. Over time, the transition went very well. In fact, they were able to pay for several fertility treatments over the years, and in 1999, they welcomed their first child, Breck Bedner. Three years later, they had triplets, Sebastian, Chloe, and Carly. The family life seemed perfect. They lived in a beautiful house in a nice neighborhood, and the kids went to good schools. However, in 2008, when Breck was nine years old, his parents divorced, and the custody of the children went to Loren, who also kept the family home. Interestingly,

this was a very amicable divorce. There was no confrontation over custody, they simply discussed it and made an agreement. Barry was able to see his children whenever he wanted, alternate weekends, holidays, and even if it wasn't his turn to have them, they could still meet for dinner together. Breck and his siblings got along well with their father. Breck was a well-behaved, respectful boy who liked sports, fishing, and went to church every Sunday. When he was old enough, he also joined the cadets. Another interesting thing about Breck was that he was an outstanding student.

He got good grades, excelled in everything, and at one point, the school enrolled him in advanced math and science classes. As he grew, Breck continued to stand out more and more, and by the age of 14, everyone saw him as the perfect boy. He had admirers, a good group of friends, and he got along well with his parents. He never caused any problems and never argued. Another notable thing about Breck was that, at just 14, he already knew he wanted to be a programmer. He loved technology and computers, and at that age, he started playing online games with his group of friends. In early 2013, Breck and his friends began using a program called TeamSpeak to communicate while playing. They would shoot, throw grenades, and chat while doing all of this.

At some point, they decided to switch to another server. In March of that year, Brex celebrated his 14th birthday with a party and invited friends. After that day, everything began to change. From here, I'll tell you a bit about his routine. He woke up early, went to school, came home, studied, spent time with his parents and siblings, and then went to bed, starting the cycle again. But now, this routine had to include online. games. At first, the games didn't affect his grades, behavior, or routine, so Loren and

Barry didn't pay much attention to it. They would enter his room, and when he was playing, he would stop the game, talk to them, and he remained responsible, organized, and continued to get good grades. But after turning 14, Breck started to get annoyed when he was interrupted while playing. He didn't like the interruptions, and when he was done playing, he became distant. He wouldn't talk and wouldn't communicate anything. Loren started investigating who he was playing with, and then Breck started mentioning names, names she recognized, but there was one name she had never heard before, Lewis Danes. Loren asked Breck who this Lewis was, and he explained that he knew him from online games

because Lewis was the owner of the server they all played on. He said that Lewis controlled the team speak server and decided who could speak and who was muted. After hearing this, Lorraine asked what Breck knew about Lewis, how old he was, and where he lived. This is when the sinister part begins. Breck told his mother that Lewis was an 18-year-old guy from Essex, who traveled all over the world for work. He had lived in Dubai, Syria, and New York. He was a programmer, owned several companies, and was a millionaire. All of this, right off the bat, was a lie.

But the icing on the cake came when Loren asked for a photo of this Lewis. Breck told her that he didn't have any, because Lewis was a CIA agent and, for security reasons, couldn't share any photos of himself. With this story, all alarms went off in Lauren's mind. She immediately grabbed the phone and called her ex-husband to share her suspicions. Barry and Loren came to the same conclusion, since their son had started playing with this Lewis, he had changed. So, they decided to start monitoring him closely. They asked him questions, listened behind doors, controlled his game time, and after listening for a while,

they realized that this Lewis was very dominant, manipulative, and knew how to play his cards very well. For quite a while, this attitude worked well for him, the boys obeyed him without question. But at some point, they began to get tired of it. Apparently, whenever Lewis got even slightly annoyed, he would mute people. They were all focused on a game strategy, but if someone answered or gave an opinion he didn't like, he would mute them, and the rest of the team couldn't hear them. Slowly, Breck's friends began to stop believing in his story. They no longer believed that he had a lot of money, that he worked for the CIA, or that he traveled all the time. They started demanding real photos from him, asking him where he lived and to show his face. But it seemed

like Lewis had excuses for everything, and soon the boys began to ignore him, except for one, Breck Bedner, who still blindly believed every lie Lewis told him. As time passed, Breck's behavior continued to change. As I mentioned earlier, the boy started to argue with his parents and became aggressive about the games. He became more withdrawn, distant, and now his grades began to drop. He no longer liked sports, no longer liked fishing, and soon, some questions started to come up. The first question Breck asked his parents was something like, If I don't make a mess in my room, why do I have to clean it? If it's already clean, why do I need to clean it again? Luis says I don't have to do it, Louise says my room is clean.

The second question was something like, why do I have to go to church every Sunday if God is supposed to be everywhere? Why can't I stay home playing? God is here with me, so why do I need to go there. From here, Breck started questioning his own beliefs. According to Lewis, God didn't exist, and going to church was a waste of time. So, if Lewis didn't believe in God, Breck didn't either. The issue of cleaning could be overlooked, but for Loren and Barry Bedner, the matter of the church was very important. It didn't make sense to them that their son would stop believing in God overnight. He had always enjoyed church, spent time there with friends, and participated in activities. This sudden change was very shocking, so Loren decided to finally speak with

Lewis Daines. One afternoon, she sat down with her son in front of the computer and spoke to Lewis through chat. The voice of the boy was very deep, which either meant he was 18 as he said or older. Another important thing was that this boy was very dominant, even with her, telling her how to speak to her son, what to say to him, and what not to say. Although to Breck this seemed like the voice of wisdom, for Loren it sounded like the voice of a psychopath. So, very upset, Loren stood up from the chair and walked away, leaving the conversation almost unfinished. And this is when two big blows came. First, Brecht decided to quit the cadets overnight. He said he no longer cared about the army, didn't want to know anything about

Air Corps, and then told his parents that he no longer wanted to study. He knew what he wanted to be, and he was clear about it. He thought that studying things unrelated to his goal was a waste of time. He told his parents that when he turned 16, his friend Lewis would get him an apprenticeship at Microsoft, and thanks to that, he would make thousands of dollars. Loren and Barry were clear, Lewis Danes was a very bad influence on their 14-year-old son.

So, they took Breck and punished him. They took away his internet, his social media, access to the internet, and his mobile phone. They completely distanced him from this person and forced him to return to his old habits, waking up early, going to school, studying, having family dinners, going to church, and rejoining the cadets. After this, Loren grabbed the phone and called the Surrey Police Department. The call, apparently, was quite long.

To be continued. Lauren grabs the phone and calls the Surrey Police Department. The call is apparently quite long, and in it, the woman tells the police that her 14-year-old son may be in danger. She explains that an 18-year-old guy named Louis Danes is manipulating him, that he knows him through the internet, and that he claims to be a CIA agent and a millionaire. She is convinced that he may be a potential kidnapper. She asks the department to investigate the subject, trace the IP, look up the name, and protect her son. The police officer on the phone reassures her a little, telling her to calm down, not to worry, that they will trace the IP, and that they will call her once they have any information. However, this trace never happens, and no police officer ever enters the name, Lewis Danes, into their database.

Without access to the internet, Breck's life goes back to normal. He behaves as usual, no longer arguing, his grades improve, he returns to the cadets, and goes back to church. church. So, his parents let him recover his computer, but only under the condition that he only uses it for a few hours a day and that he completely stops communicating with Lewis Danes. However, as soon as Breck resumes control, he speaks to Lewis and tells him what is happening, how he can't be friends with him anymore because his parents are watching him. Lewis takes advantage of this and sends Breck a mobile phone so they can communicate. Lauren and Barry are not fools.

This time, they monitor Breck's every move 24-7. They enter his room without warning, check what he is doing, ask him with whom he is talking, and gradually, Lewis becomes desperate. Yes, he can talk to Breck on the phone, but it's not the same. He can't hear his voice as often, and they can't chat every day. So, between late 2013 and early 2014, the millionaire Louis Daines tells Breck that he is dying, that he's very sick, that he could die tomorrow, and that he needs to find a successor to take over all his businesses, someone who knows about computers and has aspirations of becoming a

programmer. Over night, he offers Breck control of everything. Naturally, Breck thinks this is a great idea, being a programmer at 14 years old, owning a bunch of companies, being a millionaire, and traveling the world. So, he asks Lewis what he has to do, and Lewis gives him instructions. On February 5th, 2014, Breck School begins a trip to Spain that lasts 10 days, and during that trip, many things happen. The boy barely touches his phone, hangs out with friends, enjoys himself, and even gets a girlfriend. On Saturday, February 15th, he returns to England, and as soon as his feet touch the ground, his phone starts ringing, and dozens of emails begin to flood in. Barry Bedner picks up his son and, on the way home, listens to all the wonderful things about the trip. Out of the blue, Breck asks his father if he can stay at a friend's house the next day.

He gives his name, last name, and his parents' information, telling him that the house is just a few streets away, and assures him that on Monday they'll go to school together. With so many arguments and so much information to give, Barry trusts him, so without hesitation, he lets him go with his friend, unaware that everything Breck has said is simply the instructions Louis Daines gave him via email. The boy leaves his house and walks to the corner, where he gets into a taxi that takes him directly to the door of a house in Essex. From this moment on, no one ever hears from him again. No one knows exactly what happened on October 16, and there is much speculation. Some sources say that Breck had a great time during the first few hours, and another version

says that it was hell from the start. But either way, everything ends the same, as at 11.06 a.m. on Monday, February 17th, Lewis Daines picks up the phone and calls emergency services. Emergency call, okay, uh, hello, um, I need police and a forensics team to my address, please. What do you mean? What's happened? My friend and I got into an altercation, and I'm the only one who came out alive. Are you telling me you've killed somebody? Yes, I am. My name is Louis Daines. I'm 18 years old, and I live right. Okay, and what's actually

happened? My friend came to stay the night with me yesterday, feeling very down, feeling suicidal, and I woke up this morning, and he was in a mess. I tried to calm him down. I hugged him, then said that I was there for him. He grabbed, he shrugged me off, can, can you just bear it? with me a, don't tell me, any. Telling me he is definitely dead. According to Lewis Daines, Breck's death was an accident. On the 16th, they had a great time playing video games, ordering pizza, and the night passed without incident. But on the morning of the 17th, Breck woke up wanting to die, grabbed a pocket knife, tried to cut his wrists, and Lewis tried to stop him. First, they talked, but then the situation got heated, and eventually

they got into a physical altercation. With the pocket knife in his hand, Breck tried to stab Lewis Danes. So, Lewis grabbed the knife and stabbed his friend in the neck. With the blade stuck, Breck continued to attack. So, Lewis dragged the knife across his neck, ultimately killing him. When he came to his senses, Lewis wanted to take his own life, so he went into the shower and reflected for a while. But after a few minutes, he called the police and he called the police and confessed to the crime. However, there are many issues with this story. First of all, if you accidentally kill your friend, you would be nervous, panicked, and stuttering when you call emergency services. But this guy was very calm. He controlled his breathing, his way of speaking,

and used very technical language. Secondly, at the main crime scene, there was a large pool of blood, but there was also blood throughout the rest of the house. So, some of the same. So, some Something else happened that Louis Danes wasn't telling. Thirdly, there is the wound on Breck Bedner's neck. According to Lewis, after stabbing Breck in the neck, the boy continued to fight. But according to forensic experts, this was impossible because Breck died instantly. He couldn't fight or defend himself because he was already dead. Fourthly, at the time of his death, Breck had his wrists and ankles bound with duct tape.

The boy's body had marks from it, and the missing tape was found in garbage bags along with his own clothes. So, without the stab wound, Breck wouldn't have died instantly, and he couldn't defend himself because he was tied up. Fifth, in the bathroom, there were encrypted devices, but these weren't just any devices. They were submerged in cold water. Lastly, there is evidence that before killing Breck, the two boys had engaged in sexual activities, activities that, according to several sources, were not consensual. When we put all the pieces together, it becomes very clear, Lewis manipulated Brecht to go see

him, and once at his house, he tied him up and enslaved him. Hours passed, and eventually, Lewis grew tired of him. So, he grabbed a knife and took his life. Given the evidence scattered around the house, maybe Lewis wanted to get rid of everything, clean it with bleach, tidy it all up, and dispose of the body. But what happened was that it was too complicated. There was too much blood, the body was too heavy, and he didn't know where to put the bags. So, he grabbed the phone and called the police.

But the worst part of this case is yet to come. Before the emergency call was made, Breck's friend started receiving calls. All the boys who had ever played with him online were getting photos of his lifeless body. photos that Louis Daines was taking and sending immediately. The reason for this was to make it clear to the boys that, no matter what they tried, they couldn't save Breck Bedner. Now, we need to know who exactly Louis Daines was. This guy was not who he claimed to be. He was 19 years old, an unemployed computer engineer who spent day and night playing online games with 14-year-old boys.

At 16, he left his parents' house and became independent, but he was neither a millionaire nor a business owner. He had never traveled the world, never been to Dubai, Syria, or New York. He spent his entire life in Essex, where he committed several crimes. On one occasion, he was accused of abusing a boy between the ages of 13 and 14. He was also accused of possessing and distributing child pornography. With everything against him, On November 25, 2014, Lewis Daines pleaded guilty before the judge and the jury, and on January 12, 2015, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison. Loren and Barry sued the Surrey Police Department for failing to investigate Lewis when they asked them to. Additionally, they created a foundation in memory of their son to raise awareness about the dangers of the Internet.

Another interesting thing about this case is that, between early and mid-2016, a Twitter account was created that claimed to belong to Lewis Dames. In it, offensive posts were made, talking about Breck, his parents, and his life in general. Supposedly, the account was deleted, but the Bedner family still maintains that they are convinced that it was indeed Louis Dames's account, and they can't understand how someone like him, who is behind bars, could have had access to the internet. So now it's your turn. What do you think of the case? Do you think the account really belonged to him? Finn. The man was convinced that his wife was not only cheating on him, but also plotting to kill him.

So, after a failed attempt, the man stayed alert. Elsie, seeing his reaction, became furious. She spent a long time thinking about the various ways she could end his life, making it look like an accident, poisoning him, or shooting him. She carefully considered all these methods. and even wrote them down in letters to Jesse, letters that were passed from one lover to another. Cherry Hill House is a historic 17th century mansion located on Pear Street, Albany. The house was built to commemorate a significant moment in history. For a long time, the Van Reneiler

family had been searching for a wife for one of their members, but finding the perfect woman for someone of such high status seemed impossible. The person in question was Colonel Philip Kim and Van Renniler, the owner of a thriving import-export business dealing with goods from India, which generated immense profits. Given that marriage at the time was largely a business arrangement, it was crucial that he marry a woman of equal social standing and impeccable reputation. After much searching, they finally found the ideal match in Maria Sanders. Shortly after their marriage, as was customary,

the couple moved into the groom's estate, a vast property where his entire family resided. His mother, father, grandparents, uncles, and cousins all lived there. But it didn't take long for them to grow tired of living in some. close quarters without any privacy. So, the colonel hired a local carpenter named Isaac Packard to restore one of the oldest houses on the estate. This was how the Grand Cherry Hill House came into being. Initially, the plan was simply to create a livable space, but over the years, the house was expanded again and again, eventually including a brewery and a tannery. The colonel's business continued to flourish, and as his wealth grew, so did the house.

Unfortunately, all the grandeur came to an end with the colonel's death on March 3, 1798. Three months before he passed, Philip Kimmon Van Reneyler wrote a will, clearly stating that all his properties, business interests, and everything else would be passed on to his eldest son, Solomon van Renniler. It was from this point that the decline of Cherry Hill House began. For many years, Solomon continued his father's legacy, maintaining control over the family business and nurturing the important connections his father had forged. He hosted lavish parties and events, always inviting influential people, politicians, military leaders, philosophers, and writers.

In fact, in 1824, he even invited the Marquis de Lafayette for business dealings, which, according to several sources, were quite successful. Throughout the years, the family maintained a stellar reputation, and Cherry Hill House continued to be a symbol of wealth and prestige. They even had 17 people living under one roof, the family and their staff, who moved in and out with each marriage. Every time a new member of the family wed, they would move into the house with their spouse, and when a staff member got married, they also joined the household. Everyone lived together, creating a tightly knit unit where family secrets were kept behind closed doors. However, one of Solomon's daughters, Elsie Lannning, had different ideas.

As was customary at the time, she was married off to a businessman named John Whipple. But Elsie wasn't content. She had no interest in living a lie in a loveless marriage, so she quickly found her. found a way out. According to some sources, Elsie had a hidden, darker desire, she wanted to escape from Cherry Hill House. She dreamed of freedom, of traveling abroad, but this didn't fit the role of the perfect woman in high society. At first, this wasn't a problem for the family. What happened inside Cherry Hill House was meant to stay there. But Elsie was more clever than anyone realized. At one point, she escaped to a bar in Albany, where she

met Jesse Strank. Jesse Strank was very different from the men Elsie had known. He wasn't refined, didn't have much money, and didn't care to put on airs. He also had a dark past that intrigued Elsie. Not long before, he had left his wife and children, convinced that his wife had been unfaithful. In those days, divorce was hardly an option, especially for men, who would have to pay alimony for life. Women, on the other hand, would be ostracized if they divorced. So Jesse left, moving from town to town in search of work. When Elsie met him, she saw in him a reflection of her own soul, a yearning to break free, to escape. They quickly became lovers, meeting whenever they could outside the walls of Cherry Hill House.

But their secret meetings soon aroused suspicion. Eventually, Elsie persuaded Solomon to hire Jesse as a maintenance worker. Solomon, not understanding her motives, agreed. He called Jesse in and asked for his name, to which Jesse gave a false one, Joseph Norton. Up until this point, their affair seemed like the most classic kind of love story, a secret, passionate romance. But Elsie and Jesse were far from being the ideal lovers of Romeo and Juliet. Elsie was headstrong and domineering. She could not stand being told what to do, especially by her husband.

The more John demanded of her, the more she gravitated toward Jesse, and soon she could no longer hide her affair. She openly declared her love for him, exchanging passionate letters with him in front of the household servants. At one point, they seriously considered running away together, but there were three major obstacles. First, Elsie would lose her high social status and the family connections she had built. Second, she would lose the wealth and be cut off from the inheritance. And third, they were both already married, and if they remarried, they would be committing bigamy. That's when Elsie came up with a plan, one that would allow her to keep her status, money.

and reputation intact. She would have John killed. At first, Jesse was reluctant to go along with it. No one really knows why. Maybe he didn't feel the same way about Elsie, or maybe he was simply repulsed by the idea of murder. But Elsie was determined. She decided that if Jesse wouldn't do it, she would.

One evening, Elsie changed her attitude toward John. She became sweet, affectionate, and chatty, and they sat down for a kind of date in their own home. At some point, she called for tea, and when John wasn't paying attention, she slipped arsenic into his cup. But John wasn't stupid. He noticed something strange about the tea before drinking it and immediately became suspicious. He left the tea untouched and from that moment on, carried a loaded weapon with him at all

times. Now, fully aware that his wife was not only unfaithful but was actively trying to kill him, John stayed alert. Elsie, however, was enraged by his refusal to drink the poison tea and spent many days thinking of different ways to kill him. She even wrote about it in letters to Jesse. Eventually, she grew tired of being the only one thinking of ways to end John's life. She demanded that Jesse act. Jesse, finally agreeing to help, took matters into his own hands. One night, while John was asleep, Elsie took his rifle and emptied the chamber.

She left it exactly where she had found it, and the next morning, when the sun had risen, Jesse carried out the plan. He grabbed the rifle from the shed and, from a distance, aimed at the window of John's bedroom. After several minutes, when John stood up and moved closer to the window, Jesse fired two shots. Chaos erupted at Cherry Hill House. Elsie quickly took on the role of the grieving wife, calling the servants, crying, and creating confusion. Meanwhile, Jesse managed to escape, hiding the rifle, running down the street, and buying some groceries before returning to the house, pretending to know nothing about the shooting.

He even helped the doctor remove the two bullets from John's body. But despite all their efforts, the lover's perfect plan was starting to unravel. When the police arrived, they quickly noticed discrepancies in Jesse's story. For one, no one had seen him during or after the shooting. He had no alibi, and the grocery store was only a short distance from the house. The police suspected that he might have used the store as a cover. Upon interrogating him, Jesse eventually confirmed. to the crime, but he revealed something even more shocking, the plan to kill John had been

devised by Elsie. Immediately, Elsie was arrested and charged with conspiring to murder her husband. What they didn't count on was that Elsie came from one of the most powerful families in Albany. The Van Rennelers used their connections to clean up her image, hiring the best lawyers in the county to defend her. Meanwhile, Jesse had to make do with a court-appointed lawyer, Calvin Pepper. Elsie's defense strategy was simple, deny everything. She claimed that she wasn't having an affair with Jesse, and that she was the victim of the whole situation. However, Jesse was determined to prove the truth. Throughout the trial, Jesse's lawyer, Calvin Pepper, managed to bring forth significant evidence.

First, there was the previous attempt to poison John, which had been unsuccessful. It was widely known that someone had tried to poison him, but no one had ever figured out who. Pepper argued that Elsie was the only one who had access to the area where the poison could have been placed. Second, during the shooting, Elsie was found inside the room with John, so she could have easily signaled to Jesse. Finally, it was revealed that the rifle used to shoot John had been purchased with Elsie's money. Despite the overwhelming evidence, the defense team put up a strong fight, and ultimately, Elsie was acquitted. The judge ruled that there was not enough evidence to convict her of any crime. Jesse, however, was convicted of murder and sentenced to hang.

In the years that followed, Cherry Hill House was eventually abandoned. It sat empty for many years until it was eventually purchased by a wealthy businessman who sought to restore the house to its former glory. However, the house was rumored to be haunted, and over time, strange occurrences were reported by those who tried to restore the estate. Locals whispered that Elsie's spirit haunted the halls of Cherry Hill House, seeking revenge for the life she had lost. Some even claimed to have seen her ghost wandering the estate at night. Perhaps she was still searching for freedom, a freedom that she had sought so desperately during her life but was never able to have. fully achieve. Christine's best friend was utterly devastated. She demanded justice, begged investigators to put in more effort, and for three long nights, she slept in her parents' bed,

wrapped in their arms, drowning in her heartbreak. Christine's grief wasn't just a wound, it was a chasm, one she tried to fill by leaning on her boyfriend Christopher and her family. Christine Marie Pallila was born in 1986 on Long Island, New York. She was the youngest of Laurie and Charles's two children. Laurie was a stay-at-home mom, while Charles worked in construction. On the surface, their life seemed ordinary. But when Christine turned two, tragedy struck. Her father died in a horrific workplace accident, a wall of bricks collapsed on him

while he worked on a skyscraper in New York City. The impact was instant, and he lost his life. Although Charles had supposedly left behind a substantial inheritance for his kids in the event of his death, there was a catch, the money would only be available. when the children reached adulthood. Laurie, now a widow with no income, struggled to make ends meet. The widow's pension was meager, and without access to the inheritance, Laurie was left scrambling. She juggled multiple jobs, sought help from family and friends, and did her best to keep the

household afloat. But grief doesn't come one piece at a time, it often arrives as an avalanche. Shortly after Charles's death, other family members began passing away. Christine's grandfather and great-grandmother also died, leaving Laurie in a spiral of despair she couldn't escape. Unable to cope, she turned to drugs, and the state eventually removed Christine and her older brother John from her custody. For years, Christine and John bounced between relatives.

First, it was an aunt's house, then a cousin's, and then another uncle's home. The instability was exhausting, but eventually, the children were placed with their grandparents, where they finally found a semblance of stability. But this newfound calm came with its own challenges. Christine couldn't make sense of what was happening. Her father was gone, her mother had vanished from her life, and her extended family moved her around like a piece of luggage. As a little girl, Christine couldn't process the complexity of her mother's struggles.

Instead, she blamed herself. She thought she was the problem, the reason no one wanted her. And then, there was the alopecia. In 1991, at just five years old, Christine's hair began falling out. Strands would come loose by the handful until, one day, she was nearly bald. Concerned, her grandparents took her to the doctor, where she was diagnosed with alopecia. That wasn't her only challenge, Christine also had severe vision problems that required her to wear thick glasses. These physical differences made her a target at school.

Her classmates teased her relentlessly, making fun of her glasses and her hair. Even when Christine tried to hide her baldness by wearing wigs, the bullying didn't stop. Kids would pull them off in public, leaving her humiliated and in tears. Over time, Christine withdrew into herself, becoming shy and insecure. Her family couldn't understand why she faced so much cruelty. To them, Christine was beautiful, intelligent, and kind-hearted. But none of that seemed to matter to the outside world. Despite the bullying, Christine's family held on to hope.

They believed that someday, someone would see her for who she truly was. They told her to hold on, to have patience, and to trust that her moment would come. Miraculously, they were right. When Christine turned 14, Laurie had finally turned her life around. After years of battling addiction, Laurie got clean, found a new partner named Thomas Dick, and began rebuilding her life. The couple moved to Houston, Texas, where they secured custody of Christine and John. Once again, Christine packed her bags and started over.

She enrolled at Clear Lake High School, dreading the familiar cycle, being the outcast, the punchline, the Invisible Girl. But this time, something extraordinary happened. The two most popular girls at school, Rachel and Tiffany, took Christine under their wing. Rachel Coloradois and Tiffany Raoul were everything Christine wasn't, confident, outgoing, and effortlessly cool. Rachel, born on November 20, 1984, was a shining star. She was known for her generosity, talent, and kindness.

She loved to draw, cook, and help around the house. Every summer, she worked part-time jobs, whether it was at UPS, a local diner, or as a youth camp counselor at her church. Rachel was the kind of girl who lit up every room she entered, and everyone admired her. Tiffany, born on April 24, 1985, was just as beloved. Though less is known about her, it's clear she had a magnetic personality that drew people in. When Rachel and Tiffany met Christine, they didn't see an awkward, shy girl, they saw potential. They thought Christine was naturally pretty but needed help bringing out her confidence.

They thought her wigs looked outdated, comparing them to Tammy Faye Backer's style, and offered to help her revamp her look. They took her shopping for new wigs, makeup, and clothes. Under their guidance, Christine transformed. By 2003, she was voted Miss Irresistible by her classmates. The girl who had once been bullied was now a swan. She was popular, admired, and, for the first time, happy. But Christine's parents weren't thrilled about her new friends.

Rachel and Tiffany had a wild side. They experimented with drugs, and Laurie worried they were dragging Christine down a dangerous path. Despite her parents' warnings, Christine refused to distance herself from them. Rachel and Tiffany were more than friends, they were her lifeline. She trusted them so completely that she felt comfortable letting them see her without her wig or makeup, a vulnerability she'd never shown anyone else. Then came Christopher.

At 17, Christine began dating Christopher Lee Snyder, a 21-year-old with a troubled past. Christopher seemed to be the first person who accepted Christine as she was. He didn't mind her alopecia or her glasses, and Christine quickly fell head over heels. But the relationship was far from perfect. Christine's parents saw red flags immediately. Christopher was arrogant, had a history of drug use, and even had a criminal record, including a stint in prison for armed robbery. Worse, he was controlling.

He isolated Christine from her friends, demanded to know her every move, and grew jealous if she spent time with anyone else. Their relationship was tumultuous. One day they'd break up, the next, they'd get back together. The cycle repeated endlessly. At one point, Christopher even humiliated. Christine by ripping off her wig in front of her classmates. But Christine couldn't let go. She was convinced they were soulmates. When they'd fight, she'd camp out in his yard, refusing

to leave until he took her back. Christopher's family painted a different picture. According to them, Christine was the problem. His sister, Brandy, described her as obsessive and unhinged. She claimed Christine harassed their family, made death threats, and demanded Christopher's attention to an unsettling degree. When Christine wasn't begging Christopher to reconcile, she was pressuring him into violent intimacy, insisting she deserved punishment. Meanwhile, Rachel and Tiffany's lives were on the upswing. In May 2003, they graduated high school and landed jobs as waitresses at a local strip club. The pay was great, and they loved the independence it gave them. They spent their earnings on movies, road trips, and fancy dinners.

Life seemed perfect. Marcus, who was involved in drug dealing, had plenty of cash to fund their lifestyle. They were always out having fun, while Christine was stuck working part-time at Walgreens to make ends meet. Though her job in the cosmetics department was decent, it didn't pay enough to support the lavish outings her friends enjoyed. She started feeling left out and jealous. The envy festered, slowly morphing into resentment.

Christine's insecurities deepened. She began to wonder if Rachel and Tiffany pitted her. They had everything she wanted, freedom, confidence, and a glamorous social life. Christine, meanwhile, felt like she was stuck on the outside looking in, desperately trying to keep up. What happened next would shatter their lives forever. You know, it's funny how envy can creep into your life even when you least expected. Christine always felt like she had to try so much harder than everyone else.

kind, being accepted, it didn't come naturally to her like it did for others. And man, that envy really brewed something fierce inside her. Psychiatrists, like Gail Salz, would later talk about how deep loneliness could twist someone's perspective. But that's skipping ahead, isn't it? At one point, Christine was so desperate for companionship that she ended up running back to her ex, Christopher. Even though they'd broken up, she convinced herself he was the only one who ever truly cared

for her. The one person who'd never turn his back on her. That's how she rationalized going back to him, promising herself they'd never be a part again. From then on, they became inseparable. Every day was the same, together, always. The dynamic started to bleed into her friend group, which wasn't ideal. Christine had a tight circle, Rachel, Tiffany, Marcus, and Adelbert. Soon, Christopher was tagging along to every hangout, and it didn't take long before her friend started voicing their concerns.

They weren't shy about saying he gave them bad vibes. The way he acted, the way he treated Christine, it just didn't sit right. Eventually, they asked her to stop bringing him around so much. They told her it'd be better to see him on her own. Naturally, this made Christine furious. To her, rejecting Christopher was like rejecting her. And just like that, she started pulling away from her friends, spending more and more time with Christopher.

Slowly but surely, her social circle dwindled until she was in touch. entirely isolated. Then came July 18, 2003. It started like any other day, but it was destined to end in tragedy. Clear Lake City Police received a horrifying call from Tiffany's parents, who had just come home to an unimaginable scene. The house was a bloodbath. When officers arrived and opened the door, the chaos was undeniable. The living room was completely torn apart, blood splattered everywhere. For young lives had been brutally ended, Tiffany, Rachel, Marcus, and Adelbert. Tiffany and Adelbert's bodies were slumped on the couch, while Rachel and Marcus were found on the floor. They'd all been shot multiple times. As investigators combed through

the scene, they noted shell casings from two different guns, suggesting there were two shooters. Marcus's body was face down, indicating he tried to run. Rachel's positioning told an even darker story. The attackers had shown particular cruelty toward the two women. Rachel, for example, had been shot 12 times, including in her left buttock, suggesting she'd been crawling for help when her attacker fired at her. Near her body lay her phone, and police discovered she had managed to dial 911. Tragically, she never completed the call, as the assailants shot her again and struck her in the head, likely with the butt of a gun. The sheer violence of the attack suggested something personal, especially with the additional shots aimed at the girls' intimate areas.

The level of rage displayed was undeniable. Was it jealousy? Revenge? Investigators couldn't ignore the possibility. Police started canvassing the neighborhood, asking friends and neighbors about the victims. Everyone described them as good kids. They didn't have enemies, and they weren't the type to get into trouble. But one neighbor, a married couple named Michelle and Craig Langer, had seen something unusual that day. Around 3.30 p.m., they noticed a young couple dressed in black heading toward the house. At first, they assumed it was nothing, maybe guests arriving for a party. A short while later, they heard what sounded like fireworks.

It wasn't until they heard about the murders that they realized the sounds were gunshots. Despite the lead, the case wasn't straightforward. Friends and family had no idea who could have done such a thing. The victims didn't seem to have any obvious enemies. However, during a search of the house, police uncovered drugs and cash. That discovery led investigators to a new theory, Marcus had been dealing drugs, and the murders were possibly a result of a drug-related dispute. Maybe someone wanted revenge for an unpaid debt or a deal gone wrong.

It could explain the execution-style nature of the killings. But it didn't explain the fury directed at the girls. Christine was devastated by the loss of her best friends. She was inconsolable, demanding justice and pressuring authorities to dig deeper. For three nights straight, she couldn't even sleep alone and ended up staying in her parents' bed. She leaned heavily on Christopher for support, but their relationship fell apart again not long after. Christopher's life spiraled, and he ended up arrested in Kentucky for stealing a car. Meanwhile, Christine was battling her own demons.

By 2004, her drug addiction had taken over her life, and she voluntarily checked herself into rehab at a facility in Curville, Texas. It was there that she met a man named Justin Rott. Justin was also an addict trying to turn his life around. Their shared struggles brought them close, and within four months, they were married. Christine, now 18, seemed determined to start fresh. With $60,000 from her late father's pension, the newlyweds bought a small house, got a dog, and started making plans for the future.

On the surface, everything seemed to be falling into place, a picture-perfect life. But appearances can be deceiving. Two years later, on July 18, 2005, Christine and Justin were watching TV when cover of the Unsolved Clear Lake murders came on. The anniversary brought renewed attention to the case, and media outlets were airing sketches of the suspects based on witness descriptions. Christine froze. Her face turned pale, and she muttered,

Oh my God, that looks like me, Justin, confused, asked her what she meant. That's when Christine made a shocking confession. She told him she and Christopher had gone to the house that day with the intent to rob Marcus. Christopher had known about the drugs and money, and they figured it'd be an easy score. When they got to the door, Christopher handed her a .38 caliber revolver and knocked. As soon as Marcus opened the door,

Christopher started shooting. Christine claimed it was chaos after that. Her gun went off accidentally, and she panicked, firing wildly. By the time she realized what was happening, everyone was dead. But as they were leaving, she worried someone might still be alive.

They went back inside to, finish the job. That's when she saw Rachel trying to call for help. Christine admitted she'd hit Rachel in the head and stopped her from dialing 911. After the massacre, Christopher dropped her off at work, and she clocked in like nothing had happened. Justin was horrified by what he heard but decided to stick by Christine. He convinced himself that she'd changed, that the person she was now wasn't the same person who'd committed those acts. Still, fear of getting caught consumed them. They packed up and moved into a Lakinta hotel, where they lived in squire.

for seven months. They spent $500 a day on drugs, barely leaving the room except to buy food and supplies. The room became a mess of trash, needles, and dog feces. Their paranoia wasn't unfounded. In July 2006, police received an anonymous tip from someone who had been in rehab with Christine. This person claimed Christine had confessed everything to them, down to the smallest detail. Investigators traced the couple's credit card activity and tracked them to the hotel. On July 19, 2006, Christine was arrested. During questioning, Christine tried to shift all the blame onto Christopher, claiming he'd manipulated her into going along with the plan. But Justin, disgusted by her lies, told police everything she'd told him. His version of events matched the evidence at the

crime scene, the two weapons, the brutal injuries to Rachel, and the calculated nature of the killings. As for Christopher, he was never brought to justice. Before police could arrest him, he fled to a forest in South Carolina and ended his own life by overdosing on pills. Christine's trial began in 2008. Her parents maintained her innocence, insisting she'd been under Christopher's control. But the evidence against her was overwhelming. Prosecutors initially sought the death penalty, but because Christine was a minor at the time of the murders, they couldn't pursue it.

Instead, she was sentenced to life in prison, with the possibility of parole after 40 years. So, what do you think? Did Christine deserve her sentence? Or was she just another victim of Christopher's manipulation? When she smoked in front of her, and the smoke drifted toward her, the girl would turn pale and say that the smoke was her father's spirit. One day, the girl would wake up sad, and the next day, she would be completely out of her mind, jumping, dancing, screaming, and giving it her all in the middle of a party.

In an instant, she went from crying to laughing, and for two consecutive weeks, she remained seated in a chair, hardly eating or drinking anything. This story begins on February 25, 2014, with a 17-year-old girl named Crystal Brook Howell. Crystal lived alone with her father, Michael Howell, in a beautiful eight-bedroom cabin located in Maggie Valley, North Carolina. Apparently, everyone in the area knew this small family. Crystal had many friends and was known for being very charismatic and fun but also for constantly hiding her feelings. She always put the feelings of others before her own and didn't mind being upset as long as others were happy. Her friends envied the relationship she had with

her beloved father. They did everything together, communicated a lot, and Michael gave her space. However, on February 25, 2014, Crystal called her friend Taylor to say that her father had packed his bags and gone on a business trip. He hadn't told her before, he just packed his bags and left. So, the girl didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to cook, how to manage the house, so she asked Taylor if she could stay at her place for a while. She didn't know whether for a few days, a week, or a couple of weeks, but what they didn't imagine was that a week later, Crystal's mother would call to tell her that her father had taken his own life. Crystal Howell was devastated, and so the whole town of Maggie Valley rallied around her. She was a 17-year-old

girl who had been left completely alone. Her mother lived far away, and she hardly had any contact with her. So, Crystal was practically an orphan. Friends, neighbors, and acquaintances all supported Crystal Howell 100%, and she temporarily refused to return to her father's cabin. She didn't want to go, it gave her anxiety, but after several weeks, she gathered the courage and moved back in. However, it's worth mentioning that she couldn't do this alone. So, she invited her two best friends, Taylor and another girl named Samma Ramsey, to live with her. This is when things started to get a little strange. Crystal's father apparently left her everything he had, his money, his house, and also a shotgun so that she could defend herself.

But Crystal didn't like the idea of having weapons around, so she decided to change things a bit. First, she sold the shotgun for $500 to Samma Ramsey's father. Second, she decided to turn the house into a bit of a happier place. So, she installed a strip bar in the middle of the kitchen and started throwing parties. At first, the parties were normal, some music, some drinks, but little by little, they got out of control. Alcohol, drugs, and boys of all ages and from different towns showed up, and at a certain point, Crystal's attitude began to change. When they smoked in her presence, and the smoke drifted toward her, she would turn pale and

say that the smoke was the spirit of her father. One day, she would wake up sad, and the next day, she would be completely out of her mind, jumping, dancing, screaming, and giving it her all in the middle of a party. In an instant, she went from crying to laughing, and for two weeks straight, she remained seated in a chair, hardly eating or drinking anything. Everything surrounding Crystal seemed very strange, but people attributed her behavior to what was probably depression. Then came the interesting part of the story. Out of nowhere, she told her best friends that she was going to Georgia for six months to visit her mother and older sister. She told them not to worry about anything, that during that time, they could continue living in her father's house, and she would take care of paying the bills and making sure they lacked nothing.

They could use all the rooms, invite people, throw parties, and even sell anything they didn't like from the house. But there was one rule they had to follow if they wanted to continue living in the cabin, and that rule was not to enter the shed. She said the shed was her special place, the place where her father and she had spent great moment. together. So, she asked Taylor and Sammer to please respect it. They could do anything else, throw parties, destroy the house, sell things, they could do absolutely anything, but that shed was off limits. So, the girls promised her, and Crystal packed her bags and left. But the very next day, her best friends broke their promise. As soon as Crystal left through the door, the girls decided to sell some things, and among them was a pinball machine that was in the basement

of the house. They made a couple of calls and arranged to meet a potential buyer, but at the last minute, the buyer backed out. The girls had already taken the pinball out of the basement, and it was extremely heavy, so it was nearly impossible to move it back down on their own. So, they decided to call two boys, Elijah Damon and Anthony Talley. The idea at first was to move it back into the basement because it had to go back there, but what happened was that these boys decided to take it a step further and thought the best option was to store the pinball in the shed. They were going to sell it for sure, and probably long before Crystal came back home. So, the boys took the pinball, carried it to the shed, and opened the door. At that moment,

they felt a strong odor, as if something was decaying. Anthony, driven by curiosity, approached a kind of blue bucket that was covered by a sleeping bag, and when he moved the bag, he discovered the curled up corpse of a man with a bullet hole in his forehead. I never want to see anything like that again in my life. It ruined me, Anthony Talley said to Augusta News Times. At this point, the case of Crystal Brook Howell begins. Crystal was born in 1996 in Augusta, Georgia, as the second daughter of Christina Restor and Michael Howell, who at the time was a sports editor for the Columbia County News Times. Crystal was described as a very fun, cheerful, and active child.

She had energy levels that were unimaginable, levels that left her parents completely exhausted. She was always jumping, dancing, moving around, and no one knew what to do with her. Her older brother, Sierra, was very calm and never got into trouble, but she was the complete opposite. She was intense, crazy, and wherever there was trouble, she was there. At first, this wasn't a huge problem for her parents, but as she grew older, things got more and more complicated. So, at the age of nine, her mother decided to start medicating her. It said that the woman, without consulting with her partner, took the girl to therapy and started medicating her. But what happened was that the medication completely subdued her personality, making

her too calm and very dazed. Michael quickly decided to take her off the medication. In his own childhood, Michael had to go to therapy, and because of that, the other kids at school made fun of him, and what he didn't want was for Crystal to go through the same thing. That's when their marriage began to deteriorate, and the issues with their daughter became more complicated. She began to lie, steal, and commit acts of vandalism, and at one point, she snuck into a neighbor's house and set fire to a hammock cushion. She became so unbearable that when Crystal turned 12, the Howells decided to divorce. But this divorce wasn't amicable. They fought over the house, the car, and at one point, Christina confessed that her older daughter wasn't actually Michael's.

So, Michael made it clear. He only claimed custody of Crystal, and Christina didn't even fight for it. Christina and Sierra stayed in Augusta, Georgia, and Michael, and Crystal packed their bags and moved to Maggie Valley, a place in North Carolina. It was practically an idyllic location if you were looking for peace and tranquility, and at least at first, Crystal calmed down a lot. She enrolled in a new school, made many friends, but at some point, everything spiraled out of control again. She had outbursts of anger, stole, got into trouble, and sometimes disappeared for weeks at a time. Behind closed doors, Michael and Crystal were living.

in a complete hell, but outside their home, their relationships seemed enviable. They communicated, they loved each other, they respected each other, and all the teenagers in Maggie Valley were envious of them. However, this is when the big problem occurred. On February 24, 2014, Crystal and her father went grocery shopping at Angels. The shopping trip itself went without much issue, no reports from any workers that they saw Crystal causing a scene. They didn't shout, didn't disrespect each other, they just went down the aisles together picking up the items they needed. But at one point, Michael caught his daughter trying to steal, and that's when everything got out of control. Michael lost his temper and

demanded that his daughter returned the item and apologize. Crystal refused to do it. The man insisted, security arrived, the manager arrived, and in the end, the girl agreed, returned the item, apologized, and then the two of them left the store and went to the car to head home. No one knows what they talked about on the way to the cabin, but whatever was said, Crystal didn't like it at all. Once at the cabin, Michael took the couch and took a nap while Crystal went straight to take a shower. In the shower, the girl kept thinking about the situation, about not being able to steal, how angry she was, how frustrated she felt, and how much hatred she had for her father.

So, when she turned off the water and left the bathroom, she went to the closet, grabbed a shotgun, checked that it was loaded, went to the living room, pointed the gun at her father's head, and fired. After that, with a very clear mind, she left the shotgun, dragged her father's body to the shed, placed it in a blue bucket, and covered it with a sleeping bag. At this point, Crystal had several questions. The first was what to do to cover her tracks. So, she came up with the idea to sell the shotgun for $500 to Samma Ramsey's father. The second question was how long it would take for a human body to decompose. So, the girl grabbed her phone, searched for the answer, and once she had it, she decided to kill time. She told everyone that her father had gone on a trip, and with this excuse, she temporarily

stayed at her friend Taylor's house. Unfortunately, at some point, the girl's parents started asking questions. How long would he be gone? Where did he go? Who did she talk to? So, Crystal ended the conversation by saying that the man had taken his life. Quickly, the whole town of Maggie Valley rallied around her, offering support and care. To avoid making her uncomfortable, they stopped asking questions. Feeling more secure, she returned to the cabin. and turned it into her party house.

She set up a strip bar in the kitchen, brought alcohol, drugs, invited Sammer and Taylor, and made everyone feel very comfortable in that house. For an entire month, from February to March 2014, the house became a paradise, one where adults had no power. But soon, guilt came knocking, and on March 19th, Crystal grabbed the phone and called her mother. She told her that her father had granted her emancipation, and with that excuse, the girl decided to return to Augusta to live with her mother and Sierra. But here's what happened. Christina didn't believe her.

Crystal was a big liar, and she was constantly getting into trouble. So, the woman told her that before leaving, she should send her the Emancipation Papers. Crystal agreed, but on March 22nd, she showed up at her house without any paperwork. That's when Christina and Sierra noticed some very strange things. things that left them speechless. First, she had no proof that Michael had granted her emancipation. Then, when they called Michael, the phone was off. Third, Crystal appeared driving her father's orange robber truck, which also had a trailer attached to it. It made no sense for Michael to emancipate his daughter and give her a car. It just didn't add up. And fourth, Sierra noticed

that her sister was acting very strangely. Her eyes were expressed. with no sparkle. She answered with short phrases and seemed like her soul was gone. Crystal told her mother and sister not to worry about her, that she had booked a room in a nearby motel. She then got into the car and started the engine, unaware that, at that very moment, the police were looking for her. While Crystal was in Augusta, her friends discovered her father's body in the shed. At first, they thought it was the body of one of the boys from the party who, at some point, had been shot between the music and alcohol, and someone had hidden his body there. But the forensic experts disproved that theory, confirming that it was Michael Howell's

body, a man who never took his own life voluntarily. Crystal's friends began to speak, and they told the police the whole story. Her father had supposedly gone on a trip, had taken his own life, and Crystal was acting strangely. She packed her bags and left for Augusta for six months. Another interesting piece of information given to the police was that when her father supposedly took his life, Crystal sold her shotgun to Samma Ramsey's father, a shotgun whose bullets were the same caliber that killed Michael Howell. Based on these points, the police put out a search warrant, and on March 23, 2014, they

arrested her at a motel in Augusta, Georgia. When they found her, the police said she pretended to be surprised, saying she didn't understand what was happening or why she was being taken. But once at the station, she confessed everything without any problem. She explained how it all happened, how she killed him, how she hid the body, and admitted that she withdrew $10,000 from her father's account. It is shocking that a young woman would kill her father, but the fact that Crystal started spending her father's money, using his house, and driving his car, all after hiding his body

and the evidence of her crime, shows the motive behind it. She wanted to live on her own terms, at the expense of Michael Howell's life, which is very sad. Statements from Ashley Wells, the prosecutor handling the case, and Bridget Aguirre, Crystal's defense attorney, pointed out that Crystal has a long history with psychologists. However, despite her defense of mental incapacity, she was charged with the following, first-degree murder, concealment of a corpse, and failing to report a death by unnatural causes. She was sentenced to the following punishments, 25 years in prison for first-degree murder, 60 months for the concealment of a corpse, and 84 months more for failing to report her father's death.

Crystal will not be eligible for parole until she has served 25 years of her sentence, and until then, she will remain in the North Carolina Department of Corrections adult facility. To finish this case, I would like to share statements from Crystal's aunt, Brenda Ennis, people need to understand that mental illness is serious and can push someone to the limit. And I think that's what happened here. Now, it's your turn. What do you think of the case? Do you think Michael's death could have been prevented? End.