Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - 9 Hours of Horror You Can’t Forget

Episode Date: November 15, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #nosleep #paranormal #creepy #darknarratives #fearcollection #ghostlytales #terrifyingmoments Prepare yourself for 9 Hours of Horror You Can’t Forget — a relentless descent into fear, suspense, and the unknown. These stories come straight from the darkest corners of the internet, revealing ghostly encounters, cursed experiences, and nightmarish confessions that feel disturbingly real. Each tale lingers in your mind long after it ends, whispering reminders that true terror never really fades. If you think you’ve heard it all… you haven’t. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, hauntedstories, darkcompilation, truehorrorstories, paranormalencounters, ghoststories, chillingepisodes, supernaturalhorror, scarycompilation, eerievoices, cursednarratives, hauntednights, mysteriouswhispers, nightmarefuel, fearinthedark

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 GoFund me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition. I've seen this myself. Last year, a friend of mine launched a go-fund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in.

People want to help. They just need a way to do it. And GoFundMe makes it easy. So, do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your life that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change. You can be the one who makes a difference. GoFundMe is the 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. This story still sits with me, heavy as ever, even after all these years. I'm a kid from the 80s, raised in a quiet neighborhood in Georgia. My dad was a master sergeant in the Air Force, real straight-laced and tough as nails. My mom was a nurse, always on her feet, saving lives at the local hospital. Most times, it was just me, my little sister, and our older half-sister who played the babysitter whenever our parents were working crazy hours. Back then, life was about bikes, tree climbing,

and making forts in the woods. Me and my crew, Jamie, Tommy, Danny, and Charles, were always out and about, tearing up dirt trails or dodging homework. When we managed to scrape up a couple bucks, we bike over to the grocery store, pick up candy and Dr. Pepper, and post up in the shipping crates behind the bowling alley. That little alley became our secret hangout. tucked between stacks of broken-down boxes. That day was no different, hot Georgia sun, dusty trails, and a pocketful of change. We hit the trails, sweating and laughing, before heading to the store. Grabbed our sodas, stuffed our mouths with candy, and crashed in the crates to cool off.

Jamie and Danny eventually bailed, but me, Tommy, and Charles stuck around. We wanted to enjoy the last bit of freedom before heading home. Then, out of nowhere, a guy stepped out from the side entrance of the store. Looked normal enough at first, kind of average build, nothing special. He walked up and started chatting. Hey guys, how's it going? We didn't think anything of it. Strangers talked to kids back then.

It wasn't a red flag yet. But then he shoved Tommy and me into one of the crates and slammed the door shut. pushed a heavy pallet against it so we couldn't get out he turned on charles next knocking him over before he jumped on his bike and bolted i watched charles disappear down the alley heart pounding stuck inside with tommy the guy looked at us with this awful grin looks like your friend ditched you he sneered been watching you boys hang around back here you're like little mice his face changed then the friendliness melted into something twisted and dark he stared right into my soul and said i know who you are where you live and who your parents are he pulled his shirt aside revealing a pistol tucked into his waistband if you behave i won't have to use this what came next i wish i could forget he opened the crate dragged tommy out and yeah you can guess I sat there, useless, terrified, my fists clenched and tears burning in my eyes.

I couldn't help him. When the man finished with Tommy, he threw him to the ground like trash. Then it was my turn. He was a big dude, covered in tattoos, the kind you see on bikers in those old movies. I didn't stand a chance. I was just a scared, skinny kid. When he was done, he stood up, adjusted his pants. and said, I know where you live.

You say a word, I'll come back. He walked off laughing. We pulled ourselves together and biked home, not saying a word to each other. We believed him. We were only nine years old, and we really thought he knew where we lived and would hurt us or our families if we told anyone. But Charles told. His mom called the cops. The guy got picked up the next day, for shoving Charles.

Not for what he did to me and Tommy. Just for pushing a kid. Turns out he worked at the store. He only got 45 days in jail. Forty-five days. Then, six months after his release, Charles went to the store alone. We didn't know the guy had been fired. Charles didn't know what had happened to us.

Someone shot Charles in the back of the head while he was walking home. Our little town shook to its core. That kind of violence didn't happen where we lived. The police finally started asking questions. And when they questioned me, I cracked. I told them everything. About the crates, the gun, the threats. What he did to Tommy?

What he did to me. But it was too late. The guy had already skipped town. Last anyone saw of him was the night Charles died. There was never an arrest. never any justice he took his own life two years later that was the end of it no real closure just a bitter broken memory now that wasn't the only brush with horror we had as kids another story sticks with me too this one happened when i was about seven my sister was nine back then it wasn't weird for kids to walk to the park alone as long as we were together our parents did didn't worry. The park sat next to a baseball field, and just past the outfield fence, there was a thick line of trees. The only marker out there was this giant boulder, kind of like

a landmark. That day, we were alone, climbing monkey bars, being goofballs. Then I saw something. A figure near the woods, heading for the boulder. 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 GoFund Me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition. I've seen this myself.

Last year, a friend of mine launched a go fund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in. People want to help. They just need a way to do it. And GoFundMe makes it easy. So, do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your life that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change. You can be the one who makes a difference.

GoFundMe is the 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. It was a man with long, greasy hair and no shirt. Kind of pudgy. He just stood there staring. I couldn't even tell if he was wearing pants.

When he noticed me watching, he motioned for me to come over. My sister was having none of it. Don't you dare go over there, she snapped. Stay away from him. We ran home as fast as we could and told our dad. He immediately called the cops. A cop showed up not long after. We told him everything, straight-faced and scared.

The officer looked at my dad and said, You know how kids are, they make things up. I was crushed. I remember wanting to scream. But Dad kneeled beside us after the cop left and said, I believe you. Don't worry. After that, he always walked us to the park himself. And we never saw that creepy guy again. But a couple weeks later, two kids from another neighborhood went missing.

The news showed a sketch of a suspicious man seen in the area. No shirt. Long hair. It was the same guy. I don't know what happened to those kids. My parents never told us. But I still wonder, if my sister hadn't stopped me, if I had walked toward that man. Anyway, fast forward to when I was 14.

My parents had gone to a work conference out of state, so I had the house to myself. It was a dream for a teenager, freedom, snacks, video games. I was playing Rocket League, chatting with two of my friends through my headset, totally immersed in the game. Then I heard a thump downstairs. Not unusual. I had two cats. They wrestled all the time and made plenty of noise.

But then there was another thump. Followed by a low grunt. Hang on, I told my friends. I think I hear something. They told me to go check it out. I got up, made my way downstairs, thinking maybe the cats knocked something over. But halfway down, I heard whispers. Men whispering.

I froze. I peaked into the living room, and there they were. Three men dressed in black, moving carefully. My heart dropped. I crept back upstairs, and of course, the last step, creaked like in every horror movie ever. The whispers stopped. The house went dead quiet.

I slipped into my room and grabbed my headset. Guys. Call 911. There are three men in my house. Now. I'm serious. They freaked out but listened. I ditched the headset and bolted from my parents' room.

I left my own door open so they'd think I was still in there. dumb plan maybe but i was desperate heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs i heard one of them stop outside my room bang bang bang open up kid or i'll break this door down panic kicked in i yanked open my parents window and tried to climb out the noise alerted them i saw a shadow in the doorway get back here. I jumped, but one of them grabbed my ankle. I kicked out, slipped free, and landed awkwardly on the porch roof. The guy tried to follow, but I rolled off just in time. His boots barely missed me. I hit the ground hard, spraining my ankle. But I kept moving. One of the men cut around to intercept me, grabbed me, and tried dragging me back. I yelled, but he covered my mouth. I yelled, but he

covered my mouth. That's when the siren started wailing. Red and blue lights flickered through the trees. The guy dropped me, shouted something to the others, and they all bolted. I limped to the front yard and waved like a maniac. They're in the backyard. Cop stormed the place. They caught one guy. The other two jumped the fence. Turns out they broke in through the basement window. One was charged with burglary and attempted kidnapping. The cop said I was lucky to escape. My friends, the ones I was gaming with, showed up on their bikes. Dude, are you okay?

Yeah. Thanks to you guys. I don't know what those men wanted. Maybe it was robbery. Maybe something worse. But I survived. Barely. And all these years later, those memories still hold.

haunt me. Because no matter how much time passes, that fear, that pure, sickening fear, never really goes away. Hello. My name is Bennett, and for the last 12 years, I have worked as an MTA employee for the New York City subway system. During that time, I've had a fairly substantial number of odd occurrences, reports, and stories happen on the job. The things I've seen and heard about down in the tunnels have always made for pretty good workplace banter, but I figured it would also be worth a shot to share some of the more unusual. 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 GoFund me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition. I've seen this myself. Last year, a friend of mine launched a go fund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in. People want to help. They just need a way to do it.

And GoFundMe makes it easy. So do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your life that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change. You can be the one who makes a difference. GoFundMe is the 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.

If you have any questions, I'll be happy to answer them down in the comments. Pretty much anyone who has ever rode the NYC subway knows that there are some interesting characters down there. From doomsday prophets to men claiming to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ, these guys can make for some of the most entertaining and or obnoxious parts of your day. Still, they're harmless enough. As long as you follow the general rule of thumb, which is to stare off into the distance and ignore them until they go away or you reach your stop, you should be fine. With that said, I always have to warn tourists about some of the more malicious people you might run into in the tunnels.

One of the more chilling stories I have is of the tall man in the bowler hat and overcoat. I'll never forget it. I had only been working for the MTA for a year or so when he first appeared. I never got a good look at the guy. No matter what way you angled yourself to him, he always seemed to turn the other way, almost like he was on some kind of invisible pivot. Even more frustrating, the people that he did face were simply never able to recall any of his features. Whenever you ask them, they just say that they hadn't noticed the guy until the commotion began, and once that happened, it was too late to find him in the crowd. What you always did see, however, was the stubby bowler hat that rested on his head and the big, brown

overcoat that extended from the nape of his neck all the way down to just above the heels of his shoes. What made the guy even more conspicuous was that he was always wearing the overcoat, no matter the time of day or weather. I mean, the first time I ever spotted him was in the middle of July. Not exactly the time of year for that line of clothing, if you ask me. The guy was also pretty damn tall. Nothing insane, but he was definitely over six feet tall, probably a little under six and a half. Anyway, the first time I saw the guy, I didn't make much note of him.

I have to re-emphasize, you see a lot of strange people in the NYC subway on a good day, and even more so if you have to work there. I made a small mental note about how unusual his clothing was and how hot the guy must have felt, but not much else. Then, a minute or so later, he pushed a lady onto the tracks. The poor woman didn't even really have a moment to process what was happening. The guy spent a minute just leaning a little over the yellow line, listening for the oncoming subway.

Then, once the rattle of the approaching train had gotten significantly louder, he just reached out one of his long, sleeved arms and swatted the lady next to him on the back. She yelled out as she hit the track, and then just a second or two later, the train hit. I didn't see anything after she fell in, but a few of the other passerby did. I was later told she landed on her back and that her arm flopped onto the live rail next to her. It's likely that she had already been electrocuted by the time she was ran over, but we'll never really know. A metro takes a while to stop once the brakes been applied, so by the time it had come to a stop, there was next to nothing left to examine.

When it happened, the whole platform erupted into it. pandemonium. You'd think they would have caught the guy right there, but he was just gone. Vanished. And, like I said, no one remembered getting a good look at the guy. It was probably one of the worst days of my life. Even worse, that wasn't the last time it happened. Not even six months later, I spotted the back of the guy in the brown coat walking through a turnstile. I ran up to catch him, but once I got over the turnstile, he had already melted away into the crowd. I didn't even see it happen. I just heard the yell and then watched the crowd devolve into chaos.

That time, it had been an elderly man. The guy was pushed into the side of a passing train. It broke his spine on impact, and he later died in the hospital. Again, the guy was not caught. That was the last time I ever saw him, but he did appear a few more times off my shift. He showed up three more times in the next four years, during which he killed two women in one little boy and seriously injured a middle-aged man. He appeared again around three years later, but the woman who was pushed that time

acted quickly enough to scramble back up to the platform before the train had reached the station. Finally, he was last spotted about three years ago, when he pushed a young man directly into the front of an oncoming train. The man was dead almost instantly. He hasn't been seen since, and I really hope that, whoever he was, he's gone for good. On a lighter note, there have also been some amusing stories about weird people on the NYC subway.

One that's always tickled my funny bone are stories about the infamous Little Caesar. A few years ago, for the period of a few months, there were frequent reports coming in from passengers about a short man dressed entirely in the garbs of a Roman emperor, were talking a toga, a laurel and sash. 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 GoFund Me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space,

or help a local kid finally get to that national competition. I've seen this myself. Last year, a friend of mine launched a go fund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in. People want to help. They just need a way to do it. And GoFundMe makes it easy. So do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your life?

that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change. You can be the one who makes a difference. GoFundMe is the 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. Walking into the train, pacing up and down the entire length of the car, and reciting something incomplete, fluent Latin for hours at a time. Most passengers would get off before. him whenever he rode the train, but a few claimed he would always get off on one of the first stops in Upper Brooklyn. Honestly, we were pretty sad when we stopped hearing stories about Little Caesar. Those tales always lightened up the mood with us MTA workers. Most likely, he was just

some prankster who really went the extra mile. One of the weirder phenomena actually has to do with MTA rules and regulations themselves. When I was first hired, I was told that it was imperative to count the number of subway cars on trains that stopped at our assigned stations and to report that number to the workers at the next station. On my very first day, I asked an older worker why we did this. She then told me that it was fairly common for trains to leave one station with one or two more cars than they would have when they arrived at the next one. I thought she was bullshitting me, but throughout that whole first day, trains would pass through with fewer cars than the reports coming in from the previous station. Same for the trains we

would send to the next station, I'd later find out that the numbers they counted didn't match up with ours. This has been happening pretty much the entire time I've worked for the MTA. Most of the time, a few cars have gone missing, though it's not uncommon for there to actually be more cars than were counted by the last station. The most bizarre part is that the varying number of cars never seems to get noticed by anyone else. As far as I know, there have never been any missing person's cases to come out of this phenomenon, and everyone who goes into the train eventually comes out. Even weirder, the numbers on the cars themselves are never missing.

The sequence of cars according to the numbers on their side are always, without fail, completely uninterrupted. I assume that's why we employees are told to count them. Otherwise, no one would really notice. The only time a subway car has ever gone legitimately missing was about five years ago. This one still perplexes me. A group of passengers reported that they had been shuttling along one of the tunnels when, somehow, the car behind them the last car on the train became detached from their own car.

Naturally, the passengers reported how stressed and afraid the people in that car had looked. We immediately radioed in what had happened and had the next train stop before reaching the tunnel. Luckily, the car was never hit. Unfortunately, it was also never found. We scoured that tunnel for the better part of four hours, but there's really only so much to do or say when an entire subway car has gone missing. I'm still not sure what could possibly have happened to it. To this day, that entire car and all of the passengers on it are unaccounted for.

One time, I caught a guy trying to smuggle live rabbits onto the train. I noticed a scrawny, shady-looking guy hopped one of the turnstiles and walked over to talk to him. It's not at all uncommon to see people hop the turnstiles. Probably happens a few hundred times a day. This guy, however, looked really pale, gray, and nervous. He was also visibly sweating, I would have assumed he was on drugs if it wasn't for his bulging shirt and the little squeaks coming from all over his body. When I asked the guy what was going on, he just clammed up and stood there.

Didn't move an inch. After a full minute of questioning him, I called over some other workers. At that point, the guy tried to bolt back to the entrance, but he got grabbed by another MTA employee who had been heading over to the ruckus. We restrained him until the police arrived, and when they had him strip out of his shirt, he just had living rabbits strapped all over his torso. Seriously. The guy was absolutely covered in rabbits.

You couldn't even see his bare skin underneath the squirming, squeaking mass of fur and flesh he had taped to his body. All of their mouths were bound shut with tiny bundles of rope that looped over their noses, and they had just been sort of taped to his skin. Once all of the rabbits had been removed, the police found his entire torso had been scratched up something fierce by the poor critters. To this day, I have no idea what the guy. was doing with the rabbits or why he had ever thought this was a good way to transport them.

Honestly, I'm not sure I want to know. One more story for now. Not too long after I had been hired, a man was accidentally separated from his daughter at my station. He had been holding her hand one moment, let go for so he could tie his shoe, and then stepped onto the train as it pulled up. It was only when the doors were closing that he realized she hadn't actually followed him on board. You could see the panic on his face right as the car's doors slid shut. Luckily, one of my pals noticed what had happened and notified the subway operator. Of course, the train was on its way to the next station already, so there wasn't much more that we could do other than plan on transporting the kid to her father or vice versa.

But then, the kid let loose something astounding. Apparently, she wasn't even supposed to be with her father. The girl then told us that her parents had split up the previous year, and the court had denied her father custody and given him practically no visitation rights on the basis of his abusive of tendencies. Her father had picked her up from her kindergarten class early that day and had been saying that he was going to bring her to the JFK airport so that they could live far, far away from her mother. The real reason the guy had looked so panicked in that moment, I suspect, was because he realized that he was about to be found out. We relayed what the girl had told us as quickly as

we could, and he was arrested at the next stop. That day was a good day. Anyway, that's all I have to say for now. I have a whole lot more stories about the subway to tell, so it's a If you all enjoy this, I'll probably be back. 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 GoFund me to help a friend pay for school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition.

I've seen this myself. Last year, a friend of mine launched a go fund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in. People want to help. They just need a way to do it. And GoFundMe makes it easy. So do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your life that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change.

You can be the one who makes a difference. GoFundMe is the 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 With more. Additionally, if you have any questions, or anything at all, really, I'm happy to respond below. Have a good day or night.

Mental hospital stories, I once accidentally handed over a patient, to another patient. I was working patient transport, knackard, running on vending machine coffee and regret. I get to the ward, see a bloke in scrubs with a clipboard, classic nurse starter pack. I do the full handover, like, here's Derek, he's diabetic, he's kicked me twice, he needs his meds by six. The bloke nods seriously. Doesn't say a word. Just wheels the patient off like he's got a pension and a lanyard.

Turns out, he was another patient. I'd literally handed over a vulnerable adult, to a slightly more enthusiastic, institutionalized vulnerable adult. Basically NHS passed the parcel. And the best bit? He took it seriously. He was like, right, we'll get your OBS done and see if the docks free. Like babes, you've just tried to set fire to a wet flannel.

But thanks for stepping up. In hindsight, they should have just sectioned me on the spot. Would have saved the NHS a ton of paperwork, and me two years of pretending I was fine. Because here's the thing, I used to drop people off at mental health wards, and I was convinced it was a trap. Like I'd be halfway through a handover and someone would go, All right, love, your turn now. Hand over the ID, I'd leg it out of there like I was escaping Scientology. No eye contact. No sudden movements. And then a few years later. I'm back. But this time, I'm not holding the clipboard. I am the clipboard. A day in the mental health ward,

mental health is such a taboo subject. People say you should talk about it, but the second you do, they run for the nearest exit. I never thought I'd end up in a psych ward. But in my defense, I also never thought I'd cry because my toast was slightly too toasted, yet here we are. At first, I thought the mental health ward would be like one flew over the cuckoo's nest. People walking around like zombies, shuffling, staring at the wall, unable to tell the time. How mistaken was I? Because that's actually the staff, not the patients. It's a war zone in there, honestly.

I remember once there was a commotion in one of the lounges. Now, I love a bit of drama, so I did what any sane person in a psych ward does, grabbed some crayons and started coloring while eavesdropping. Turns out, the TV remote had gone missing. Now in normal life, that's annoying. But in a psych ward, where there's literally nothing else to do, that remote is our only connection to reality. This was the worst thing that could happen.

Not because it was stuck on Capitol Radio, playing extremely loud, but because I knew that remote could be anywhere, and the staff can't possibly change the channel by the TV. That remote is the most important thing on that ward, it's even more protected than the medication. I once asked for my meds, and the nurse said, sorry. I'm busy. I looked over, and she was on all fours, searching under the sofa for the remote. I could be losing my mind, but God forbid we lose the ability to watch loose women. The ward dynamics. Another thing I noticed is that people with mental health problems love ordering food.

There was this one patient who ordered a takeaway every single night. Where was the money coming from? Benefits? Black market meds. Had they secretly invested in Bitcoin? I asked them once, and they just winked. Now I'll never know. One time, there was a patient with one of those creepy reborn dolls, proper realistic, like it just walked out of...

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 GoFundMe to help a friend pay for school. school, fund that new community space, or help a local kid finally get to that national competition. I've seen this myself. Last year, a friend of mine launched a GoFund me to help with medical bills after an unexpected surgery. It was incredible how fast the support rolled in. People want to help. They just need a way to do it. And GoFundMe makes it easy. So do you have a dream, a person, or a cause in your

life that could use some support? Don't wait for someone else to bring change. You can be the one who a difference. GoFundMe is the 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. All the midwife. Another patient hated it. One day, they stormed into the room, snatched the doll, held it up like Simba in the Lion King, and shouted, this is what the Lord calls sin. Then they sprinted down the corridor like they were on a devour. divine mission to rid the world of plastic infants. Staff eventually got the doll back, but honestly, I don't think it was ever the same again. You can't just survive an exorcism

and go back to being a normal fake baby. There was this woman on the ward who just refused to wear clothes. Like, fully committed to nudity as a lifestyle. Didn't matter the time of day, morning meds, lunch, a fire drill, she was out there, starkers, like some kind of a feral wellness guru. The staff stopped trying after a while. They'd just chuck a hospital sheet over her like she was furniture they were trying to protect from paint splashes. It became a routine, she'd strep down the corridor like a pissed off ghost, and someone would gently drape a blanket over her like, there, there. Dignity is optional, but linen is mandatory. I admired her, in a way. While the rest of us were having breakdowns over burnt toast and missing meds, she

was out here fighting for liberation, one naked lap of the ward at a time. Honestly. Iconic. Escapes and relationships, patients trying to escape happened on a daily basis. One patient tried to escape by casually walking out the front door. Staff stopped them and said, Where do you think you're going? They just shrugged and said, Tesco. Honestly, fair enough. If you're going to break out, might as well get a meal deal on the way. There was always one patient who somehow knew everyone's medication better than the doctors. Like, I'd say, I'm on Venla vaccine, and they'd nod, ah, SSN-R, watch out for the night sweats. Like mate, are you a patient or my pharmacist?

There was this one patient who fell in love with a pigeon that used to sit on the window, so. They'd talk to it, feed it bits of their toast, and one day, they announced, that's it, we're getting married. They even made a little ring out of a fruit pestil's wrapper. The pigeon never actually responded, but honestly. Probably the healthiest relationship in that place. At least the pigeon wasn't trying to get a takeaway every night.

The aliens and the catheter. I was casually standing there, biting a polystyrene cup, as you do, when this woman burst in screaming, the aliens are coming. Then, without hesitation, she grabbed a cup, started biting it too, and whispered, This will protect us. I don't know what kind of space warfare she was preparing for, but I wasn't about to take any chances, so I just nodded and kept chewing.

One time, a patient just sat at the dinner table, completely unbothered, casually emptying her catheter like she was topping up a drink. No shame. No hesitation. Just a full-on medical procedure may be. mid-lazagna. The worst part. No one even reacted. That's when I realized I'd officially been there too long. By the end of my time in the ward, I was starting to think maybe I belonged there. You get so used to the chaos, the strange routines, and the bizarre moments, that

normal life just feels weird. I remember one day, I thought I had finally cracked it. I was talking to this patient who was obsessed with escape plans, they had this elaborate scheme involving the fire exit, some string, and a stolen pen from the nurse's station. But here's the kicker, they actually managed to talk me into believing it might work. I started making plans in my head like I was really about to break out of Shawshank. Then, as we were plotting, the nurse walks by and says, you two need anything. Without skipping a beat, this person goes, yeah, can we get some more pens? These ones are running low. Honestly, that was the moment I realized, we might all be a little crazy, but we're all in this together.

And at the end of the day, escaping wasn't the goal. Surviving it was. So now, whenever I feel like I'm losing it, I think back to that escape plan. You know, just in case the pigeons are right and the aliens really are coming. Staff support, or lack thereof, some of the staff were lovely, genuinely. But some of them... I wouldn't trust them to water a plant, never mind care for people on the edge. You'd press the buzzer and 20 minutes later they'd appear like they'd just woken up in a different dimension.

One nurse came in once and went, what do you want now? I was like, basic human dignity. At one point, I cried for two hours straight in a beanbag chair and the only person who checked on me was the maintenance man. There were staff who clearly hated us, like we were inconveniencing them by existing. I get it. It's a hard job. But if you need to emotionally detach that much, maybe don't work in a place full of people trying not to die. One staff member came with me to the hospital. As soon as we got there, she looked at my twin sister Anne, dead serious, asked if she was my mom. Off to a cracking start. Then, while I was busy reverse engineering my insides into a sick bowl, she looked me dead in the eye and asked, Are you okay? Like girl, do I look okay? I'm auditioning for the Exorcist 2 over here. Meanwhile, she spent the rest of the time sipping coffee like she was on a brunch date with the tea lady.

Five stars. Would recommend. There was one staff member who, I'm convinced, didn't come to work, she came for the food. She'd queue up with us like she was clocking in for her prison sentence, tray in hand, eyes locked on the beige slop like it was Michelin Star. She once elbowed a patient out the way for the last jacket potato. I watched it happen. I thought, wow, someone here really does need sectioning, and it's not me this time. She even asked if she could have seconds once, while I was sat crying into a dry sponge

putting trying to remember my own name. It was comforting, in a bleak way, like, yeah, my mind's in pieces, but at least I'm not fighting mentally unwell people for lukewarm mash. not yet i once told a nurse i'm a paramedic and she immediately asked if i could show her how to use a pen torch a pen torch as in the most basic medical tool in existence i was like sure this end goes in the eye and this end goes in the bin if you're relying on me for training it was a humbling moment not because she didn't know because i realized i was now the most qualified person in the building and i just cried for twenty minutes because someone ate the last bit of toast. This post is more about the tenant's family than the tenant. This is a long one. Notes.

We have two American bulldogs who don't like strangers, our female dog hating men because of something that happened to her as a puppy. We have a gate and my mom rented out the downstairs, small but had all the necessities, to our tenant and regularly asked him if there was any problems down there. We have stairs going upstairs to where we live and a gate on the deck so our dogs have been up there and periodically going down when the family has been inside. So a few days ago my mum's tenant of ten years passed away so his family is downstairs packing up. This has all happened in the span of 48 hours. So his sisters and brothers stayed the night downstairs,

all is well and my mum isn't bothered by it. Come the day after and she's gone down to tell them that she wants to let the dogs out so to please stay inside for a little bit. She looks past them and notices the bathroom which looks horrific. Structural damage and mold everywhere. She calls her friend for emotional support because she's genuinely gobsmacked, and they go and ask the family to come take a look at it because it's past the point of being habitable. The tenant's sister has an attitude, some of what she said was, oh, you must know where the light switch is, with a snarky voice and pushes past my mum rudely and points to it. Also making other small comments while my mom looks at the bathroom.

When I tell you it was bad, it was really bad. The sister wouldn't let my mom even bring her phone up to take photos of it. She says other snarky remarks before my mum leaves. My mum being genuinely speechless and shocked, asked why he never told her about it, especially after we had floods and she was constantly asking if there's any problems down there. The night goes on and I'm sitting playing a game, come 2.30 in the morning the dog start aggressively barking at something. This goes on for about 30 minutes before my mom realized that there was a car behind our gate

parked up with people in it. She goes down and goes out the gate and asks them to please move their car down the driveway because the dogs are freaking out. The look like dears caught in headlights as if they didn't hear my mum at all. They had the doors open playing music and had two baby seats next to our gate outside. The guy in the car gets aggressive and doesn't want to move his car, while the dogs are still barking, mind you my mom said they looked out of it, not drunk or stoned, but definitely something else and like they were caught in the act.

My mom told them that they were racking up the dogs and can park their car down the drive and come back up and go into the downstairs, but they stayed down the drive. At this point my brother woke up and he had no idea what was happening. My mum came back up and came into my room and told me what happened, they also had a cat in the car. I end up not sleeping until around six in the morning because I was uneasy and woke up around 9.30 to more barking and my mom screaming to come get their kid. Turns out the toddler walked up our stairs, which are also about to get fixed so he could have fallen through them, and was putting his hand through the holes of our gate and our dogs were

about to attack him. If my mom wasn't there to hold the dogs back, it could have been so much worse. The parents from the night before didn't even come to see what was happening and just shouted at their kid to come back. The dad and mom were also shouting the whole morning about my mom and how she was being unfair. They quickly quieted down after what happened with their kid and left right after that. They haven't come back yet, but they will be. When they left my mom decided to see if they had done anything else since the night before the dad decided to have a hissy fit and kick our gate, so she looked in her car that's been sitting for years and found that they had put rubbish in her car full of nappies and other nasty stuff.

She put it back outside and next to her car so the family could know she found it. I've been talking with my mom and I told her that any slight hint of aggression or even a touch of our property to call the police, now we're just waiting on something else to happen. It's so uneasy and scary here at the moment. We need them to pack everything and go so we can address the health hazard downstairs, they shouldn't even be staying down there it's that bad, but in my country they have a right after 21 days of the tenant's death certificate to move everything out. There's no way in hell they are going to try and stay there for that long,

and they don't even have a right to as none of them are next of kin, who is the tenant's son who's only around 18 to 19. But if they try and stay any longer instead of just packing up and fucking off, we're going to have to trespass his whole family so only his son and his mom can go in there, which is the kind of stress we don't want to put on his son, he needs to grieve he doesn't need this bullshit. My opinion is on this. How dare you talk to my mom that way? and treat her like that after trying to make you welcome and opening and closing the gate for them

and leaving the dogs upstairs and just generally being good to them. This is her home she owns and has lived in for over 20 years and you come here being rude, disrespectful and outright intimidating to a place you haven't even visited before, and to stay here for as long as you guys have knowing that the bathroom down there is a health risk to all of you and not informing my mum of it is just fucking insane to me. They should have already had everything moved out and cleaned what they could have by yesterday. And not only are you being rude, but you aren't looking after your children knowing there are dogs and not even being phased after my mom screaming at you that he could have been killed. The negligence of their parents and the straight-up

entitlement is just bizarre to me. I will update if anything else goes down. You ever feel like some nights are just cursed. Like there's this invisible sign floating over your head that says, Weird stuff welcome here. Well, Halloween night a few years back was exactly that kind of night for me. See, I don't even know when you're supposed to stop trick or treating. There's no official memo that lands in your inbox that says, Hey, bud, you're too old for this now. I was 15 at the time, still a kid in a lot of ways, but old enough to drive if I lived in some rural county in Texas or something.

My thought was, if I made my own costume and walked around with my friends instead of getting chauffured by my mom, maybe I could stretch one more year out of it. So, I threw together this basic zombie get up. Slapped on some gross makeup, messed up my clothes a bit, and called it a nightcrawler look. Nothing to write home about, but hey, I wasn't trying to win a contest. Just wanted to grab some candy, hang out, and maybe recapture that Halloween magic before it faded for good. At first, it was me and a couple friends. But let me tell you, they could not stop staring at their phones.

Like every five seconds, heads down, thumbs twitching. I got tired of it fast, so I sped up. Didn't mean to ditch them, but by the time I looked back, they were half a block away. So I figured, whatever. I'll finish the loop myself. I crossed the street back and forth like an idiot, trying to hit the houses that still had lights on. But then it started feeling weird. Not spooky weird.

Just lonely and awkward. Like, I suddenly saw myself from the outside. outside, a kid with a half-assed costume, walking alone on Halloween, still begging for candy. Not a great look. That's when I saw him. He was walking toward me from the other end of the sidewalk. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed like Jason Voorhees. Like, full-on mask, tattered clothes, and, this is the part that messed with me, he was holding what looked like a legit machete. Not some plastic spirit Halloween toy This thing caught the streetlight

Real steel Now I'm not a jumpy dude But something about this guy made my stomach twist He didn't say anything right away Just stood in front of me for a second Like he was sizing me up Nice costume I said trying to act cool He tilted his head

Where's Freddy? I blinked Ah. I killed him, he said. Just like that. Flat. Like it wasn't a joke. Then he pulled a bag of candy out of his coat. Clear plastic, multicolored pieces bouncing around inside. He motioned for me to open my pillowcase. I hesitated, but I did it. He dropped the candies in. Eat those first, he said. They're great. Then he just kept walking. I didn't thank him. Didn't ask questions. Just stood there watching him vanish into the shadows.

After the last few houses, I headed home. There were still some kids around, but I was mostly alone. I started digging through my bag, looking for something to snack on. Everything was wrapped, except those candies Jason gave me. Loose, sticky, oddly shiny. I thought maybe they were like Mike and Ikes, so I tried to peel one off my hand and eat it. They were stuck. Like, really stuck.

So I set my bag down, trying to peel them free. That's when I looked across the street. Jason was there. Just, watching me. Same stance, same mask. He didn't move. Didn't wave. Just stared.

I freaked. grabbed my bag and speedwalked home, heart thudding. Got to the garage, closed the door, locked it. Peered out the window. He was still out there. Standing just outside our yard, motionless. He stayed like that for a few minutes, then turned around and walked off. Like it was nothing. I should have thrown those candies out right then. But I was more weirded out than anything. washed my hands, ignored them, went to bed. Next morning, my parents asked how the hall was. I dumped the candy on the table.

My mom immediately zeroed in on the loose ones. Where did these come from? Uh, some guy dressed as Jason. She picked one up, stared at it. These are prescription pills. Someone coated them in food coloring. And just like that, Halloween was dead to me. Now, fast forward a few years.

I was older, maybe 21, and made the brilliant decision to drive home drunk from a buddy's place. I live out in the sticks, deep woods, where the roads are so forgotten they don't even bother painting lines. My driveway is long enough to feel like a private road. Not my proudest moment, driving drunk. But I figured I was more likely to hit a deer than a person. So I kept it slow, windows down, trying not to pass out. Then I turned on to this stretch of road where visibility opens up. I hit the brakes.

There was a guy walking down the center line. Alone. In the middle of nowhere. Wearing a mechanics jumpsuit and, you guessed it, a hockey mask. Jason. My first thought. He must be lost. Maybe needs help.

But then he started walking faster. Straight at me. That was it. I floored it. Not directly at him, just off to the side. But I didn't slow down. I felt a bump, like something grazing the car. Checked the mirror.

He was still standing. Still watching. Made it home, heart hammering. Slammed the garage door shut and sat there in silence. wondering if I just hit a dude if he was going to show up at my door locked everything lights off

climbed in my car curled up in a sleeping bag my garage has no windows my car windows are tinted it felt safe eventually I fell asleep had nightmares about Jason banging on the garage door woke up sweaty

miserable and hung over Checked the house. No signs of entry. Nothing broken. I started to relax. Until I noticed the scratches. On both the front and back door locks. Thin, fresh gouges.

Someone had tried to pick them. Jason doesn't pick locks. He breaks stuff. But this one... He was methodical. That night, just before sunset, I backed out to go to a friend's place. That's when I saw it.

In my rearview mirror. A blade. Jammed into the side of my car near the rear tire. Embedded. Like someone had stabbed the car. I remembered the bump. The graze. He'd done that.

This guy had the strength and insanity to stab a moving car. If I'd stopped. If I'd opened the door to see if he was okay. I don't like thinking about it. So yeah, maybe that first Halloween was a warning. Maybe he was testing me, or marking me. And maybe I've got more stories to tell, but those, well, there for another night. To be continued.

It was getting close to Halloween. You could feel it in the air. The days were shrinking, the sky would go dark by five in the evening, and a weird kind of tension seemed to hang around like smoke. That day at work had been pretty normal. I was just getting my things together, zipping up my bag in the break room, and slipping on my coat when one of my co-workers said something that made everyone stop. There's someone in the parking lot.

Just kind of, standing there. Now, working at a bank, you get used to all kinds of people coming and going. I figured it was just a homeless guy on his way to the gas station across the street, but still, something about it made me hang back. I didn't want to walk out alone, just in case. So, I waited with the others inside the branch. Everyone grouped up near the front door while I made my way to my favorite spot by the drive-thru window, flipping through my tiny pocket calendar. I could hear the others chatting behind me, nervously joking around.

One of them muttered, is he wearing a mask? Like a Halloween mask? That got my attention. I swiveled in my chair to glance out the drive-thru window, about to say something like, Hey, it's almost Halloween, probably just a prank, when suddenly, an earth-shattering slam hit the glass right behind me. I screamed like hell, fell out of my chair, heart trying to crawl out of my chest. I turned and looked directly at the window.

There he was. A man in a hockey mask, flannel shirt, holding an axe above his head. He brought it down again. Wham! The sound split the air. It was so loud, I felt it in my teeth. But the glass didn't shatter. He stared straight into my soul with these cold, icy blue eyes through the holes in that mask.

Then, lowering the axe, he stepped back, lifted his left hand, and slowly dragged a knife across his throat. Not to cut himself, just a gesture. A threat. Then he bolted into the shadows. The copse showed up fast, scanned the whole plaza. Nothing. They couldn't find the guy with the axe or the first one who'd been loitering in the parking lot. Their theory.

It was a setup. One guy to distract us, the other to break in from the back. But the only thing I could remember was those eyes. So clear. So cold. They've haunted me ever since. The next day. I was back at work.

Yeah. I still work at a bank, different branch now, but same job. I have no clue if the guy really thought he could smash that thick drive-thru glass with an axe or if he just wanted to freak us out. But the knife in his other hand, it was small. Pointless for breaking in. So why bring it? I kept dreaming about it for weeks. In the nightmares, he breaks through.

comes inside and uses that knife on me. Now, let me switch gears. Because that wasn't even my story originally. That happened to my mom. She was 11 years old at the time, living in the same room I sleep in now. Our house is ancient, tucked away far from any main roads. No nearby neighbors. Like, five miles to the next human.

The back of the house looks out over woods, it's fenced off, not even easily accessible from the front yard. So here's her story, in her words. It was around 2 a.m. when I woke up to this weird scratching sound on my window. I thought it was tree branches rubbing against the screen. I tried to ignore it, but it kept coming back. Ten second gaps, over and over. It was rhythmic.

Repetative. Then it hit me. There weren't any trees by that window. Nothing close enough to make that kind of noise. So, I got up. Stood by the window. My heart was pounding like crazy. I didn't want to look, but I had to.

I pulled the blinds aside. And he was there. Tall. Silent. Wearing a Jason Borges hockey mask. Just standing there, rubbing a knife against the screen. He didn't move. Just stared at me.

And I stared back. Frozen. Then, just like that, he turned and ran into the woods. Disappeared. I screamed. My dad grabbed his shotgun and ran out, but the guy was long gone. To this day, I don't know if it was a prank or something way darker. The house is so far from anything, no one just stumbles upon it.

He came there on purpose. So yeah, creepy stuff seems to run in. the family. But wait, there's more. Last Halloween, I got invited to a company hosted bonfire party way up in the woods of upstate New York. I didn't really want to go, but they said I could bring friends and, well, open bar. So, I found a decent costume, volunteered to be designated driver, and drove my four drunk friends up to the event. The place was lit. Costumes, music, booze, you name it. Everyone was having a blast. My costume? Super basic. Just an Assassin's Creed hoodie. Said I was Michael Fassbender and called it a day. After a couple hours of craziness, I got bored.

Too loud. Too messy. So, I wandered off into the woods with my friends Kate and Leon. There were signs everywhere telling us to stay on the trails. Did we listen? Of course not. We were deep into the trees, trying to find a quiet spot to look at the stars. That's when Leon called us over. We followed his voice, and when we got to him, we all froze. There was a mattress. A full-on, queen-sized mattress just lying there in the dirt. Weird enough, but even worse. It was stained. Deep red blotches. Fresh-looking. Kate, being fearless, and a nurse, mind you, touched it with two fingers.

Still wet, she said. Leon freaked. That's real. Maybe it's a prop, I offered. Halloween party, right? Kate shook her head. Then why is it hidden way out here? I looked again and noticed something I hadn't seen before, a clean, untouched patch right in the center of the mattress.

torso-sized. Kate, if someone lost this much blood, could they survive? Not without an ER next door. Then Leon pointed. Hey, someone's coming. Out of the shadows walked a man. Jason Mask. Daryl Dixon vest.

Crossbow in hand. Hey man, Leon called out. You see anything weird back there? We found this. No response. The guy just stared. Kate asked, are you with the company? The man slowly lifted the crossbow, aimed it. At Kate. I shouted and shoved her out of the way just as he fired. The arrow zipped past and stuck into a tree. It was very real. Leon rushed him, trying to stop him from reloading. We all scattered, running like hell in different directions. I killed my flashlight, hoping he couldn't see me. I bolted toward the bonfire light, tripped and skinned my knee, but didn't stop. I ran straight to the DJ booth, yelling that someone tried to kill us.

Nobody took me seriously. Kate and Leon made it to the parking lot security booth, same deal. We tried talking to a company rep, he was wasted, didn't care. Eventually, we called the cops. waited in the car for over an hour. No one came. We left, went to the actual police station, and filed a report. Nearly a year later, still no update. Nothing. I don't know what that mattress was.

A real crime scene? Or just some twisted prank? Maybe we're in some viral YouTube prank video and don't even know it. But I remember how real it felt. That crossbow bolt The fear The sound The moment where every cell in my body screamed, run

I think I'm done with Halloween for a while I keep hearing her voice though My sweet, sweet Jason Mommy is so proud of you Now come home There's always a reason to be afraid The end I have the problem

I think my readers are basically moron I think I always keep over-explaining and elaborating too much. Do people here have tips on how to condense a scene if it's necessary? I can post an example scene of mine here, trigger warning, the excerpt deals with extreme violence. It may be very difficult or triggering for a lot of people to read. Okay, N. I'd like you to tell me as much as you can about the scientists who were in that lab, all right? David's voice was soft, steady.

But you don't have to continue if it becomes too much. Just say the word, okay. And nodded faintly. Oh, okay. Can you tell me who was there, and what they did? She took a shaky breath. Yes. She lost her focus with her eyes.

Her body went limp as she leaned back in her chair. Her voice was small, trembling, yet monotonous. As if she was reciting a shopping list. But each word seemed to press forward with quiet determination. There was Miss Cond. She, hated the lab. She only worked there to get treatment for her daughter's cancer. She would sneak us food when no one was looking.

Never hurt us. She just operated the machines. I. I used to hear her cry when we were suffering too badly. She was only in the upper level. And paused, her hands were. clenched in her lap. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady herself.

Then there was Mr. Sand. Her body flinched at the name, shoulders drawing in like she was bracing for a blow. Almost all punishments came from him. He terrified me the most. He, her voice cracked, but she pushed on. He loved it. Waterboarding, burning us. He'd make up reasons, like, like looking at him wrong.

wrong. Then he'd punish me. And the others. Four hours. Sometimes days. While he laughed. David leaned forward gently, concern etched in his face. Anne, you don't have to keep going. It's okay, she whispered, eyes fixed on the floor. I want to. There was a pause. Then Johnny, David's colleague, frowned and rubbed his chin. Wait. I remember something. During the bust, there was this one guy holding a boy hostage, boasting about cutting his fingers off. I. I shot him.

I didn't even think. I just, yeah. And said, almost absently. That was probably Mr. Sand. He also sawed off my arm. She lifted the stump of her left arm, her expression strangely flat. The room fell silent. David and Johnny exchanged a stunned look, the weight of her words sinking in like lead.

And continued, her voice growing quieter. Most of the others, they just kept to themselves. They'd inject us with radioactive materials to cause cancer, take tissue samples, just, science stuff. She gave a bitter, hollow laugh that didn't reach her eyes. Funnily enough, everyone hated Mr. Sand. Even the other scientists. But, he got the cure for cancer further than anyone else.

He was a genius. So they treated him like a necessary evil. She paused to breathe. That's all the names I remember. Most of them were just, they're too long. I think they stopped seeing us as people. They were morally corrupted. Johnny asked gently, and hesitated, blinking slowly.

I. I don't know. Some liked hurting us. Some tried to avoid it. But most of them, they just didn't care anymore. They were numb. Hardened to the screams. She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to pull another name from her memory. There was Mr. Taru. He was always angry. On edge. One wrong move and, there'd be a wet cloth on your face, just like that. She snapped her fingers, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Others weren't angry. Just cold. Empty. Johnny leaned toward David and whispered, does this match our intel? David nodded grimly. Yes. What and couldn't know is, most of them didn't start out like that. They weren't monsters. They became them. The longer they stayed, the worse they got. Like the lab was eroding what was left of their humanity. Silence settled over the room like a fog. And sat still, her eyes glassy, lost somewhere between memory and the present.

There also was Mr. Kahn, they, kidnapped and forced him to work there. He did unimportant jobs like transporting stuff from one end of the lab to another. He was a captive. Ah, yes, I can remember the guy, David said, his voice low. He's not feeling well too, we thought he just was a new test subject that hadn't been starved or had their skin rotting away. He looked at Anne, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. You mean the one we found tied up in that auxiliary corridor?

Small for his age, dark hair. And nodded slowly, her gaze drifting upwards as if seeing the ceiling of the lab. Yes. Mr. Kahn. He, he was gentle. Quiet. Sometimes, when he had to bring things to our cages, at least until I was moved down, he'd just look at us with so much sadness. He couldn't do anything, he said. But he never hurt anyone. He was just trying to survive. She hugged herself tightly, her right arm wrapping around

her chest. They told him, they told him they'd hurt his family if he didn't do exactly what they said. He wasn't a scientist. He was just a delivery man, they said. Grabbed off the street. Her voice was barely a whisper now. He used to hum sometimes, very softly. When no one else was around. Little lullabies. Johnny leaned back, a sigh escaping him. Oh dear. A prisoner helping prisoners. David rested his hand gently on Anne's knee. Thank you, Anne. That's important information about Mr. Kahn. We found him, and he's safe now. Getting help. A faint, fragile smile touched Anne's lips at the mention of Kahn being safe. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. The others. She trailed off, her eyes becoming distant again. The others weren't like him.

Not after a while. Even the ones who started out looking scared. They'd see Mr. Sand, or Mr. Taru, or others, that were sometimes moved up to get something, do things, and they'd just, watch, or turn away. And then they'd do something small themselves. A little poke. A little pinch. Just to see what it felt like, maybe.

And it would get bigger. And bigger. The euphoria of power quickly overrode their moral values. She shivered, despite the warmth of the room. It was like, the lab was hungry. And it ate away at them. Until there was nothing left inside but the job. And the cruelty.

Like a sickness, Johnny murmured, his gaze fixed on Anne's face. Yes, and whispered, her voice heavy with the weight of her memories. A sickness. She fell silent, the quiet in the room amplifying the unspoken horrors she had just described. There was also Mr. Conner, he was the mastermind, the sickness. He knew exactly whom to place where. He was always calculated and precise. He made sure Mr. Taru and Mr. Sand were in charge for punishments

while Mr. Khan and Miss Condominium would interact as little as possible with us. He would make sure everyone would be, flourishing in the tasks of the lab they liked most. He wanted to sell the cure later. He didn't care for anyone, but he also didn't hurt anyone. He always motivated everyone to do his best. When new people were introduced, I never knew until at least six months after they were introduced, he made sure to always only show the sunny side of the lab first and to gradually show more and more, destroyed people.

If you were a new employee there, you'd first see nothing. Then after a few months mild rot. A few months later you'd already see patients who had severely rotten away. Then, you'd see your first torture later and you'd, be swallowed deeper and deeper into the lab. I was only seen by the ones who had already been in the lab for years. If my state worsened I'd be given to more and more numb people. When scientists were in an area for a long time they were promoted, in other words, moved to a more brutal sector of the lab. At least that's what I was able to deduce from being moved in see.

seeing staff being moved. And then, eventually, well, I escaped and called the police. And everyone got busted. Funnily enough the food also dropped from level to level. At first, I got bread and good meals. In the end, I had to survive off rats and vermin. Johnny let out a slow breath. So, it wasn't just a collection of sadists. It was, designed. A machine for breaking people down, staff and subjects alike. And nodded, her gaze fixed on some point in the distance. Yes. He knew. He knew what would happen. He planned it. Silence hung heavy in the air once more, punctuated only by the soft hum of the building's ventilation. David looked at Anne, his expression a mixture of profound sadness and respect. Anne, he said, his voice gentle.

What you've told us, it's incredibly brave. And it's going to help us understand just how deep this went. How they operated. He paused, letting his words sink in. You said you deduced a lot of this from observing staff movements and your own experience being moved. That's remarkable, under those conditions. And didn't respond immediately, her face still and drawn. The recounting seemed to have exhausted her, pulling her back into the

suffocating reality of the lab. Johnny spoke softly, and escaping and calling the police, getting out, you saved everyone, Anne. You stopped him. A faint tremor went through Anne's body. I. I just wanted it to stop, she murmured, her voice roll. For me.

For the others. She finally met David's eyes, a flicker of vulnerability showing through her composure. R. Are they all gone? The ones who hurt us. David nodded firmly. Yes, Anne. Everyone involved in the lab was apprehended during the raid. Mr. Sand, Mr. Taru, Mr. Conner, they are all in custody. Miss Cond, too, though her situation is, complicated. And's shoulders seemed to relax infinitesimally at the confirmation. The tension in her face eased slightly, replaced by a weary relief. It's over, Johnny added, his voice kind.

Because of you, Anne. You ended it. She closed her eyes for a moment, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. It, it feels over, she whispered, the words of fragile admission. David reached out, gently covering her hand with his own. You are safe now, Anne. You are not there anymore. and you don't ever have to be. He looked at Johnny, then back at N. We have a lot more questions

about the labs operations, the other subjects, perhaps details that might help us with the ongoing investigation and help the other survivors. But, you've already given us so much today. If you need to stop, it's perfectly all right, and took a slow, deep breath, letting it out shakily. She wiped her cheek with her good hand. I. I think I can answer a little more, she said, her voice still quiet but gaining a touch more resilience. What else do you need to know?

David squeezed her hand gently. Thank you, Anne. Thank you. Let's take it slowly. Can you tell us anything about the total number of children? Or how they chose who became a subject? And nodded, her gaze distant again, returning to the ghosts of the past she was determined to confront. There were always, cycles. She began. They'd bring new ones in, and then some would

disappear, I lost track. Some died. Of course only the lowest areas were for corpse disposal. Nobody who wasn't used to corpses was supposed to be for corpse disposal. They stuffed corpses into garbage bags and the higher floors thought the corpses of us children were garbage. Sometimes, sometimes you'd see a new delivery truck come in, and you'd know, more were coming. They were always scared. Tiny. She hugged herself tighter. How many?

I don't know. Too many. Always too many. Sometimes they bring in older ones too, teenagers, but mostly little kids. Easier to, handle, I guess. Easier to break. And how were they chosen? David asked softly, and blinked slowly, focusing back on the room.

Chosen. She seemed to consider the word. I. I heard them talk sometimes. When they thought we couldn't understand. Or wouldn't remember. A shadow passed over her face. They looked for ones who wouldn't be missed.

Runaways. Children from, difficult homes. places where the police wouldn't look too hard or too soon she swallowed her throat working and and sometimes they just took them from parks from streets like mr conne her voice dropped to a whisper again just gone nobody looking nobody caring i was put into there after mr greens the serial killer, murdered my parents and made a quick buck by selling me there. The room went silent again, the previous heavy quiet now feeling impossibly heavier. David and Johnny exchanged a look of stunned disbelief, their faces mirroring the fresh wave

of horror that washed over them. The brutality they had heard about was immense, but the sheer, cold-blooded transaction of a child, sold by the man who had orphaned her, added a grotesque layer they hadn't fully anticipated. David's jaw tightened, his gentle demeanor hardening slightly at the edges. He. Greens, he said, the name a bitter taste on his tongue. We know that name. He's, already accounted for.

He didn't elaborate, but the implication was clear, Greens would face justice for all his crimes, including this one. Johnny leaned forward, his voice low and sympathetic. Anne, I. I am so sorry. That is, that is beyond anything. And just stared ahead, her eyes blank. The word seemed to have been spoken not to them, but to the air, a statement of fact from a life steeped in the unbelievable.

He said it was easy money, she murmured, her voice flat. Easier than fencing their things. She fell silent for a moment, the raw, unimaginable truth hanging between them. Then, slowly, she shifted, drawing her knees up slightly towards her chest, a protective gesture. The cycles, she said, her voice regaining a sliver of its earlier strength, pulling herself back from the brink of that specific, searing memory. They always had new ones. To replace, the ones who were used up.

She shuddered. Sometimes, sometimes you'd see them being brought in. Wrapped in blankets, quiet. You'd know they were new, untouched, and you'd just dread what they would become. Did you ever interact with the new children? David asked softly, his gaze steady on her. Could you, try to warn them? Help them understand.

And shook her head slowly, the movement weary. No. Never. We were kept strictly separate. The ones who were, more damaged, like me, were in the way. the deeper levels. The new ones, they started higher up, where it looked cleaner. Where the scientists weren't so, broken yet. She paused, thinking, it was part of Mr. Conner's plan, I think, to ease the new staff in, and to keep the new subjects, naive. They couldn't

see what was coming until it was too late. Like the staff, Johnny observed, the parallel striking and chilling. They were all being processed by the lab in different ways. Yes, and whispered. Processed. That's a good word for it. She looked down at her hands again, flexing the fingers of her right hand. There was one little boy, when I was moved down a level. I saw him. He was very small, crying quietly. He had bright red hair. I never saw him again after that day. I never saw him again after that day. I don't know what happened to him. A fresh wave of sadness seemed to wash over her, the specific memory of that crying child adding another face to the nameless horror she had endured. David nodded, making a note on the pad in his hand. Red hair. Small. We'll check

the records. See if we can identify him. He paused, letting the silence hang for a moment before continuing. And, you mentioned the levels, and how the staff and subjects were moved according to their condition or time in the lab. Can you describe the different levels? What did you see? And took another shaky breath, preparing to delve deeper into the teared nightmare of the lab. There were, it felt like many floors. But they called them sectors, I think. Or levels. The highest levels, they were almost sterile. Like a normal hospital lab, maybe. That's where Miss Condominium worked.

And where the new subjects were brought in first. And in the last levels, you know, you ate rats. On the first floors we had, larger cells and in the lowest cells we were crouching in small cages, that were alomst-like animal carriers. I was moved so downward so quickly because I was a small child and it might have upset employees that hadn't been desensitized so much, do you need to know anything else? else. David let the words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them settling in his chest. He had heard stories of places like the one and described, but hearing it firsthand, through

the voice of a survivor, was something else entirely. Her resilience, even in the face of unimaginable horror, left him with a deep respect for her strength. And, he said softly, I know this is a lot. But your memory of those levels, of how everything was arranged, it could help us build a clearer picture of how the whole thing worked. We need to understand it, so we can ensure this never happens again. And's eyes flickered with something close to exhaustion, but she nodded. Her voice was steady, though soft. The highest levels, they had rooms with glass windows. I used to wonder why it was so clean. And why the people who worked there never looked at us. They just, did their jobs. They didn't interact.

with us much. I think they still thought we were just experiments, not people. Once my hand was rotten and scabbed I was moved down. Then, down there, they hit me and restrained me for the first time. Then, one more floor down, they used chains and burned me for the first time. On the next floor, they choked and then, the deepest floor, where I spent the most of my time, one year, when, I was nine and a half to ten and a half. My entire body was decaying at that point and there, they constantly waterboard us for hours. They burned us, one got her throat cut, another one was hanged, I was already whipped on the level before, but here they had no mercy. And they did it for longer and longer periods, in the end they did it for days. David and Johnny listened,

their expressions growing increasingly grim as and described the descent through the labs levels, each step down marking a new threshold of suffering. The contrast between the sterile, almost normal seeming upper floors and the unspeakable horrors of the lowest was stark and sickening. Glass windows, Johnny repeated, his voice flat with disbelief. Like a display. And they didn't look at you. No, and confirmed, her gaze distant again, seeing the sterile corridors in her mind. They just, performed their procedures, took samples. Injected things. It was clinical. Impersonal.

Like we were specimens under a microscope. She shivered slightly, the memory of that cold indifference perhaps as chilling as the pain itself. Being moved down, that's when it started to change. The rooms got smaller. Dirtier. The people, they looked different. more tired or angry. She described the progression, the first instance of physical restraint, the chains, the burns, the choking. Her voice remained quiet, almost detached, as if recounting a nightmare that had happened to someone else. But the subtle clench of her hands in her lap, the slight tremor in her shoulders, betrayed the deep trauma beneath the surface composure. The lowest levels, she whispered, the words heavy with the weight of countless

agonizing hours. That's where, where Mr. Sand was most of the time. And Mr. Teru would visit. She swallowed hard. The cages, they weren't even big enough to stand up straight. Just, metal boxes. And the smell, it was terrible. Sickness. Filth. Fear. Her voice wavered slightly as she spoke of the constant waterboarding, the burns, the unspeakable acts she had witnessed and endured. You'd hear things. All the time. Crying. Screaming. Sometimes, sometimes you'd hear nothing at all. And you'd know. She trailed off, unable to articulate the grim certainty that silence in those lowest levels brought. David and Johnny remained silent for a long moment, absorbing the full impact of her words.

The clinical detachment of the upper levels evolving into the outright sadism of the lower created a chilling picture of deliberate, escalating cruelty. And, David said, his voice gentle but firm, thank you for telling us this. It paints a horrifying picture, but it's a picture we need to see. He paused, letting her have a moment to compose herself. You mentioned the other subjects, those who disappeared, those who died. Do you? Do you have any memory of specific individuals who were in those lowest levels with you? And took another shaky breath, her eyes closed for a brief moment. When she opened

them, the haunted look was still there, but there was also a flicker of something else, a quiet resolve to bear witness for those who couldn't. There was, there was a boy named Sam, she began, her voice soft. He was older than me. Maybe, ten. He tried to protect the younger ones, tried to tell them stories. He didn't last very long down there. Her voice cracked. They, they broke him. She recounted fragments of memories, a little girl who always hummed, even when she was

hurting, a quiet teenager who spent hours staring at the wall, the nameless faces of those who faded and were gone. Each memory was a pinprick of pain, a testament to the lives consumed by the lab. It was hard to remember names, and admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. After a while, everything just blurred together. The pain. The hunger. The fear.

And people, they just became, bodies. She hugged herself tighter, her right arm a frail anchor in the storm of her memories. But Sam. I remember Sam. She started to shake and tremble. I can remember that I saw. two getting hanged, one adult and a child, and two adults and a child got their throats cut. David nodded slowly, making notes. Johnny was starting to sweat. Sam. Around 10 or 11.

Tried to help others. He looked at Anne, his gaze full of empathy. That's important, Anne. Every detail helps us understand the full scope of what happened. He glanced at Johnny, who gave a small supportive nod. Anne, David continued softly, you've been incredibly strong. You've given us information that is vital to understanding this case and helping the other survivors.

We can take a break now if you need it. Or, if you feel you can continue, there are a few more things that might help us. He left the choice entirely with her, giving her the control that had been so brutally denied to her for so long. The silence hung in the air, waiting for Anne's decision. The weight of the past pressed down, but the fragile light of hope, of justice, flickered in the quiet room. There also was an employee that tried to snitch,

and said, but he got caught, and well, the next day, Mr. Connor personally held a speech about dire consequences awaiting everyone of the lab were to be revealed, about how confidentiality was key, he also stated that unfortunately the employee that had tried to snitch had passed away tragically. Everyone understood, but no one spoke it out aloud, that's probably the thing that held them in line the most, the fear, but also the inability to communicate with others. David exchanged a heavy glance with Johnny, whose hand had started to tremble. The implications of N's latest revelation were stark. Connor hadn't just built a system that eroded humanity, he actively enforced silence and compliance through lethal means, dressed up in corporate euphemisms like confidentiality, and tragic accidents.

So, Conner didn't just rely on the environment-breaking people, Johnny murmured, leaning back slightly, his brow furrowed. He used direct threats. Made an example. David nodded grimly. And controlled the narrative completely. Ensuring everyone knew the price of stepping out of line, without ever needing to explicitly state the murder.

He turned back to Anne, his voice gentle, laced with concern. And, do you remember anything about that employee? Who they were? What they tried to do? And shook her head slowly, her eyes fixed on her lap. No. I didn't know his name. I just heard, whispers.

After it happened. People were scared. Quieter than usual for days. She looked up, her gaze distant. Connor's speech, it wasn't angry. It was calm. Disappointed. Like, like a teacher talking about a broken rule. But everyone knew. Everyone felt the cold. The fear she mentioned wasn't just about physical punishment, David realized. It was the pervasive, chilling certainty that they were utterly trapped, monitored, and disposable, enforced by a leader who could orchestrate death with

calm precision. It explains a lot, David said softly. Why no one spoke up sooner? Why even someone like Miss Cond, who clearly felt empathy, felt trapped? The fear, and the inability to communicate and echoed, nodding slightly. We were kept separate. The staff, they barely spoke to each other either, unless it was about work, especially across different levels. It was like everyone was in their own little box. Alone. She looked at David, a flicker of exhaustion crossing her face. The effort of pulling these memories, organizing them, and speaking them aloud was clearly taking its toll. The initial determination was fading, replaced by a deep weariness. David saw it instantly. He placed his hand gently over hers again. And, he said,

his voice firm but kind. You've done more than enough for today. More than we could have asked. This information, about Conner's control, the attempted whistleblower, the enforced isolation, it adds crucial pieces to the puzzle. But you need to rest now. Johnny nodded in agreement. He's right, Anne. You've been incredibly brave, incredibly strong.

Pushing yourself further won't help anyone right now, least of all you. And didn't protest this time. She simply nodded, leaning back in her chair, the tension finally seeming to seep out of her small frame, leaving behind a profound tiredness. A single tear escaped and tracked its way down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it away. Okay, she whispered, the word barely audible. Okay, David repeated softly. We'll stop here for today. We can talk again when you feel ready.

No pressure, no rush. your well-being comes first. He squeezed her hand one last time before letting go. Thank you, Anne. Truly. What you did today, it matters. Ns started to gain their focus back. She started to tremble too. W. Was it good, and asked, what I did. Busting the lab? They said they were being good to us, all the time, was I ungrateful. David met and trembling gaze, his expression softening with profound empathy and conviction. He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and steady, cutting through her doubt. And, he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. What you did, busting that lab, was absolutely, unequivocally good.

It was incredibly brave. It was the right thing to do. He held her gaze firmly. Listen to me. When they told you they were being good. to you, that was a lie. A cruel lie used to control you, to make you doubt yourself, just like all the other terrible things they did. There was nothing good about what happened in that place. Nothing. They hurt you. They hurt other children. They took away your childhood, your safety, your arm, they did monstrous things. He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, wanting her to truly hear them past the echoes of her captors manipulation. Being grateful doesn't apply when someone is hurting you, and, he continued gently but firmly.

You don't owe gratitude to people who cause you pain and terror. What you felt, the need for it to stop, wasn't ungratefulness. It was survival. It was strength. Johnny nodded emphatically beside him. They were the ones who were wrong and, completely, horribly wrong. You saw the truth, even when they tried. tried to twist it. You acted on it. You saved yourself, and you saved others who couldn't.

You stopped them from hurting anyone else. David reached out slowly, resting his hand near hers on the table, not touching unless she leaned into it. What you did took immense courage. You weren't ungrateful. You were heroic. Please, never doubt that. You did something truly good. The end. Simone Ignacio Gonzalez, better known as Mona or Ramon Cito, was born on December 20, 1994, in Argentina. There isn't a lot of detailed information about his early life, but from what people say, he was just a regular kid. Sweet, kind, well-mannered, and with a dream, he wanted to become a doctor. However, when it comes to his family life, the story gets a bit messier. Some accounts claim he lived with his mom and younger brother, others suggest he had three half-siblings, and yet another version says,

he lived with his grandmother and aunt. Regardless of who he lived with, one thing is clear, his childhood was chaotic. At home, resources were scarce, and everyone had to pitch in. Ramon Cito's mom, Norma Gonzalez, had an intellectual disability in made a living through prostitution. She barely spent time with her kids and was described as unstable. Ramon Cito had to fend for himself most of the time. He attended school in the afternoons, starting at 1 p.m., but he often skipped classes. His main hobby was going to the local cyber cafe to play video games with his friends. But this wasn't free.

To fund his gaming sessions, he took up odd jobs, selling little religious stickers near the old train station or helping people carry their bags in exchange for a few coins. The money he earned was just enough to support his hobby and occasionally by himself something small. Most of the time, though, Ramon Cito was out on the streets, unsupervised, going from one place to another. His vulnerability was obvious to anyone paying attention. By late 2006, Ramon Cito was 12 years old and studying at school number 973 in the Arturo-Illia neighborhood. According to his teacher, Melita Quavis, he was an incredibly intelligent child, but unfortunately, he missed classes frequently. Some days he showed up, but he would leave shortly after. Quavis noticed that his mother was neglecting him, despite her supposed desire for him to stay in school and fit in.

Sadly, his environment didn't allow him to thrive. The first major warning sign came in late September when his teacher overheard Ramon Cito talking to some other kids about topics that sounded strange and concerning. He was asking if they believed in black magic, discussing it like it was some casual after-school subject. Then he mentioned knowing a woman who could talk to the dead. What might have been shrugged off as a childish joke felt darker in hindsight because Ramon Cito was naive, and this topic seemed way beyond his years.

Around the same time, his aunt Olga noticed something unsettling. One morning, while combing his hair, she saw a large bruise on his head. When she asked him about it, he claimed another kid had hit him. A few days later, he complained of severe back pain, saying it hurt so much he could barely move. Once again, Olga asked him if his mom had hit him or if he wanted to see a doctor. Ramon Cito brushed it off, refusing to elaborate. As the days went on, life appeared to return to normal. Ramon Cito kept going to school, hanging out at the Cyber Café, and meeting up with friends.

On Thursday, October 5, 2006, his routine seemed ordinary. But the next day, Friday, October 6, things took a dark turn. Ramon Cito's school day started at 1 p.m. He arrived at the school, entered the classroom, and quickly left again. He handed a coin to a classmate for a raffle and disappeared. Later that day, Maria Soledad de la Rosa, the owner of the Cybercafe, saw him there. He came in, played games, left, returned with a friend, and then left again. That would be the last confirmed sighting of Ramon Cito alive. Rumors swirled about his

whereabouts that evening. Some said he was seen riding a bike with other kids, selling religious stickers. Many sources claimed the last time he was seen alive was around 11 p.m., but this timeline would later be proven incorrect. As night fell, his mother grew increasingly worried. Ramon Cito hadn't come home, hadn't called, and hadn't told anyone where he was. Frantic, she and her sister Olga went to the police station to report him missing. The officers, however, brushed them off, refusing to file a report in telling them to wait. By the next morning, Saturday, October 7th, Ramon Cito was still nowhere to be found. His mother returned to the police station, and this time, they finally agreed to file a missing

person report. But even with the report filed, no active search began. No officers were deployed, no flyers were printed, and nothing happened. It wasn't until Sunday, October 8th, that anyone started to take action, but by then, it was too late. Early that Sunday morning, a group of stray dogs caused a commotion near the old train tracks. Their incessant barking drew the attention of a local woman whose backyard faced the tracks. Annoyed by the noise, she went outside to shoe them away.

That's when she saw it, something in the bushes. Curious, she approached and made a horrifying discovery, the lifeless body of a young boy. The police were immediately called, and news spread fast. Neighbors gathered around the scene, creating chaos as authorities tried to control the crowd. What they found was straight out of a nightmare. The area near the tracks was littered with school supplies. Further in, among the bushes, lay the body of a boy estimated to be between 10 and 12 years old. Due to his emaciated appearance, he initially looked even younger.

The body was face down, covered in gruesome injuries, cuts, burns, and bruises. His underwear was pulled down, exposing his genitals, which were mutilated, suggesting brutal sexual abuse. But the worst part was yet to come. The boy had been decapitated. His head was placed beside his body, specifically on his left shoulder. The head wasn't just severed, it had been meticulously stripped of skin, flesh, eyes, tongue, and other soft tissues. What remained was a bare skull, eerily clean.

At first, investigators thought animals had done this, but it quickly became apparent that the mutilation was the work of skilled hands. Even more disturbingly, there was no blood at the scene. It was clear this wasn't where the boy had been killed. His body had been drained of blood beforehand, and deep cuts suggested it had been done intentionally to collect the blood. His wounds were ritualistic, precise, and strange. The body had been deliberately posed, with its legs crossed and oriented toward the rising

sun. Adding to the horror, four vertebrae were missing from his spine. The body was so mutilated that Ramon Cito's mother couldn't identify him. DNA tests were required, but they wouldn't yield results for years. Meanwhile, the discovery sent shockwaves through the community. Media outlets covered the story extensively, protests erupted, and the streets of Mercedes, a city already grappling with poverty, crime, and corruption, became the same. center of attention. Mercedes, located in Coriente's province, Argentina, had a reputation for being

a melting pot of cultures and beliefs. Over centuries, waves of immigrants had brought their traditions, which blended with local customs and Christianity. This fusion gave rise to practices like candomble, ambanda, and voodoo. Mercedes is also home to the sanctuary of Gacchito Gill, a folk saint revered in the region. The mix of diverse beliefs created a unique but sometimes dark spiritual atmosphere. Social inequality was another defining feature of Mercedes. The gap between the rich and the poor was glaring, and crime was rampant. Drug trafficking, human trafficking, and exploitation of vulnerable children were widespread issues.

Children like Ramon Cito, often sent to the streets to earn money, became easy targets for exploitation and abuse. As the investigation into Ramon Cito's murder dragged on, public interest waned. Protests dwindled, and the media moved on to our own. other stories. Adding to the frustration was the slow pace of the DNA testing. According to reports, the test wasn't conducted until March 2010, with results not arriving until August of that year. People were outraged, but some understood the delay. The case was complex, filled with bizarre and unprecedented details. One wrong move could jeopardize the entire investigation. By May 2007,

authorities confirmed that the murder was ritualistic. To unravel the mystery, they sought the expertise of anthropologist Jose Umberto Maselli. His findings shed light on the case. According to him, the crime was the work of a fledgling cult. The way Ramon Cito's body was positioned, aligned with the sunrise, symbolized the birth of a new belief system. In a cult practices, different sides of the body have distinct meanings, the right side is associated with white magic, and, preface, this takes place at some point in the early part of the 1990s. My family had lived in a small steel town in post-Ragan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virgina plants were decimated by layoffs. Long story short, I was uprooted from my village life in the Midwest and moved to Connecticut.

This was December of 1988, and I was 10 years old. Fast forward a few years and I had adapted to our new life in a much larger northeastern town. We lived on a rather busy local route. Two lanes with a 45-mile-per-hour speed limit. The individual family lots had space, but close enough that everyone had a small piece of land. My old town was a village that had one traffic light and was less than two miles from end to end. Growing up my friends living in more suburban areas all had paper routes and once I turned 13,

I decided it was my time to do so. I contacted one of the local paper companies and they stated they had a route open on my street. The caveat was that it was normally a route that was handled by car as it was six miles from end to end. I was used to the bike ride and had an excellent 90s BMX bike that I enjoyed tooling around on, it was a general hustler for anyone that wants to know. I was your typical

latchkey child of the 90s. My parents both worked and were out of the house from 7 a.m. until at least 6 at night. I was determined and took the route. All was going well for about six months. It was getting near holiday season, and I was anxiously awaiting Bill Collection week. Back then everyone paid for the paper in cycles. During the November to December cycles people would tip much better, and I was hoping to score some decent extra money. After going through my usual route, which was again six miles in one direction and maybe forty-ish houses I had turned around and was headed home for the night as I had done hundreds of times before.

I started my route after school and usually it took around two hours for the entire thing. This day I was running a little later than usual as I was collecting, and the sun was starting to go down as I approached the final few hills that stood in the way of me and my house. At the top of the first hill, where there was a small plaza with a barber and a package store, that's a liquor store for those of you not in New England. I pulled my bike to a stop, as I was having issues with the brakes grabbing. As I was adjusting the rear brake by like a contortionist, still seated and facing forwards I heard someone say, hey, paperboy, from the road. I looked over to see a white panel van, surprisingly sands the free candy, on the side of it.

There were two guys riding in front, and it was the one in the passenger seat, with the window down that was addressing me. Stunned for a second that someone had stopped in the middle of the road the guy addressed me again with a, Hey, Paperboy, what's in the bag, talking about my courier bag tied to my handlebars. It was at this moment that I heard the door on the back of the van open and my instincts went haywire. I was a large kid for my age, five feet ten inches, and maybe 150 pounds, but there were two large men in the van, and my flight button was pushed. I kicked the pedals on my bike as hard as I could just as two more guys with a length of rope came around the corner of the van on my side of the road. There aren't many houses on this part

of the route, and I knew there was no way I was getting up the huge hill where our rental sat on its crest. Not with two guys and a van after me. I booked it to the one house I could see with the lights on, ditched my bike with a running dismount and started simultaneously pounding on their door and trying to open it. Thank the fates that the owners were near the entrance as they opened it almost immediately. I was so out of breath I couldn't talk but managed to gasp out a help while pointing back at the road. At this point the two guys on foot made it to the edge of the lawn, and the van was slinking down the road. The nice family took me in, and deadbolt the door. I could hear from outside, though, a very loud, we'll see you

tomorrow, paperboy. Followed by the van taking off. The police were called, and a report was filed. They escorted me the less than a quarter mile to my house, with my bike in the trunk and me in the back of the cruiser. My parents were actually home as the ordeal had taken a moment and waiting for the cops at the stranger's house took some time as well. That was the last time I ever ran that route. Being too spooked and my parents insisting it was too dangerous. I am still not sure if I was about to be a crime of circumstance, a robbery victim or on a milk carton, hey, it was a real thing in the 90s, but I'm thankful for those people for answering their door,

and for the downhill that I was on heading home. That's why I'm asking you have you been, drinking you taken any medications or anything, no, I'm just really sick I don't. Feel Tony yeah do me in favor P in that. Parking lot sit there for a while gather. Yourself so. The early morning of Sunday, January 15th, 2017 a group of friends remained to leave. They were going to dance to drink. Desmalina a few first were two. Girls later came another after two. More and the last to arrive was going to be Tony. Anderson that night Tony worked, until four and after that I would go to. A gas station and would be with the others. Reposite would buy something would go to shady, lady and would get together with all by.

But, hours passed and Tony did not appear thought, that perhaps I was very tired that he left, to her boyfriend who rested but, next morning it turns out that the boy does not, I had seen her or friends or, parents nobody knew where devils. It was and that is where the, sinister case of, today Tony Mari Anderson was born on five, April of, 1996 in Kansas being Elizabeth's daughter, a-k.a. Lise and Brian Anderson their beings. Dear, she was a person of, sweet character that struggled a lot in, any task especially in that, that he liked from very little, liked to swim and when he was older, some became a hurried, summers worked in public pools and, also due to its beauty it worked as, model on several occasions but its authentic passion was music played,

several instruments and dreamed of some day dedicating to it in fact had a music blog called the nocturnal, times which was quite successful to, Principal published only she was going to, huffs and everything concert festivals, what lived pointed to him there but with, the passage of time to this project is. Her boyfriend, underscore underscore, Sanchez added and little two. Little things were improving the. Music for her was a dream but knew that getting there was going to be very, complicated with which marketing studied. At the University of Missouri, Kansas City and at the same time to pay there, studies began working in a club, night called Chrome, which is, I found in the center of Kansas City. Some pages say that this club was, a drink bar and others that was a club, stripped

eyes but as it may be Tony. It was fine they're well with the, companions with the bosses with the clients and combined work with studies and future plans of Tony there were many things to travel through the world move to live with Pitt get the career to meet new people had many things but unfortunately none of them would be reality since life had something very different for this Tony girl was a girl who loved to get out of party was very sociable and the day with friends or chatting through the mobile was apparently a healthy girl and he didn't get into trouble but he liked the party and that was not a sin came out i frequently knew all clubs all discos and morning of the January 15th, 2017, after work he would do his turn as, always and then put

gasoline and, I would go to the shady lady Todd Amigas Club. They were warned they knew that Tony no, he had gasoline and repeated him in several occasions that will not worry that. They were going to weigh that four, ten more, or less Tony comes out of work and like every, the vigilante accompanied her to. Your car this operation was very common, since in this kind of clubs the girls, they can be in danger can have, stalkers can be followed, for someone or can leave the turn vary. harmed having drunk drugs and the guardian's task is ensure that all girls return to healthy house is saved according to the watchman tony was well walked well spoke well it was completely normal and when he left her in the car he stayed quiet but from here they start rare things tony supposedly

rise to the car a black for focus end directs the quick service station time supposedly supposedly reposses i must leave with the friends but four 42 minutes send the following message to your friend roxy towson my god ended up to stop the week before the leaving work a policeman stopped her, asked where it was what was, doing and entertained it for quite. Time so when reading the message, friends assumed that it happened exactly, the same thing that they stopped it now. It began to be a joke and obviously, they laughed at this. I would arrive a little later, but I know. They did 5.30 and 6 and Tony Anderson there was no trace no, called did not send more messages and all. They assumed that maybe he went to the house of the boyfriend who was fed up with him, tired he went to sleep but the

morning. Next, underscore underscore, I didn't know anything and, ask your parents either. They had, news from all well-known neighbors, family friends from all over the world nobody. I thought Tony Anderson was able to. Fugo alone had no reason was happy. Everything was doing well-earned enough money. I was studying you have a blog of. Success and this girl did not suit. He did not wear replacement clothes did not take. Nothing this is not her she is. Sociable practically always knows. Where is it simply a horrible nightmare and be any father? That is going through this is. Simply horrified Lisa Anderson. Tony's mother is a great person. Very nice. We are all very, worried about her every time I go out. Home, I hope that the next face that. See in public sheet

underscore underscore Sanchez. Tony boyfriend despair invaded. Friends and family and immediately, they put the complaint the last thing. They knew about her is that at 442. That morning a last message sent a message in which he said that a policeman stopped again so once in. Police station commented this, but when looking for, in the registry the police did not find. nothing that supposedly Tony Knight, Anderson, it wasn't stopped that he called a lot, attention because Tony did not usually lie, if he said they had stopped him as that. They had stopped and this shot the alarms. There have been many cars reports in, Kansas City that are passed through, police with lights or sirens, so, now I'm not sure what it means. Again statements

by Roxy Towson, Tony Friend, however, on Tuesday 17, January a policeman named Bill Feikin, reviewing the file said that he, had stopped that he himself the Meruadel. Day 15 stopped Tony Anderson because he made. Rare things your 4.30 more or less bill. Fikin noticed something very strange he saw that. There was a black colored for focus. In the corner of streets 26 and Barlington specifically close to a quick trip station this might seem. Normal a car stopped to the side without. Do anything but the problem here is that this vehicle is stopped in the direction. Opposite was a wide double street. Sense and for focus was stopped in. The left lane with intermittent. The police put to the left. He stopped the patrol behind the vehicle and for 12 minutes.

he was waiting but in all that time the for focus he moved that people went down and made him questions the girl said i don't know i found well that i was disoriented that had no gasoline and after comment a couple of things the agent he indicated that reposting and resting a little and the girl accepted the agent enter the gas station to refuel and send a message and then the subject started the engine and left when he heard this history version the family no had all with him and asked for the police the recording of the dash cam dell patrol car but incredible that it seems like the authorities. They obviously denied the refusal. Police the family moved sky and Earth was a case of extreme urgency and justice did nothing for them. That at this point is when

something happens. Impressive and they start. Massive distribute the image of. Tony Anderson online tell the world that authorities do nothing. And the most striking of all is that it does. A collection of signatures to press. Authorities to deliver how much. Before the happy recording of the dash cam. More than, people signed this request but, so the police did not want to do anything to. for the meant nothing and seeing so much movement they made a public statement saying no it showed the images because it was a ongoing research and this could hindered that attitude was too much strange and people created a hypothesis and is that the police were behind the disappearance of tony anderson are that they actually knew where i was the girl but if it was found some agents

would be harmed each that happened that hypothesis was winning more and more weight people complained in networks they talked about the subject in forums and little by little they were pressing more and more to. Authorities but you are at least. Principal did not want to do anything. Doors to outside supposedly they did. Things did everything they could but of. Doors inside according to the family no. They did not pay for family members and friends organized three things the first. It was to paper all Kansas City with photographs of Tony Anderson and to the same. Time created a Facebook page to move the theme in second place. They searched everywhere with hundreds of volunteers and third. They created a page GoFundMe to, raise funds and thus be

able to hire a private researcher someone in charge to seek Tony tirelessly. Anderson and stayed with this because more. A head will be very important hundreds of. People joined the cause sought. Tony shared the photo online, donated and with so much pressure the police. He moved they said that the last timed the girl's card was, used was early in the 15th of, January and two payments were made in the quick trip gas stationed the time more or less was 4.40 in the morning with, which square perfectly with the version given by the policeman who stopped her. He spoke with her so four thirty more or less, verified its registration or indications. The girl went to repost paid, car and sent a message and there the, the police started the engine and left but, a while

later when the girl leaves, from the place the GPS of your car stops, functioning and tracking it is impossible. The last place in which GPS gave signal was at the English landing park A, 16 kilometers in place Tony Anders. It was last seen this case was too strange and the population is it was beginning to get angry were complaints demands and before so much pressure police ended up yielding and without proof published in the networks the images of dash can morning how are you fine where you trying to go to i'm about to go down i down you live downtown yeah where you eat from uh downtown i live at uh a while i was working at chrome yeah i've been drinking no you're heading the wrong way on the street i know i'm about to head that way which way this way well

yeah i know i was about to head uh shady but shady yes s h what i'm shady shady lady shady lady yeah you know where you're at now yeah we're about to head for shady but you're heading the wrong way well yeah i know this is not this is a twow street you're on the full left side of the street heading to oncoming traffic ha not funny that's why i'm asking you you drinking you taking any medications or anything no i'm just really sick i don't feel in this recording several things happen first is that tony's voice shows very strange drag words i laughed nervous form seems dizzy it seems as if the girl was drinking drink or under the influence of some kind of substance but in so the police do not. Does any proof just

look at, license and let it go and second. The girl tells people to, finds bad and does not have gasoline and what he does is tell him that he goes to, repost and rest a little see how. March as a repasta expects a little and the, leave this recording alone, very much to people especially to. Tony family is obvious that the girl, something strange happened to him and this policeman didn't. He did his job, stopped her a little. With her he noticed that it was wrong that. Something happened and still let her go according to. The family what people should do. It was to stop it control. Send it to the dungeon called the crane. But people again and again repeated that. At no time did he see that the girl. I was really bad I can't say. Much but it's a shame for him he could.

Having saved my daughter's life was, destroyed and going along the way. Wrong any idiot could say, you are ruined. At this time a second was generated. Hypothesis and a second policeman. He stopped Tony Anderson and did something. The first arrives, it stops at Chexta. Registration lets you go and a second agent. He stops her again and does something but, seeing the hours of the dash can, and of all surveillance cameras, Quadra Bill Feikin said the, truth and in the message that Tony sent to, for 42 was referring to this. Agent with money given the family, hired a research team, private and this decided to use a sonar, to see if they found something in the river. Miss Yuri very close to the place where the telephone and GPS of Tony gave signal. For the last

time after much insisting on 10, March 2017 received an answer, positive and is submerged in that river. There seemed to be very similar to a car called the police deployed, a team and discovered that indeed, that was that was a color Ford focus. Black with Kansas registration and when, they managed to take it out that inside. This was the lifeless body of a girl from here we have two things. The car exam and the autopsy of Tony Marie Anderson first. We have how the car was found. Vehicle fell into the water. Front was completely broken and the driver window was down, which allowed the whole car to. The autopsy revealed that the girl died to. Cause a hypothermia and drowning due to the accident had marathons and some scratches but the most interesting

of all is that in their organism they found alcohol amphetamines and cocaine the girl in his body he had a whole cocktail that he showed that he could not lead that the police that stopped it had to arrested but obviously justice set what i wanted to be important to they are that this case could already close because what happened was very of course the girl was very harmed he left the gas station he left for the rio was disoriented did not know where go and looking for the shady lady club. He put in a parking lot next to the river he took. A couple of curves wanted to leave but without, realized took a ramp of boats, thinking that this was a lower path. The ramp falls to the river and how it has the, window down the water is sneaking. Being very cold the girl enters,

Shaw can find it possible to. Vehicle and that inevitably, drown the family received some of. Comfort with this finally knew where, was Tony and although his destiny was very, tragic could bury her, but there was. People who did not assume not. They assumed that Tony had died in a such strange accident and therefore created new hypotheses the first is that police was initially involved it was thought that a second police stopped tony anderson but for the hours the surveillance of the area where the car tony was arrested captured a second police car just behind the four bill's girl and vehicle fikin that car was black and the people who stopped tony never he mentioned some theorized that perhaps that second police could follow tony and attack her perhaps a

policeman killed her and it set up all that but unfortunately There is no evidence of any of this. Second hypothesis is that a man, anyone followed her from the gas station. The surveillance cameras of the gas station captured Tony by reposting the. They caught getting out of the car walking, normal returning there. It apparently looked good but, start the engine and get out of their A. Cadillac began to follow her for it. Some people believe that Cadillac is that of the person who ended his life, but once again

there is either. Tests of nothing and the third hypothesis. It is the one that involves Tony's boyfriend, underscore underscore, Sanchise this boy had the idea of create the GoFund page to collect funds and thus be able to pay a private researcher got involved very much in the search for Tony

he distributed posters moved the networks social created that page to collect funds and inevitably some people investigated and discovered that this boy has a very interesting with drugs is there when the hypothesis is created that says that perhaps all the disappearance was a assembly

assembly created by underscore underscore Sanchez and Tony Anderson to get money and so pay drugs but unfortunately without wanting tony died and all his plan it collapsed once again there is either tests of nothing are rumors assumptions hypothesis and underscore underscore sanchez gave one percent of itself same to find tony is like outside of today there are people who they think that tony's accident anderson makes no sense in i will put images so that you see the exact place the one who spent everything it is a very badly illuminated area an area with a wide parking four leave the car before going down the

Rampa Tony had several outputs outings that were incorporated directly to the road but the girl did not look at, placed to take a path that went to. Exterior she took the descent a descent, poorly illuminated that in the dark and under the alcohol effects maybe it may seem, a path, but now it is your turn what? You think about the case and you think it was a accident or that there is something darker. Behind. In 1994, the Selen, Texas Police Department received a series of strange phone calls that would go on to intrigue both the local community and investigators alike. The first call came in late one afternoon. The operator answered the line but heard nothing. For two minutes, there was only an eerie silence on the other end.

No wind, no birds chirping, not even the rustling of leaves, just an unsettling quiet. The line then went dead. A second call came in about ten minutes later. Once again, there was no response. Just silence. The operator, now on edge, traced the number, only to find that it was coming from a house out in countryside, a small, isolated property surrounded by trees and sprawling acres of land. When the police received a third call, they immediately decided to investigate.

What they would find when they reached the property left them completely shaken. This all started on January 18, 1983, with the birth of a boy named Aidan Travis Mail. Aidan was the only child of Olivia and Travis Mail, a couple that seemed to have everything going for them. They had recently married, and life seemed perfect. Travis, a successful businessman, made enough money to support his wife and son, so Olivia had chosen to stay home and care for their new family. In the early years of their marriage, they lived in a small apartment, but eventually, they

decided it was time for a change. They bought a larger house with a yard in a quiet suburban area. This new property, which they named Food Light Ranch, spanned over 13 acres. As the years passed, everything seemed perfect, until Aden turned seven. was a healthy, independent boy, full of energy. Every day after school, he would head off into the woods behind their home, exploring, birdwatching, hunting for bugs, and spending hours by the pond. It was a peaceful, idyllic life, and Olivia and Travis never worried much about their son's adventures. But everything changed on March 13, 1993. That afternoon, Aidan

asked his mother if he could go outside to play, as usual. Olivia agreed, with the condition that he returned before dinner. Aidan grabbed his toys and ran out the door, eager to spend the afternoon exploring. However, as the hours passed, he didn't return. When Travis came home that evening, he found Olivia frantically calling out for their son, looking for him everywhere around the house. They checked the woods, the pond, the bushes, anywhere Aden could be. But there was no sign of him. It wasn't until they reached the pond behind their house that they found him, face down in the water. Aden's death was ruled as an accidental drowning,

but his parents were unable to come to terms with what had happened. Travis blamed himself for not being home sooner, and Olivia, devastated, couldn't forgive herself for allowing Aden to go outside that day. The grief was too much for the couple to handle, and shortly after Aden's death, their marriage fell apart. Olivia fell into a deep depression and withdrew from the world. She stopped answering letters and phone calls, stopped leaving the house, and refused to talk to any.

Travis eventually moved away, relocating to England, and the couple officially divorced in early 1991. For the next few years, Olivia stayed at the Food Light Ranch, isolated from the world. She remained unreachable, cut off from family and friends. Her last known sighting was in September 1991, when a neighbor claimed to have seen her on the porch of the house. After that, no one heard from her again. Fast forward to February 27, 1994, when the Selen Police Department reached.

received another strange set of phone calls. The first call was the same as the others, two minutes of silence before the line went dead. The second and third calls followed a similar pattern, and the police knew they had to act quickly. When they traced the calls, they discovered that they were coming from Food Light Ranch. The police arrived at the property, expecting to find some sort of emergency. But what they found there was beyond anything they could have imagined. The house appeared abandoned. Layers of dust covered the windows, and debris was scattered everywhere. The door was swollen and the lock rusted, as though no one had lived there for years. It was almost as if Olivia Mail had vanished without a trace. When the officers

finally forced their way inside, they found the inside of the house in disarray. Furniture was covered in dust, and spider webs filled every corner. It was as if the house had been abandoned for decades. But then, they found something that made their blood run cold. In one of the rooms, the bedroom that once belonged to Aden, the scene was different. The bed was neatly made, and the toys were arranged just as they might have been years ago. It was the only room in the house that didn't look abandoned. But that wasn't all. Sitting in a rocking chair in the corner of the room was Olivia Mayle, dead. In her hands was a doll made of sticks, dressed in a black shirt with colorful stripes, the same shirt Aden had been wearing on the day of his death.

In front of her, on the floor, was an altar, covered with photos, drawings, toys, and letters dedicated to Aden. Some of the inscriptions were written in Tibetan and Sanskrit, and when translated, they read, Create or Build. For Officer Francesca Santiago, who was the first to arrive at the scene, the atmosphere in the room was suffocating. She had dealt with many cases in her career, but nothing like this. She recognized the symbols and the photos on the altar as something far darker.

She knew this was not a typical crime scene. According to the Tibetan Buddhist tradition, there is something called a topa, a being created from the imagination and will of a person. It is said that a tulpa can be manifested through meditation, and in the beginning, it is merely a fleeting image. But with enough concentration, a tulpa can become more than just an illusion. It can take on its own personality, its own will, and if left unchecked, it can become a dangerous force.

In Olivia's case, some speculated that after the death of her son, she may have have tried to create a tulpa, a way to keep Aden with her in some form. The altar in the room and the doll were said to be part of the ritual to manifest this spirit. But whatever had been created was no longer in her control. The case took a strange turn when investigators discovered a note beneath the rocking chair, supposedly written by Olivia herself. The note read, February 27, 1994. My Aden, I'm so sorry. I should never have let you go out like that. I'm leaving. I won't let you. this evil creature take me."

Mommy is coming for you, Aidan. Mommy loves you. The strange thing about this note was that it was dated the day the police arrived at the house. However, forensic evidence showed that Olivia had died weeks, if not months, before the police ever stepped foot in the house. This led the investigators to wonder, was the note written by Olivia, or was it written by someone else, someone who had found her body and called 911?

The phones in the house were covered in dust, with no fingerprints or marks to indicate they had been used recently. After an exhaustive investigation, the police were unable to come to any conclusion. The case was officially closed, deemed unsolved. Over time, the story of the mails and food light ranch became an urban legend. The house was said to be haunted, plagued by ghosts, demons, and spirits. Years passed, and in 2005, the house was still uninhabited. Christopher Heen, the owner of the property at the time, was unable to sell it. Rumors persisted that the house was cursed, but Heen was determined to prove the rumors wrong. He hired Parasicologist D.W. Navarro to investigate the property and determine once and for all whether

the house was haunted. Navarro's findings were nothing short of chilling. He reported feeling an oppressive presence in the house, something that was, extremely possessive. He likened it to a spoiled child throwing a tantrum, and he warned that the house needed serious intervention. He was unsure of what exactly they were dealing with, but it was clear to him that something sinister was at play. In 2010, the house still hadn't sold. This led some to question the validity of the story surrounding Olivia Mail. After all, if the house were truly haunted, wouldn't someone have bought it by now? There was certainly a market for haunted properties. Theories began to emerge. Some believed the story was true, that Olivia

a male had attempted to summon a tulpa, and that the creature had grown out of control, calling 911 and haunting the property. Others believed the whole thing was a hoax, created to attract attention or to promote a film project. According to a blog post by a woman named Vivian Magnini, who in 2015 bought Food Light Ranch, the house was being renovated. In a post, she mentioned that their son, a filmmaker, had even taken a photo of the family in front of the house, which some speculated was a promotional stunt for a movie. This post seems to be a woman. This post to suggest that the entire story of Olivia Mail and her tragic fate might have been fabricated for publicity.

In the end, the truth remains elusive. The phone calls that started everything in 1994, strange, eerie, and chilling, continue to remain unanswered. A house full of secrets, the story of Olivia Mabel and Footlight Ranch. Let me tell you a story that starts out quiet and strange and spirals into something straight out of a nightmare. It's the kind of tale that leaves you with questions, chills, and maybe a bit of disbelief. But whether it's true or not, well, I'll let you be the judge.

It begins in 1994, in a little town in Selin, Texas. The police received three strange calls on an otherwise normal afternoon. Each call was the same, silence. No whispers, no static, no background noise, just an eerie, uncomfortable silence that stretched for minutes before the line disconnected. Naturally, the police traced the number. Their search led them to Footlight Ranch, a quaint house surrounded by trees. From the outside, it looked like a scene from a storybook.

But inside, what they found was a chilling mystery that still baffles anyone who hears about it. The beginning of the end, the Mabel family. To understand what happened in that house, we have to rewind to January 18, 1983. That's the day Aidan Travis Mabel was born, the only child of Olivia and Travis Mabel. On the surface, the family had it all, a happy marriage, financial stability, and a fresh start in a new home. Travis was a successful businessman, making enough money for Olivia to stay home and care for their son. When Aden was still a baby, they moved into a cozy little house,

but soon they wanted more space. That's when they bought Footlight Ranch, a sprawling 13-acre property with a big yard and plenty of room for their son to roam. Life seemed idyllic. Aidan grew into a curious, independent boy who loved exploring the woods surrounding their home. He'd spend hours by the pond, catching bugs and watching birds. But on March 13, 1993, everything changed. Aidan's tragic end, that day started like any other. Aden asked his mom if he could go outside and play. Olivia, busy with chores, told him to be back before dinner.

He grabbed his toys and ran out the door, full of energy and excitement. But that was the last time anyone saw him alive. When Travis came home that evening, Olivia realized Aidan hadn't returned. They called for him, their voices echoing through the trees. They searched the yard, the woods, and the pond. But it wasn't until later that night that they found him, floating face down in the water. Their only child was gone, and with him, the light in their lives. The grief was too much for the Mables to bear. Travis threw himself into work to cope, but Olivia retreated into herself. Depression consumed her, and by the following

year, their marriage fell apart. Travis moved to England, leaving Olivia alone at Footlight Ranch, a house now filled with nothing but sorrow. The descent into isolation. After the divorce, Olivia disappeared from the world. She stopped answering calls, ignored letters, and never left the house. Her once lively presence faded into a ghost of itself. Neighbors occasionally glimpsed her at a window or sitting on the porch, but by 1991, even those sightings stopped. Fast forward to February 27, 1994. That's when the police got those strange calls. Three times, someone dialed 911 from Footlight Ranch. Three times, there was only silence on the other end. Concerned, officers went to investigate. What they found shocked even the most hardened among them. The discovery

at Footlight Ranch, the house looked abandoned. The front door was swollen with age, the lock rusted. Dust coated every surface, and cobwebs hung like curtains in every corner. It was as if no one had lived there for years. But that wasn't entirely true. Inside, the officers found something they weren't prepared for. Olivia Mabel was sitting in a rocking chair, lifeless. In her hands, she clutched a crude doll made of sticks, dressed in clothes eerily similar to what Aden had been wearing the day he died.

But that wasn't all. In front of her was an altar, a disturbing shrine dedicated to her son. Photos, drawings, letters, and toys were carefully arranged, along with symbols written in Tibetan in Sanskrit. When translated, the words meant, create and build. The air in the room felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if something unseen was watching. It didn't take long for rumors to start. Theories of the occult.

Among the Buddhist teachings, there's something called a tulpa, a being created from pure imagination and willpower. At first, a tulpa is like a puppet, existing only as the creator envisions it. But if the creator's focus is strong enough, the tulpa can take on a life of its own. It gains independence, personality, and sometimes becomes dangerous. Some people believe Olivia was trying to bring Aidan back using this ritual. They think she poured all her grief, anger, and love into creating a tulpa of her son. But things might have gone terribly wrong.

The mysterious letter, under Olivia's chair, the police found a note. It was dated the same day they discovered her body, February 27, 19. But the forensics team determined Olivia had been dead for weeks, possibly months. The note read, My Aden, I'm so sorry. I should never have let it get this far. I'm leaving now. I won't let this vile, evil thing take me. Mommy's coming to you, Aidan.

My sweet boy. Mommy loves you. If Olivia had been dead for that long, who wrote the note? And more importantly, who made the calls to 911? The house was coated in dust, with no signs of recent activity. No footprints, no fingerprints, not even on the phones. A case closed but unresolved, the police ruled Olivia's death as unexplained and closed the case. But the story didn't end there.

Over the years, Footlight Ranch gained a reputation as a haunted house. Locals whispered about ghosts and demons, warning others to stay away. The house sat empty, unsellable, its legend growing with each passing year. The paranormal investigator, in 2005, the property's owner, Christopher Heen, hired a paranormal investigator named D. W. Navarro. Heen was desperate to prove the house wasn't haunted so he could sell it. But Navarro's findings only made things worse. I've never felt such an overwhelming presence, Navarro said.

It was like the house itself was alive, full of erratic, possessive energy. Whatever is there, it's not just lingering, it's angry. report, along with eerie photos of the house, reignited public interest in the case. One picture, in particular, showed a shadowy figure peering out of a window. Critics claimed it was a hoax, but believers were convinced it was Olivia, or her topa. Theories and speculation. Over the years, two main theories emerged about Olivia Mabel and Footlight Ranch. It's all true, supporters of this theory believe Olivia successfully created a tulpa, but it became uncontrollable. They argue the silence on the 911 calls was the Tulpa itself, a being with no voice but immense power. The lack of

fingerprints, the untouched dust, it all points to something supernatural. It's a hoax, skeptics argue the entire story is fabricated. They point out inconsistencies in the evidence, like the questionable death certificate and the lack of police records. They believe the story was a publicity stunt, possibly tied to an abandoned movie project. In 2015, a new owner purchased Footlight Ranch, debunking the idea that the house was cursed. They've since renovated the property, and by all accounts, nothing strange has happened since. The final question, so, what do you think? Was Olivia Mabel a grieving mother who accidentally unleashed something she couldn't control? Or is this just another urban legend, carefully crafted to spook and

entertain? Whatever the truth may be, one thing certain, Footlight Ranch will always be a place of mystery, where reality and imagination blur together in the shadows. A chilling investigation. In early 2003, Detective Robert Banner was assigned to a case that had him completely stumped. It wasn't just another mystery, it was a dead end, and his usual methods were failing him. Stressed and desperate, Robert decided to try something unconventional, something that many would criticize, he reached out to a psychic. He wasn't a believer in the supernatural, but after reading about psychics who had worked with law enforcement, he thought, why not? That's how he found Dr. Lauren Tibido, a psychic with a reputation for helping

solve cold cases. But Robert wasn't about to tell his colleagues about his plan. No way. He didn't want their judgment, nor did he want to influence the psychic with any details. If she truly had a gift, she'd have to prove it herself. When their appointment finally came, Robert walked into Lauren's office with a mix of skepticism and hope. He didn't give her a single clue about who he was or why he was there. She studied him, locked eyes, and said, you're a police officer, Robert froze. Then she added, you're here about a case, a tough one. But the case you're working on now isn't the real challenge. There's another case coming, one that's been cold for 15 or 20 years. That one will test you, he left the meeting both amazed and confused. How could she know

all that? He dismissed the mention of the future case, it sounded too far-fetched. Months went by, and Robert continued his regular duties until, out of the blue, his chief dropped a file on his desk. It was an unsolved murder from December 23, 1984. Scarlet D., the file described a gruesome scene. Alongside a rural road in Giersville, Pennsylvania, the body of a strikingly beautiful woman was discovered wrapped in a green military blanket. Her wrists and ankles were bound with rope, and the autopsy confirmed she'd been strangled. She became known as Scarlet D. because of her stunning red hair, but no one knew her real identity. The forensic tools available in the 1980s were primitive compared to the early 2000s.

Investigators had collected hair strands, DNA samples, and fingerprints from the crime scene, but they didn't have the means to analyze them effectively. They also searched for missing persons who matched Scarlet D's description, red-haired, about 30 years old, possibly involved in drugs. Despite their efforts, she remained nameless. The case was further complicated by speculation that Scarlett D. could have been a victim of a serial killer known as the Bible Belt Strangler. Between 1978 and 1992, a truck driver was believed to have murdered between five and 14 red-haired women across several states, including Tennessee, Kentucky, and Pennsylvania. The victims varied in age and background but shared one common trait, their red hair.

Years passed, and with no family to claim her body, Scarlett D. was nearly cremated. But a local woman, Mary Calvac, fought for her dignity. Mary rallied the community, gathered signatures, and ensured Scarlet D. was given a proper burial in Comra's Cemetery, Pennsylvania. Mary became her unofficial caretaker, bringing flowers to the grave for years. The psychic's warning, when Robert was handed the Scarlet D case, he remembered Lauren's prediction. He picked up the phone and called her. Lauren, I have the case you mentioned.

What do you see? Lauren described vivid, almost cinematic visions, glowing green lights traveling along Route 78, maps of New Jersey, New York, and eastern Pennsylvania, and the unmistakable silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge. She mentioned water, rivers, lakes, and the damp smell of wet concrete. Most chillingly, she sensed overwhelming anger and possessiveness, a violent obsession that suggested Scarlet D's killer had more victims. Robert was taken aback. Her descriptions aligned with the profile of a truck driver serial killer.

Lauren's insights added a layer of urgency to his investigation, but psychic visions weren't enough. He needed hard evidence. Finding Scarlet's name, Robert's first step was to revisit the evidence. By 2003, advancements in DNA analysis provided a new opportunity. They tested Scarlett's fingerprints against national databases and got a hit. She had a minor drug offense on her record, and her name was Margaret Mary Calciano. known as Margie. Margie was born on July 13, 1954, in Brooklyn, New York, to Italian-American parents. She was beautiful, outgoing, and aware of her charm, but she struggled with addiction.

Her life spiraled into chaos, and she had a brief marriage, adopting the name Corbasi. After her divorce, she returned to her maiden name. When Robert tracked down Margie's mother, Joan Calciano, in Brooklyn, she identified her daughter from autopsy photos. I knew she wasn't Live, Joan whispered, but I didn't know where she was. She revealed that their last conversation ended in a fight. On December 19th, 1984, Margie stormed out after Joan slapped her during an argument. Joan regretted it instantly but never got the chance to make amends. Joan also mentioned a name, Peter. Who was Peter? According to Joan, Peter was obsessed with Margie. He was 20 years older than her and acted as her drug supplier, using her addiction to

control her. He'd demand to know where she was, who she was with, and when she'd return. He had no boundaries, treating her as if she were his possession. Joan didn't know much about him, not his last name, not even his job, but she believed he was a plumber or maybe a small-time drug dealer. She thought his last name might be Aeosa, though she admitted she could be mistaken. Police searched for Peter Aosa, but no one by that name existed. Frustrated, Robert turned to Lauren again. This time, she described. described a man wearing a plaid shirt, driving a truck, and frequenting rest stops near lakes. She also sensed that Margie wasn't his first victim, and wouldn't be his last.

The breakthrough, months of dead ends finally led to a breakthrough when one of Margie's ex-boyfriends came forward. He'd once had a physical altercation with Peter, who'd filed a police report against him. This led the investigators to Peter's real last name, Williams. Peter Williams had been living in Milwaukee in 2003, receiving state assistance. A deeper look into his past revealed he had worked as a truck driver and often drove routes around the Great Lakes. Suddenly, Lauren's visions of lakes and rivers made perfect sense. When police questioned Peter, he claimed to have been friends with Margie.

He admitted they'd had a sexual relationship and that he'd last seen her when he drove her to a methadone clinic. Then he chillingly added, I washed my hands of her. Those words struck a nerve. They sounded dismissive, even callous, almost as if Margie had been disposable to him. Police collected a DNA sample from Peter, and testing confirmed that hairs found on the blanket wrapped around Margie's body belonged to him. They had their man.

Justice denied, before police could arrest him, Peter fled. He was eventually found in Tucson, Arizona, on January 20, 2005, and charged with first-degree murder. Investigators believed his obsession with Margie turned deadly when she rejected him. They theorized that after a fight, he strangled her, wrapped her in the blanket, and dumped her body in Pennsylvania before disappearing. Peter showed no remorse. In fact, when confronted with the evidence, he appeared more annoyed than guilty, like someone

who'd been caught cheating at cards, not committing murder. The trial was set for August 2005, and Margie's mother, Joan, was determined to see justice served. But in July, Peter died of cancer. Joan was devastated. He robbed me twice, she said. First, he took my daughter. When he took away my chance to see him pay for it, the aftermath, though Peter's death closed

Margie's case, questions remained. Was she his only victim? Investigators believed he might have killed others, but without evidence, those cases remain unsolved. Margie's story is a haunting reminder of how obsession can turn deadly and how, even decades later, persistence and technology can bring answers, if not closure. Do not watch the movie in the middle of the night, do not watch the movie alone, and if you you see the words, photo number one, pop up on your screen, you have about four seconds to shut off the movie. If you're already kind of freaking out before you start seeing things that

maybe you don't want to see. We begin in 2006 when filmmaker Michael Goy decided to create a horror movie called Megan is Missing. The style of the movie was going to be found footage, in the same style as the Blair Witch Project. As we all know, the Blair Witch Project was a huge success. In fact, in 2006, the Chicago Film Critics Association ranked it as one of the 100 best horror films, and in 2008, Entertainment Weekly named it one of the 100 best films from 1983 to 2008. So, it's no surprise that Goy chose this style for his film. Another notable aspect of the Blair Which Project was its, based on true events, claim, which Goy obviously took and used to his advantage. Critics argue that the, based on true events, label is nothing more than

a marketing strategy, a simple trick to grab attention, and therefore Megan is missing is not based on any real case. In fact, Goy himself later stated that his film was not based on any specific case and that he only intended to alert young people to the dangers of the internet. Knowing this, it's time to look deeper into the plot of the movie. The story begins with two friends, Megan Stewart and Amy Herman. Megan is a girl with a complicated past and present. She likes to party, is popular, while Amy, in contrast, is studious and leads a normal life. At some point, Megan, through a friend, meets a boy online named Josh.

He doesn't have a webcam, makes a thousand excuses, and after some time, Megan disappears. Amy decides to help search for her friend, but in the end, she too does. disappears. Up until this point, the plot seems very interesting, it's a very homemade film recorded by the protagonists. But what happens is that it contains some pretty hard-to-watch scenes. When Michael Goy presented the project to several companies in 2006, all of them refused to take it on. It wouldn't be until 2011 that this movie would be released, and it has to be said that not only was it not very successful, but it also received a large number of negative reviews, such as the following. Here, all director-writer Michael Goy succeeds in doing is making

Megan 100% repugnant from the start. You don't care about her because he does everything possible to present her as the kind of girl who probably deserves a good slap to knock her off her pedestal. Honestly, I was so tired of hearing her talk about petty, self-centered complaints that I couldn't wait for her to disappear. Rod Lott, Oklahoma Gazette, April 29, 2011. The film was accused of being more grotesque than terrifying and also too graphic. As a result, New Zealand banned the movie. Given all this, we could say that Megan is Missing was a complete failure. The years passed, and everyone thought this movie had been forgotten. But then, in November 2020, Megan Is Missing became a TikTok challenge. The challenge basically involved telling people

how long they lasted before reaching the end of the film. Everyone said it was too shocking. too traumatic, and Michael Goy himself had to appear on TikTok to warn young people, telling them not to watch the movie in the middle of the night, not to watch it alone, and that if they couldn't handle it, they should turn it off. This is Michael Goy, the writer-director of Megan is Missing, and I got a text from Amber Perkins, the lead actress in my movie, that it was exploding on TikTok at the moment. And I didn't get to give you the customary warnings that I used to give people before they watched Megan is missing, which are, do not watch the movie in the middle of the night, do not watch the movie alone, and if you see the words,

photo number one pop up on your screen, you have about four seconds to shut it off. I know that sounds freaky, but fair warning to those of you contemplating watching the film. Thanks. Evidently, this video wasn't just to warn people but rather to draw attention to Megan is missing. But obviously, people fell for the trap, and Megan is missing became a trending topic on Twitter. A lot of threads were created searching for the real cases that Michael Goy might have based the movie on, and among all the threads, one of the most successful was from the user is Godora. This thread showed more or less the plot of the movie, its impact, and a couple of real-life cases that could have inspired Michael Goy. It seems that everyone

agreed that these two cases were too similar to the story shown in Megan is missing. So, here are the cases I will detail. The first case is from 2001 and involves a 12-year-old girl named Alicia Kozikiewicz. Alicia was an ordinary girl who lived in Pittsburgh with her parents and her older brother. She was a good student, a good daughter. At one point, she made a friend through a Yahoo chat room. The boy appeared to be the same age as her and said his name was Scott Ty. Shortly after they started talking, the two became practically inseparable,

moving from chatting to letters, then from letters and chats to late night. conversations. At first, Alicia's parents read and reviewed everything. But after some time, they stopped, thinking it was no longer dangerous. That's when the kid started chatting when everyone was asleep. The girl would take the computer late at night and spend hours talking to Scott. The relationship continued for an entire year, and finally, on New Year's Day 2002, when Alicia was 13 years old, they decided to meet in person. I remember that. I remember that Christmas 2001 was really fantastic, and the same happened with the first half of the first day of 2002. New Year's Day has always been a day of celebration for my family. At some point,

between dinner and dessert, I asked my mom if I could lie down because my stomach hurt. I sneaked out of Christmas and was at the front door when I opened it to find the person I thought was a friend, Alicia's statement to BBC.com. The girl went alone to the meeting point, and once there, unknown adult grabbed her arm, shoved her into a car, and started the engine. After some time, the car arrived at a toll booth, and Alicia thought, this is my chance, now I'll be rescued because the person at the toll will see a crying girl and will think something's wrong, call the police, and all this will be over. But the toll worker didn't notice anything and thought nothing was wrong, so the car accelerated, and the drive lasted five hours, from Pittsburgh to Virginia.

Once at the kidnapper's house, Alicia was taken to the basement, undressed, chained like a dog, dragged to a room, and repeatedly assaulted for four days. Alicia was chained in a room and punished in the same way every day. If she didn't resist, the punishment lasted a short time, but if she did, she was beaten so badly that she could feel her bones breaking. On one occasion, her abuser broke her nose. on the fourth day he said you're starting to like me too much tonight we're going for a drive that was when alicia knew she was going to die he gave her food for the first time in four days then left for work at this point alicia accepted that she was going to die chained to a plate on the floor but out of nowhere several fbi agents burst into the house and rescued her you may

now be wondering how the police knew alicia was there and the answer is shocking Apparently, the kidnapper streamed everything he did to Alicia over the four days through the internet. This man spent a whole year planning everything he would do to Alicia Kozikiewicz. He planned the setting, the tortures, he planned everything. He pretended to be a 13-year-old boy and then kidnapped Alicia and turned her into an internet show. But what he didn't count on was someone recognizing Alicia and calling the FBI.

When Alicia was kidnapped, her name appeared every day. everywhere, on the radio, on TV, and her face was plastered on dozens of posters spread all over Pittsburgh. Alicia's face was literally everywhere, and a viewer of the Scott show recognized her. Anonymously, they called the FBI. From there, the police tracked the IP address, located the address, and rescued Alicia. Scott William Ty, 38 years old, was never considered a dangerous man. In 1981, he graduated from Westmore High School and got married twice.

His first wife, Sarah Tai, during an interrogation, said that Scott was always the typical long-haired computer guy. He never got into trouble, never had many friends, and simply spent his time locked in a room playing with the computer. He was a fan of science fiction, video games, and junk food. From his second marriage, Scott had a daughter, a daughter who, at time of the kidnapping, was the same age as Alicia Kozikiewicz. Here is where things get murky, on the day Alicia was kidnapped, Scott dropped his daughter off at his ex-wife's house and went straight to pick up his victim. In 2003, Scott Tai was sentenced in 19 years and seven months, and in February 2019, he was transferred to a rehabilitation center located in Pittsburgh.

But here's what happened, this center was very close to Alicia Kozik's parents' house, so dozens of people organized a protest, which the police ignored. A few months later, Scott Tai was sentenced to two more years for violating his parole. As for Alicia Kozikiewicz, she is currently the founder of the Alicia Project, a group dedicated to raising awareness about the dangers of the Internet among minors. She also actively collaborates with Discovery's investigations into Internet Predators, Human Trafficking, and Missing Person's searches. At this point, you might be wondering how this case is connected to Megan is missing, and the answer is as follows. First, Alicia met Scott online, a man who wasn't the boy he promised to be. Second, we have the dog chain

that Scott used on Alicia Kozikiewicz, a chain that appears at the end of Megan is missing. Finally, this crime was recorded, which also happens in the film. To be continued. And now it's time to learn about the second case that everyone is talking about, the case of two friends who could have been the inspiration for creating Megan and Amy. This story, of course, begins with two best friends, Ashley Pont and Miranda Gaitis. Ashley Pont, also known as Ash, was born on March 1, 1989, to Lori Davis and David Pond, who had her at the age of 16. Ash was always described as a loving and outgoing child. However, between the ages of 9 and 10, her parents decided to divorce, which led to a custody battle that resulted in a paternity test.

This test confirmed David's suspicion, Ash was not actually his daughter. It was then that Laurie confessed that the father of the girl was a man named Wesley Roger. Upon learning this, Ash decided to meet her biological father. Initially, things seemed to go well. They talked on the phone, started meeting, and over time, Lori allowed them to spend more time together. That's when Ash began to change, she became cold, distant, and stopped talking. At one point, she confessed to Lori that Wesley had abused her. In January 2001, this man was charged with 40 counts related to Ashley Pont suffering.

As a result, Ashley became very rebellious with her mother, they couldn't understand each other and argued constantly. This could be why Ashley Pont might have been the inspiration for Megan. As for Miranda Diengaitis, she was born on November 18, 1988, one of four children in a seemingly stable marriage. She was outgoing, fun, and very affectionate. However, in 1995, Miranda's biological father was found guilty of a crime and was sent to prison. I couldn't find many details about this accusation, but what I did find is that, years later, Miranda's mother started dating a man who was also accused of the same crime and also ended up in prison.

As a result, Miranda and her siblings were sent to a foster home. After a while, they returned to live with their mother. Miranda attended Garner Middle School, where she joined a dance class and met the person who would become her best friend, Ashley Pont. At some point, the two girls became close friends with another girl named Marori Weber, and the three became inseparable. They would get together to do homework, watch movies, and take walks.

According to the Portland Tribune, the three of them were inseparable, and in fact, Ash even went on a two-week trip to California with Marori and her parents, a trip that took place from the end of June to early July of 2001. However, at some point, the three girls had a sleepover at Marori's house, and after that, they began to distance themselves. The reason was that Ashley claimed Marori's father had tried to assault her in the middle of the night. This was when the entire town turned its back on the Weber family. Marori was left without friends, and her parents were rejected everywhere.

Unfortunately, this accusation never made it to court because the police mishandled the case, and the accusation was left unresolved. At 8.15 a.m. on January 9, 2002, Ashley Pont, then 12 years old, left her house to head to the bus stop. She always left the house at the same time, and the distance. distance from her house to the bus stop was about 10 minutes. That day, Ashley had a busy schedule, she would go to class, have lunch at school, return to class, and then go to dance, which meant she would return home at 6.15 p.m. Unfortunately, the time passed and Ashley never showed up. Her mother filed a report, and posters with her name were put up, and her face was

broadcast on the radio and television. All her friends were interrogated. Additionally, Miranda Guidus appeared on television pleading for Ashley to please come home. From here, the police started moving and discovered the following points. First, Ashley never boarded the bus, so she was kidnapped in a simple 10-minute stretch. Second, the girl's surroundings kept repeating the same thing, and everyone suspected Morori's father. They kept saying that Ashley wanted to file a report but that the police ignored her. The agents promised to investigate the case, but they really did nothing. On the morning of March 8, 2001, Miranda Guidus left her house to catch the bus to school,

but just like what happened with her friend Ashley, she also never got on it. At 1.20 p.m., her older sister left school to go home and tell her mother that Miranda hadn't gone to school, hadn't gotten on the bus, and hadn't attended class. Under this assumption, the Guidus family filed a report. This is when the FBI started taking the situation seriously. Not only had one girl gone missing, but two, two girls who, by the way, were best friends and very close to each other. The girls had disappeared within the same time frame, between 8 o'clock and 8.30 a.m., and the distance from their houses to the bus stop was about 10 minutes.

So, the police came to the following conclusion, the kidnapper knew both girls, knew where they lived, and knew their schedules. Based on this, they suspended the school bus route, made the bus stop picking up children directly from their homes, and, most notably, everyone in Oregon pointed the finger at the same person, the father of Marori Weber. At this point, the man couldn't take it anymore and, on July 9, 2002, gave an interview to Good Morning America to clean up his image. I have no problem being seen as a suspect. The problems come with what they're doing, with the questions being asked of my family. They're telling the parents of my daughter's friends not to let their daughter spend the night because I'm the main suspect and their daughter could be next. After the girls disappeared, this man, with the help of his son Francis, dug a hole in the garden and then covered it with cement. He claimed it was a pad for placing a jacuzzi, which he never got.

Everything was so strange that the police finally began to investigate him, and they discovered something that had been right in front of their noses all along, Marori Weber's father had a troubled past. Ward Webber 3 was born on April 6, 1963, in Humboldt, California, as one of the children of Trish and Ward Weber Jr. His grandfather and father had several legal problems and were really problematic people. In fact, in 1981, Ward's biological father abducted a couple who were hitchhiking into Hatchapie, California, and then buried their bodies in the backyard. When Ward was four years old, his father abandoned him and his mother. Later, the woman married Bob Bart, an alcoholic and violent man. In his childhood, Ward was a normal boy, but by the time he turned 15, his behavior began to change.

He became rebellious, violent, and on more than one occasion, he got into fights. His siblings stated that Ward had hit them several times, and his younger sister claimed to have been abused, both physically and sexually, by him. The girl thought no one would believe her, so she didn't report it. However, in 1981, one of his cousins did report him, saying Ward allegedly beat her, subdued her, and then, this is when the police made their first mistake. They investigated the case for an entire year, collecting testimonies and evidence, but during that year, Ward graduated and joined the armed forces, specifically the Navy.

This meant he would imminently leave the county, so the police dismissed the report. On May 17, 1982, Ward was expelled from the Navy for excessive drinking and failure to fulfill his duties. During his brief stay there, he met a Filipino woman named Maria Stout and invited her to live with him at his parents' house. This is when his true character began to show. Soon after, Maria became pregnant, and five months later, she was beaten by him. When the police went to the hospital, the woman refused to report him. In December of that same year, their first son, Francis, was born. In 1984, Ward and Maria moved to Bakersfield, California, and on June 15, 1986, Ward attacked

the two teenage daughters of a friend of his, beating both of them. The older one, Jennifer Ordona, 15 years old, was repeatedly beaten with a cement block. For this crime, Ward was sentenced to three years in prison. When he was released, he moved with his wife. wife to the town of Kai, Oregon, where their daughter, Mallory Weber, was born in 1989. In 1993, Maria divorced Ward, and a restraining order was placed against him. Many would think that at this point, the woman would take her two children and leave, but she did the opposite, she packed her bags and simply disappeared. So, Ward rebuilt his life and started

dating a woman named Christy Sloan. Two years later, in 1995, Ward was sent back to to prison for allegedly beating his girlfriend with an iron skillet. The problem here was that Christy Sloan never filed a report, and the man was quickly released. In 1996, the couple got married, but a few years later, they divorced because Ward cheated on Christie with a co-worker, with whom he moved in 2001 to South Weber Creek. This entire story, of course, made Ward Weber the main suspect in the disappearance of Ashley Pont and Miranda Guidus. But apart from his past crimes, the police had nothing else against him, so, unfortunately, they couldn't proceed. However, on August 13, 2002, his oldest son, Francis Weber, called the police and reported that

his father had assaulted his 19-year-old girlfriend. The boy took advantage of the call to tell the police that he was convinced his father had killed Ashley Pont and Miranda Guidus. So, the police detained Ward, and on August 24th, they searched his house, where they discovered the terrible crime scene. Miranda's body was hidden in a microwave box, which was concealed at the back of the shed, and Ashley's body was inside a barrel, buried under the cement in Ward Weber's yard,

the same cement that was supposedly meant for a jacuzzi. In September 2004, after reaching a deal with the prosecution, Ward avoided the death penalty but had to face two life sentences without the possibility of parole. The similarity between this story and the case of Megan is missing is astonishing, as, first, Ashley Pont and Miranda Guidus were best friends, just like Megan

and Amy in the film. Second, one of them was more rebellious than the other and had problems with her mother. Third, Ashley Pont was buried inside a barrel, which appears at the end of Megan is missing. So now it's your turn. What do you think of these cases? Do you think they could have really been the inspiration to create Megan is missing? Finn. We begin, You see, despite its great technological development, Japan remains a country deeply connected to traditions. Rituals are very present in Japanese society, and this fact can be seen not only in their lavish festivals but also in the intimacy of their homes, where the souls of ancestors must be venerated so that they become protectors of the living. But what happens

when a person's soul does not receive rituals? What happens when a body does not receive a proper burial or when its resting place is desecrated. In Japanese culture, the same thing happens as in the West, if this occurs, the soul wanders aimlessly through the world, repeating the day of its death over and over, causing pain to the living and infecting the land with its resentment. And the places we will visit next are the home of these kinds of entities. So, make yourselves comfortable, your new nightmares begin here. When we think of terrifying places, the first thing that comes to mind is abandoned hospitals, especially those that had a psychiatric wing. For this reason, the first place I'm going to introduce you to is a ruined hospital

supposedly located in the north of the Canter region. The name and exact location of this place have been jealously guarded by locals, so the testimonies we have referred to it simply as Hospital N. It is said that this hospital was abandoned after World War II and that all the surgical equipment found there was gradually distributed to other healthcare centers in the area. Over time, due to the danger posed both by the facilities and the area where they were located, the Japanese government decided to close it off and strictly prohibit entry to passers-by. This eventually erased it from the memory of the canto region, allowing weeds to slowly devour everything. As the visible deterioration of the complex grew, rumors began to emerge.

It was said that inside, members of high society, including high-ranking government officials, carried out satanic rituals. But this story, far from scaring the youth of the region, pushed them to create challenges around the hospital, challenges that ranged from playing Ouija inside to spending the entire night wandering its halls with only a small flashlight. However, very few of the participants in these challenges live to tell about it. Those who did survive told truly chilling stories about the place. They say that inside there are two distinct hells, the spiritual and the mortal. In the spiritual, you hear footsteps following you through the darkness, whispers, muffled

laments emerging from the depths of dark and narrow corridors. In the mortal, the sex hiding in the hospital are involved, and the young people who come face to face with them and live to tell about it say that the individuals who are part of them were long white robes, chant in an unknown language, and if they catch you snooping, they will chase you armed with sides as if they were death itself. These stories apparently force their protagonists to go completely insane and take their own lives a few days later. So, the known texts are the testimony of people who say they knew someone who went crazy and took their life, which might lead us to think that Hospital N is nothing more than an urban legend.

There are many Japanese programs dedicated to showing the public how a group of people react to supposed paranormal videos, videos showing demonic possessions, level three poltergeist events, and dolls that have a life of their own. This format is very popular with the Japanese audience, so much so that in 2010, a supposed documentary filmed in an abandoned hospital shot to fame. Many people, upon seeing these images and hearing the different testimonies presented, considered not only that the footage was real but also that it had been filmed in a sinister hospital N. Everything seemed to point to it, suicides, anonymous testimonies and internet forums, paranormal events inside the hospital, and the theory that the footage was real was reaffirmed in the Spanish-speaking community in 2016 when

Dross made a video on the subject. Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that this footage was never real, it was part of a Japanese documentary series from 2006 titled Ura Horror. This series consisted of 12 short videos trying to recreate urban legends or imitate supposed paranormal events. However, after an exhaustive investigation, I found footage that, according to its author, does belong to the ruins of Hospital N, located somewhere in the north of the country. The user in question, a fan of urban exploration, has never wanted to reveal the exact location of any of the places he has visited and has also not commented on the supposed paranormal activity recorded there.

So, it's up to you to judge whether this is or isn't the real Hospital N. To reach the next cursed place, we're going to move to a wood. wooded area located very close to the Ruan Shrine. In its beginnings, this was a sacred area heavily influenced by religions like Taoism and Buddhism. However, over the years, a sinister energy began to make itself very present in the place, especially in the area surrounding the Rwand Shrine. At first, the locals thought that the land itself wanted to send them a message, a message from the spirits. Some said it was a bad omen, that the spirits controlled this area to warn the population that a great catastrophe was about to occur.

But others, especially the monks, thought the opposite, that this energy was a defense, a force that watched over the safety of all the people living on the island. However, as time passed, that energy became increasingly negative. Clearly, something was controlling that part of the territory, and just by crossing the path called the curve of the 3S, passers-by began to feel very ill, dizziness, nauseous, vomiting. The sensation that your soul is condemned to hell, all of this emerged directly from the earth, as if the land itself were quicksand made of coagulated blood. So far, this has been one of Japan's great mysteries. Many programs, both Japanese and international, have analyzed

documentaries regarding the great paranormal activity surrounding this area, exposing various sensitives for hours to see how long they could withstand the psychic pressure. But no one has ever been able to determine the true reason why this place is so active, as the energy there does not seem to possess any kind of intelligence. Of course, everything has a reason, and several experts have given their point of view on it. The first theory is that right at the curve of the 3S, there may have been a confrontation between Buddhists and Taoists, a confrontation in which several people died. However, this is a theory without foundation, as there is no record confirming that this could have actually happened. The second theory points to the origin of

the activity possibly lying in a nearby cemetery. It is said that perhaps several people were victims of catalepsy and were buried alive there, therefore, their souls cannot rest in peace and transmit to passers by the anguish they felt in the minutes before they died. But this theory can also be easily refuted, can just a couple of souls transmit so much negative energy? Can just a few tormented souls caused thousands of people each year to suffer dizziness, nausea, and hallucinations. In this area, taking into account these unanswered questions, we would have no other alternative but to resort to the third theory, which today carries much more weight. If we investigate the history of the Japanese country, and especially that of the island of

Okinawa, we hit head on with a military conflict that ended the lives of thousands of people, the so-called Battle of Okinawa, which took place during World War II. This battle was the largest amphibious assault in the Pacific Theater and was fought for a total of 82 days, from early April to mid-June of 1945. The balanced combats were truly atrocious, and neither of the two warring sides showed any mercy. In fact, the battle turned out to be one of those that produced the most deaths among both civilians and military during World War II. It is well known by all experts in parapsychology that in places where a tragic event has occurred, residual energy tends to accumulate. A clear example of this is Fox Hollow Farm, where Herb Baumister tortured and ended the lives of multiple young men. But what happens when death goes beyond that, when the number of mortal victims transcends a quarter of a million?

Exactly what can be felt at the curve of the three S's in Okinawa, the spirits find no rest and repeat over and over. again the day of their death, the pain, the anxiety, the nausea, the dizziness, the despair. And this, much to our regret, has today become a tourist attraction. The curve of the three S's attracts thousands of tourists each year, thousands of people who want to know a little more about the history of Okinawa, who want to feel what those soldiers, what those poor civilians, felt before dying. And this would lead us to the next question, would you want to be the next to feel the negative energy of the island of Okinawa. Before your eyes stands a luxury complex on the lush hillside of Okinawa, panoramic sea views,

a water park, a petting zoo, a nightclub, what was to be paradise on earth for anyone who could afford it. Now it crumbles in solitude, swallowed by nature reclaiming the land that man once tried to steal. Perhaps the creator of the complex should have respected the traditions a bit more. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. This is the story of the Nakagusuku Kogan Hotel, or more commonly known as the Royal Hotel of Okinawa, one of the most haunted abandoned sites in all of Japan. In the Kasuk Shurato Kogan, which literally means plateau behind the castle, it was to be a leisure complex aimed at wealthy clients, a kind of playground in the hills of Kitten Nakagosuku.

According to reports, the owner of the complex was a businessman from Naha who planned to capitalize on the influence of tourism resulting from the Okinawa Ocean Exposition. The location of the complex was apparently ideal. The site was literally just steps from the other side of Nakagusuka Castle, atop the hills where wealthy patrons could enjoy magnificent views of both the Pacific Ocean and the East China Sea. However, everything was too perfect to be real. The day the new owner of those lands arrived there with some developers,

several monks from a local Buddhist temple knelt before them and begged them to abandon the project, to leave, to let it be. They told them that those lands were sacred and that under their feet lay an immense cemetery thousands of years old. Building on that site, especially a complex dedicated to gambling, greed, and lust, would represent an offense to the spirits resting there. But the man did not believe in curses, so he expelled the monks from his lands, and within a few weeks, construction began. Many trees were cut down, more than half the hill was excavated, and multiple graves were destroyed. At this point, many of you might think that if he was really destroying all that, it was because he was following a plan, a plan that was already laid out. But the truth is,

no. The construction project of the Nakagusuku Kogan Hotel was going to be very similar to that of the Winchester Mansion, as its owner was very afraid of espionage. He believed that if his workers had construction plans, they could show them to his enemies, and that the same hotel could be built on the other side of the world and enrich other people. So each morning, he met with the builders and told them what they had to do. An incredible as it may seem, the plans seemed to work as expected, at least at the beginning. By mid-1975, misfortunes began to occur on the hillside of Okinawa. The workers began to fall victim to strange workplace accidents, accidents.

while working in areas that apparently posed no risk to them. To help you understand better, a 19-year-old named Tetsuo Imaguchi fell from a first floor and died instantly. However, what was strange about this death was not the fall itself, but that forensic doctors determined that practically all his bones were broken and his skull was crushed, as if instead of falling from a first floor, he had fallen from a seventh. But the workplace accidents and deaths were just the beginning. Little by little, many workers began to quit because they were convinced that those lands were cursed. They claimed to be touched by invisible hands, that something or someone called them by their names

from deep within the forest, that their work materials disappeared without a trace. And most disturbing of all was that while they worked, they were visited by strange people, old men, children, and women, who stared at them intently. But these figures only let themselves be seen for a few moments, because if you turned around and looked again, they had disappeared. By the end of 1975, half the workforce had left the project out of fear of the curse, and the other half threatened to do the same. So the owner decided to take action. He gathered the entire team and spoke the following words, I will prove that this place is not under the influence of any curse, that it's

all nonsense, tales, bedtime stories, inventions of the monks and the old folks. I will sleep here alone for an entire night. At dawn, you will all return to work. No one knows what happened that night, but what has been recorded is that the man was never the same again. The next morning, the wealthy owner had gone mad and had to be admitted to a mental asylum, from which he would disappear a few days later. Like any good ghost story, there's also a rational version, although much less exciting, which is that the project simply wasn't practical. The project tried to get off the ground during Japan's economic bubble era. when money was spent on various projects that were essentially very poorly planned luxury flights.

Japan is full of abandoned places that were the product of bad economic decisions made between the 1970s and 1980s, and the Nakagosuku Kogan Hotel might be one of them. Many mystery lovers have ventured into these lands to find out which of the two versions is real, and among them is Eve Nan, a young British woman who in 2012 ventured into the complex equipped only with a camera. The first thing she did was interview some local residents, and they all advised her not to step into the hotel, that the lands it stood on were sacred and that, because they were desecrated in the 70s, they were now unsafe. They also told her that the United States had prohibited military personnel from entering that area because, in the 80s, there was a small accident there,

a soldier, while exploring the area, fell through a collapsed floor, dropping one level down and breaking several ribs. And this accident, according to locals, was not caused by the poor state of the construction but by the spirits that today demand vengeance. According to Eve, in a post she published on Sorinus 24 in 2015, it's extremely easy to access the place, although right at the main entrance you can see two signs. On the first appear the following words, keep out, and on the second, a broken board apparently hand-painted and faded over time warns the following. This This is the ruin of the Nakagosuku Hotel, which was abandoned in Sho'era and is extremely unstable.

Nakagosuka Castle is not responsible for any injury or loss of life as a result of entry. While walking through the complex, Eve was afraid of encountering two things, Habu snakes, which are extremely irritable and very venomous, and vagrants. But instead, she came face to face with a disturbing silence. In that place, the birds did not sing, the wind did not blow, and the humidity clung to all her limbs. As she advanced through the complex, she began to feel extremely nervous, especially at a point where her phone lost signal, which made her feel even more isolated and alone.

Once she finished the initial exploration, the young woman decided to see if she could find any of the graves, the graves that, according to legend, had been desecrated. So she headed toward a path that wound to the right, and then, ever was a way to the right, and then she went deeper in, the buildings disappeared until finally the undergrowth flooded everything. And right at that moment, she encountered this, clearly, these graves had not been tended to for years. And it wasn't just one or two or three, there were many graves. The entire hillside was an ancient cemetery. So now it's your turn. Which version do you choose, the curse of the spirits or that the money simply didn't last? The end. I'm a nine one.

one operator. I work the graveyard shift, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. You hear a lot of things in this job. A lot of pain, a lot of fear, a lot of just, weirdness. But usually, there's an explanation. Usually, it fits into a box, however grim that box might be. This one, this one doesn't fit in any box I know. And it's been eating at me for weeks. I need to get it out. I've changed some minor details to protect privacy, but the core of it, the part that keeps me up when I finally get home, that's all here. It was a Tuesday, or technically Wednesday morning, around 2.30 a.m. The witching hour, some call it.

For us, it's usually just the quiet before the post-bar closing storm, or the time when the truly desperate calls come in. The air in the dispatch center was stale, smelling faintly of lukewarm coffee and the ozone hum of too many electronics. My screen glowed with the CAD, computer-aided dispatch, system, mostly green, all quiet. I was idly tracing the condensation ring my water bottle left on the desk, trying to stay alert. Then a call dropped into my cue. Standard ring. I clicked to answer. 9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency? Standard opening. My voice was calm, practiced. The other end was quiet for a beat, just a ragged, shallow breath.

Then, a woman's voice, tight and trembling. I. I don't know if this is an emergency. I think. I think I'm going crazy, not an uncommon start, especially at this hour. Loneliness, paranoia, sometimes undiagnosed mental health issues. Okay, ma'am, can you tell me what's happening? And I still need your address so I know where you are.

Yes, yes, of course. It's 1427, Hawthorne Lane. Her voice was thin. My name is, well, that doesn't matter right now, does it? I typed the address into the system. Popped up clean. Residential. Okay, 1427, Hawthorne Lane.

Got it. Tell me what's going on. Man, there's, there's someone in my wardrobe, my internal check-a-box system clicked. Possible home invasion. Or, again, paranoia. Someone in your wardrobe? Are you sure? Have you seen them?

No, not, not seen. Heard. She took a shaky breath. It started about an hour ago. A knocking sound. From inside my bedroom wardrobe, a knocking sound. I prompted, keeping my tone even. Could it be pipes? An animal in the walls? The usual rationalizations. No, no, it's not like that. It's deliberate. Like someone tapping to get out.

I thought. I thought I was dreaming, or just hearing things. You know, old house sounds. But it kept happening. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. She mimicked it, and even through the phone line, the distinct rhythm was unsettling. Are you alone in the house, ma'am, yes. Completely alone. My husband, he passed away last year. Her voice hitched a little on that. I made a mental note.

Grief can do strange things to the mind. I'm very sorry for your loss, ma'am. I said, genuinely. This knocking, did you try to imagine? investigate it, I. I was too scared at first. I just lay in bed, pulling the covers up. But it wouldn't stop. It just kept going. So, eventually, I got up. I turned on the light. I went to the wardrobe. Her breathing was getting faster. I could hear the faint rustle of fabric, like she was wringing her hands or clutching her clothes. And what happened when you got to the wardrobe, ma'am, the knocking stop. when I got close. And then, then I heard a voice. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

A little boy's voice. It said, help me. Please, help me. I'm trapped, a chill, faint but definite, traced its way down my spine. This was, different. A boy's voice. From inside the wardrobe, yes. He sounded so scared.

He said, he said, he's. said his daddy put him in there and he can't get out. Okay. This was escalating. A child's voice claiming to be trapped by his father. This had moved past Oldhouse sounds. But still, the details were, odd. A child just appearing in a wardrobe? Ma'am, did you open the wardrobe door? Yes. As soon as he said that, I threw it open. I was expecting. I don't know what I was expecting. But there was nothing there. Her voice cracked with a mixture of fear and confusion. Just my clothes. Shoes on the floor. Nothing. And the voice, it was gone. Silence. Nothing at all. I clarified. No sign of anyone, no way a child could be hiding. No. It's not a deep

wardrobe. You'd see. I even pushed clothes. aside. It was empty. I thought. I must have imagined it. The stress, being alone, and what happened then? I asked, leaning forward slightly. My other hand was hovering over the dispatch button, but I needed more. This felt off. Not like a prank. Prank callers usually have a different energy, a smugness, or a forced panic. This woman sounded genuinely terrified. and bewildered. I. I was so relieved, but also so confused. I stood there for a minute, trying to catch my breath. Then I closed the wardrobe door. She paused, and I could hear a sharp intake of air. And the second it latched, the knocking started again. Louder this time.

And the little boy's voice. Please. Don't leave me in here. He'll be angry if he finds out was talking, her voice broke into a sob. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared. Is it a ghost? Am I losing my mind? But it sounds so real, I took a slow breath myself. My skepticism was warring with a growing sense of unease. The sequence of events was bizarre, but her terror felt authentic. Okay, ma'am. Stay on the line with me. You're in your bedroom now, no. I ran out. I'm in the living room. I locked the bedroom door. But I can still. I can still faintly hear it. The knocking, is the wardrobe in your master bedroom? Yes, the big one. Oh God, he's talking again. Her voice was hushed, urgent. He's saying, he's saying his dad locked him in

because he was a bad boy. He said his dad gets really mad and, and hurts him sometimes. That was it. That specific detail, the abuse allegation. Whether this was a delusion, a ghost, or something else entirely, if there was even a fraction of a chance a child was in danger, we had to act. My fingers flew across the keyboard, initiating a dispatch for a welfare check, possibly a child endangerment situation. I coded it at high priority. Ma'am, I'm sending officers to your location right now, okay? They're going to change. check this out. I need you to stay on the phone with me. They're coming. Oh, thank God. Thank you. Relief flooded her voice, but the undercurrent of terror remained. He's, he's crying now.

The little boy. He's saying his dad told him if he made any noise, he'd be in for it. He says he's scared of the dark. I relayed the additional information to the responding units. Caller states she can hear a child's voice from a wardrobe, claiming his father locked him in and abuses him. Child is reportedly scared and crying. The dispatcher on the radio acknowledged. Units on route. ETA six minutes. Six minutes can feel like an eternity on a call like this. I tried to keep her talking, to keep her grounded. Ma'am, what's your name? It's, it's Eleanor. Eleanor Vance. Okay, Eleanor. The officers are on their way. Are you somewhere you feel safe right now? I'm in the living room, like I said. I have the door

locked. But the sound, it's like it's getting clearer, even from here. Or maybe I'm just listening harder. She paused. He's saying, Daddy says I shouldn't talk to strangers. But you're not a stranger if you're helping, are you? My blood ran cold. The innocence of that, juxtaposed with the implied threat, it was deeply disturbing. Are you talking to him? I asked her. No, it's just, I can hear him so clearly, I don't know how he is talking to me from upstairs,

it's just like he can hear me talking to you. Maybe I shouldn't have came down, maybe I should go back to the room. No, Eleanor, stay where you are. You're helping. And we're helping too. Wait for the dispatch, please. I could hear her quiet, fearful breathing.

I focused on the CAD screen, watching the little car icons representing the patrol units crawl across the map towards Hawthorne Lane. Each tick of the clock in the dispatch center sounded unnaturally loud. Eleanor, I said, trying to keep my voice steady, when the officers arrive, they'll knock. Let them know it's you, okay, yes, yes, I will. She was quiet for a moment, then, he's saying thank you. The little boy. He says he hopes they come soon because it's hard to breathe in here, hard to breathe. My stomach clenched. That detail was chillingly specific.

Ventilation in a closed wardrobe wouldn't be great. They're almost there, Eleanor. Just a couple more minutes. Unit 214, show us on scene at 1427 Hawthorne. The voice of Officer Miller crackled through my headset. Copy that, 214. Caller is Eleanor Vance, should be expecting you. She's in the living room, reports hearing a child in a wardrobe in the master bedroom. 10 to 4, Central. I relayed this to Eleanor.

There there, Eleanor. They're at your door. Oh, thank heavens. I heard a faint shuffling sound, as if she was getting up. Then, nothing for a few seconds. I expected to hear her talking to the officers, the sound of a door opening. Instead, Officer Miller's voice came back on the radio, sounding puzzled. Central, we have a male subject at the door. Advises he's the homeowner, my brow furrowed.

A male subject? Ask him if Eleanor Vance is present. Or if there's any female resident, a brief pause. Central, negative. Male states he lives here alone with his son. Says there's no Eleanor Vance here, no female resident at all, a cold dread, far deeper than before, began to spread through me. I looked at the address on my screen. 1427, Hawthorne Lane. Confirmed. Eleanor. I said into the phone.

Eleanor, are you there? The officers are saying a man answered the door. They say there's no woman there, her voice came back, faint and laced with utter confusion. What? No, that's impossible. I'm here. This is my house. I'm... I'm looking out the living room window. I can see the patrol car.

Unit 214, I said, my voice tight, call her on the line insists she is inside the residence, states she can see your vehicle. This was getting stranger by the second. Central, the male subject is adamant. He's looking pretty confused himself, says no one. else should be here. Miller sounded wary. Says his name is Arthur Collins. He's got I.D. Eleanor, I pressed, what does this man look like? The one at the door, I. I can't see him clearly from here. Just, just his shape. Her voice was trembling violently now. But this is my house.

I've lived here for 20 years. My husband, Robert, we bought it together. 214. The caller's name is Eleanor Vance. She says her late husband was Robert. Does the name Vance mean anything to Mr. Collins? I waited, listening to the silence on Eleanor's end, then Miller's response. Central, Mr. Collins says he bought this house three years ago. From an estate sale. Previous owner was deceased. A Robert Vance, my heart hammered against my ribs. Estate sale. previous owner deceased Robert Vance That meant Eleanor Vance

Eleanor I said softly The officer said Mr. Collins bought the house three years ago From the estate of a Robert Vance Eleanor, your husband's name was Robert, you said There was a long, drawn out silence on her end Just the sound of her breathing, growing more ragged, more panicked It sounded like she was hyperventilating.

Eleanor, can you hear me, then, a choked sound. No, no, that can't be right. Robert, he passed last year. Not, not three years ago. I. I was with him. Her voice was dissolving into confusion and fear. This is, this is my home, this was spiraling out of my control,

out of any recognizable scenario. But the child, the child was still the priority. Unit 2.14, I said, pushing down my own disorientation. Regardless of the caller's status, the initial report was a child trapped in a wardrobe, possibly abused. Mr. Collins states he has a son. You need to verify the welfare of that child, 10 to 4, central. Mr. Collins confirms he has a 7-year-old son, says his name is Leo. says he's asleep upstairs. Ask him if you can see the boy, just to confirm he's okay,

given the nature of the call we received. There was a pause. I could hear Miller talking to Collins, muffled. Then Miller came back on. Central, subject is refusing. Says the boy is fine, doesn't want him woken up. He's getting a bit agitated. Eleanor, I whispered into my phone, are you still there? A faint, broken sound, like a gasp. I. I don't understand what's happening. 214, reiterate that due to the specifics of the call, we need to see the child. It's a welfare check. My training kicked in. We had cause. More muffled conversation, then Miller's voice, sharper now. Central, subject is becoming uncooperative. Denying access. He's raising his voice. Then, a sudden change in his tone.

Hold on. Central, did you hear that? Hear what? 214. A sound. From upstairs. Faint, like a cry. Or a thump, my gut twisted. Eleanor, I said quickly, the wardrobe you heard the knocking from, which room is it in? The, the master bedroom, she whispered. Upstairs. At the end of the hall, 214, the original report specified the master bedroom wardrobe, upstairs. Did you hear the sound from that direction? Affirmative, central. Definitely from upstairs. Subject is now trying to block the doorway. Partner is moving to restrain. The line with Eleanor was still open. I could hear her ragged, panicked gasps. It was like listening to someone drowning.

Then, chaos erupted on the radio. Shouting. Sir, step aside. Police. Don't resist. Sounds of a struggle. My own pulse was roaring in my ears. I gripped the phone tighter.

Central, we're making entry to check on the child. Officer Miller's voice, strained. Subject is non-compliant. I heard footsteps pounding on the radio feed, officers moving quickly. Upstairs. Check the bedrooms. Eleanor was making soft, whimpering sounds now. They're in my house, but they can't see me. Robert, what's happening to me, Robert, 214, status. I demanded. Checking rooms. Master bedroom at the end of the hall. doors closed a pause then it's locked eleanor was your bedroom door locked when you left it yes yes i locked it she stammered 214 call her state she locked that door okay central we're announcing then forcing if no response i heard them call out police occupant open the door silence then a thud another The sound of a door splintering. We're in. Miller shouted. Wardrobe, it's closed.

Oh God. Central, we found him. Child in the wardrobe. He's alive. Conscious, but terrified. Small boy matches the description. A wave of dizzying relief washed over me, so strong it almost buckled me. He was real.

The boy was really. They got to him. Arthur Collins was now in deep, deep trouble. But then the other part of it crashed back in. Eleanor. I said, my voice horse. They found him. The little boy, Leo.

He's safe. They have him. Her response was a broken whisper, almost inaudible. Leo, his name is Leo. He was, he was real. he was real. Yes, Eleanor, he was real. But, the officers, they still don't see you. Mr. Colin says you're not there. Eleanor, where are you in the house right now? A long, shaky sigh. I'm... I was in the living room. By the window. But, when they came in, they walked right past me.

Right through where I was standing. Her voice was filled with a dawning, unutterable horror. They didn't. They didn't see me. He didn't see me. Eleanor, I didn't know what to say. What could I possibly say? The wardrobe, the master bedroom, that's where I heard him so clearly. I spent so much time in that room, after Robert, her voice trailed off. Then, a new note of terror, colder than before. If, if Mr. Collins bought the house three years ago, from Robert's estate, and Robert died, then, when did I die? The question hung in the air, chilling me to the bone. I had no answer. My dispatcher's manual had no protocol for this. I. I don't feel anything, she whispered, her voice sounding distant now, frayed. It's, it's like I'm fading. I can't. I can't see the room clearly anymore. It's, cold, Eleanor. Elinor, stay with me. Can you tell me anything else? Can you describe what you see around you now?

My professional instincts were useless, grasping at straws. Her voice was barely a breath. Just, dark, and wind, so much whined, then, a click. The line went dead. I yelled into the receiver. Eleanor, static. My hand was shaking as I hit the redial button for the incoming number. It rang, once, twice, then it connected, but there was no voice, just a sound, a faint, hollow, whistling sound, like wind blowing through a cracked window pane, or across the mouth of an empty bottle.

It was a sound I'd heard before, sometimes on bad connections, but this was different. This felt, empty, desolate. I listened for a full minute, my heart, pounding, a cold sweat on my brow. The sound didn't change. Just that soft, sighing wind. I hung up. The officers were dealing with Collins, getting medics for Leo. The immediate crisis was over. The boy was safe. That's what mattered. That's what I told myself. But Eleanor, I ran the number through our system again. It was a landline, registered to 1420. It had been for over 20 years. Registered to Robert and Eleanor Vance.

It was probably disconnected after the estate sale, but somehow, somehow she had called from it. Or through it. The report I filed was, complex. I focused on the tangible, the call, the child endangerment, the successful rescue. I omitted the parts about Eleanor's apparent non-existence, her dawning realization. Who would believe it? They'd send me for Psyche Val. Maybe I should go.

But I know what I heard. I know how real her fear was. And I know that, whatever she was, she saved that little boy's life. She reached across, whatever barrier separates us from whatever she is, and she made us listen. I still work the midnight shift. The calls still come in. But now, sometimes. when there's a strange silence on the line, or a whisper I can't quite make out, I feel a

different kind of chill. I think of Eleanor Vance, and the hollow wind on the other end of the line the E.N.D. The old one brought his grandchild to a seaside cave on a dreadful stormy winter night. This cave was special because a god had taken residence there, according to legend, the master of the oceans, in a corporeal form. A cruel and bestial thing, as dark and vicious as the depths themselves. Fickle and turbulent as the seas at heart. An abysal predator concealing his lust for destruction and chaos under an anthropomorphic facade crafted with his swarm of tentacle appendages. No one had seen the god himself, merely a statue placed there by the old one all those years ago. None dared question the validity of the tales, for the seas were treacherous,

and that was enough to prove his existence. Standing before the statue of this divinity, the old one placed a clawed hand on his grandchild's shoulders, asking the youth, my lamb, are you ready to become the savior of our world? The little child could only nod in acceptance. He knew his destiny was one of thankless greatness. He also knew the road to his purpose in life was full of unimaginable suffering. Year after year, he watched the old one repeat the same ritual with his six siblings. Again and again, he watched his brothers and sisters save the universe from the wrath of their terrible Lord. Good fortune blessed their family with a duty, a truly wonderful duty to the world. By 13 years of age, the boy knew he wasn't long for this

world. All his siblings who reached that age had to be offered as a willing sacrifice to their Lord. An innocent life was to be given a way to salvage the world. If so, let us save this world, my beautiful lamb, proclaimed the old one with a wide grin on his face. Tightly gripping his cane, he swung it at the boy, hitting him hard across the face. The child fell onto the rocky surface below, spitting blood and crying out in pain. A thunder clap echoed across the cave as the cane struck flesh again. Then, again and again, each blow harder than the one before, each crack of the wooden cane almost loud enough to silence the agonized cries of torment rumbling across the cave.

Who would have thought that you, the last of my seed, the one who was supposed to be perfect, would be the weakest one of all? The old one sneered, beating into his grandchild repeatedly with sadistic hatred, guiding each blow in a remarkable precision meant to prolong the torture for as long as humanely possible. The boy, curled up into a fetal position, could barely hear himself think over the repeated waves of ache-washing all over his body. There was no point in protesting his innocence. There was no point in even uttering any syllables. He knew his body was no longer his own.

It now belonged to the gods and their priest, his grandfather. Even if he wanted to defend his assigned adulthood, he could no longer control his mouth or throat. Nothing was his in this world anymore, nothing but an onslaught of indiscreet. indescribable pain. Finally satisfied with the ritualistic abuse he inflicted, the old one, covered in sweat and blood and frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal, collapsed onto his grandchild. Turning the youthful husk, now colored black and blue with stains of red all over, onto its back, the old one picked up a sharp stone from the ground and slammed it hard into the child's chest with ecstatic glee. He slammed the stone again and again until the flesh

and the bone caved in on themselves, leaving a gap wide enough to push his hand inside the child. Ah, there it is, the source of all my joy, the animal cried out. Its hand slid into the boy's chest. The youth weakly coughed, barely hanging on to life. He could hardly tell apart his monstrous grandfather from the surrounding darkness and cold. Everything turned even dimmer once the bloodied hand came out of his chest again. The monster held out its hand. The monster held out its hand in triumph, clutching the child's yet beating heart. Blood from the exposed organ dripped onto the youth's pale lips as everything vanished into the void, even the bizarrely satisfied smirk on his grandfather's face. The phylliside of his last remaining grandchild had yet to satisfy his hunger

for vile and pain. The demise of the one he had forced to behold as he snuffed the light from the eyes of their kin repeatedly did not satisfy his thirst for the obscene. Still hungering for more, the subhuman mortal shoved the little heart into his throat, swallowing it whole. The taste of human flesh further enticed his madness, forcing him to sink his yellow rotting teeth into the infantile carcass. Intoxicated with the fairest properties of his preferred wine, the old beast failed to notice as the ground shook violently beneath him. His tongue lapped the marrow out of shattered thigh bone when the statue of his beloved god collapsed onto him, crushing his lower half and exposing his crimes. Countless little bones lay hidden inside the rubble. The vampire's pleas for help went

unanswered as he withered under the weight of his creation. The cannibalistic beast was at the mercy of the heavens, but his gods knew no kindness. He prayed between sheep-like bleats of anguish for a quick end. He begged for a piece of the cave to crush him to death once the ground shook again, but no such salvation would come. Tears streamed down his sunken features as the waves rose with boiling fury, for he knew his God had abandoned him. The old one desperately attempted to escape his punishment by throwing a stone at the cave ceiling, hoping it would fall on his head, killing him, and yet, the forces above kept casting the stone away until it was too late. And the vengeful wrath of the gods brought down a deluge to pull the old ghoul and his

blasphemous temple into the bottom of the abyss and away from sight. And I never go into the mountains. Even the floating islands, I hate. The radio crackled, and Liam's voice broke through the static. Dr. Evelyn Kova raised an eyebrow, her fingers poised over the console inside her cramped submersible. The green glow of the alien ocean outside reflected off her visor. I wasn't aware you could hate anything more than this place, she replied, her voice tinged with sarcasm. I'm serious, Evie, Liam said, his voice tense. The floating islands, they shouldn't even exist. We've barely mapped half of the planet, but the energy readings from there, something's not right. Evelyn sighed, leaning back in her pilot's chair. She was deep in the

twilight zone of planet 45-46B, the alien ocean world they'd crash-landed on months ago. Their ship, the Aurora, had been destroyed, and now it was just a handful of survivors spread across hastily built sea bases and makeshift habitats. Communication with the surface was sparse, but Liam, stationed up near the safe shallows, had the clearest view of the floating islands, massive land masses suspended over the deep ocean, seemingly defying gravity. Maybe you're right, Evelyn admitted. But it's not like we have a choice. The PDA detected new energy signatures below the islands. If it's anything like the last cache we found, it could be our ticket off this planet. Liam's voice dropped to a low mutter. Or it could be our end. She killed the conversation there.

was running out, and they couldn't stay stranded on this planet much longer. The endless sea had been both a prison and a sanctuary, its waters hiding as many dangers as they did resources. The floating islands were strange, sure, but what wasn't strange about this planet? Evelyn fired up the submersible sentience, feeling the slight tremor beneath her feet as the small vessel hummed to life. She eased it forward, navigating the alien waters with the ease of someone who had spent months becoming one with this world's bizarre ecosystem. Outside, strange bioluminescent creatures flickered

and danced in the deep water, some harmless, others deadly. Ahead, the shadows of the floating islands loomed, massive chunks of rocks suspended impossibly in mid-air, their roots stretching into the ocean depths like black fingers. They drifted lazily above the seabed, tethered by some unknown force. Evelyn had only been here once before, and that trip had been short. Even then, she had felt a deep sense of unease being near them, as if the islands themselves were watching. The PDA beeped, alerting her to an anomaly in the area. She quickly checked the readings. Energy spikes.

High levels. Not good. Liam, unclosing in on the anomaly. Keep the calms open, she said. Copy that, he replied, though his voice was still laced with doubt. She descended further, leaving the shallows behind as the landscape below her shifted to more treacherous terrain. Jagged rocks, strange alien plants, and shimmering schools of fish that darted out of the sub's path. Deeper still, the terrain became more surreal, the ocean floor

dotted with ancient alien architecture, the remnants of a civilization long since lost. The islands cast long shadows below them, and her submersible slights caught something glinting beneath the surface. A structure, no, a platform. It looked old, ancient, yet it was perfectly preserved. Her heart skipped a beat. Could this be the energy source they were detecting? Evelyn guided the sub closer, slowly circling the platform. It was massive, etched with symbols she'd never seen before, and glowing with a faint green light. The same kind of light she'd seen in the precursor facilities scattered across the planet.

The aliens who had built these structures had vanished, but their technology remained, waiting, almost as if expecting someone to find it. She opened a calm link. Liam, I'm directly over the source. It's, it's another precursor site. Liam's response was delayed. Are you sure? Evie, the last time we tampered with that stuff, it didn't end well. She swallowed hard, recalling the incident.

One of their crew had died. They'd unlocked a door they shouldn't have, triggered something that wasn't meant to be disturbed. But the precursor technology also held the key to their escape, the key to getting off this nightmare planet. Evelyn descended further, the glowing platform growing larger as, she approached. Her submersible scanner's word to life, gathering data from the alien structure. The energy reading spiked, and the display showed something new, movement. Ah, Liam, something's moving down here.

What do you mean, moving? Before she could answer, the platform pulsed, and the very ocean seemed to ripple with its force, as though the deep itself was awakening. The lights along the ancient structure flickered to life, illuminating the water in eerie, greenish hues. In the inky blackness below, something massive stirred. At first it was only a shadow, an impossibly large, undulating form, but as it rose closer to the surface, its full, horrifying shape emerged. The Leviathan was unlike anything Evelyn had ever seen.

It was serpentine in form, stretching over a hundred meters long, with a body that seemed to undulate like a ribbon caught in an unseen current. It scales, sleek and smooth, shimmered with bioluminescent patterns, swirling blues, greens, and purples that pulsed rhythmically in time with the platform's energy. Each scale was the size of a human hand, overlapping like armor, shimmering with a strange, almost hypnotic glow. But beneath that beauty lurked something ancient and primal. As it twisted and coiled around the platform,

its sheer size dwarfed everything around it. Massive fin-like protrusions jutted from its sides, flexing as it circled, stirring the waters into a whirlpool of glowing debris. Its head was angular, lined with jagged ridges, and two glowing eyes burned like twin suns in the abyss, locking onto Evelyn's sub with terrifying focus. The creature's mouth was a gaping maw, filled with rows of serrated, crystalline teeth that shimmered like broken glass. From its gills, streams of glowing mist expelled

with each breath, sending ripples through the water. Evie! Get out of there! Liam's voice crackled over the radio, desperate, but her hands were frozen on the controls. Too late. The Leviathan reared back, its body caught. into a massive loop around the platform, tightening like a colossal noose. Its tail, tipped with spiny, razor-sharp barbs, whipped out with incredible speed. Evelyn barely had time to yank the controls to the side. The submersible veered wildly, narrowly avoiding a direct hit, but the Leviathan's tail still struck the hull with bone-rattling force.

The impact sent her spiraling out of control, alarms blaring as the sub tumbled through the dark water. Through the shaking in the noise, Evelyn caught a glimpse of the creature's eyes once more. more, cold, intelligent, and filled with an ancient, unyielding power. It was not just a predator. It was something far worse, something that had ruled these depths long before she had ever crash-landed on this planet. Just as Evelyn thought it would crush her, the creature paused.

The pulsing light from the platform intensified, and with it, the creature's body began to shimmer, as though it were dissolving into the water. It released the sub and, in moments, vanished into the depths, leaving behind only the pulsing light of the platform. Evelyn panted, her heart hammering in her chest. The sub was damaged, but it still functioned. She didn't wait around to see if the creature would return. She kicked the engines into gear and ascended as fast as she could, leaving the platform,

and whatever secrets it held, behind. As the floating islands shrank into the distance, Liam's voice came through the calms, shaky but relieved. You still with me, Evie. Yeah, she replied, her voice ragged. But whatever's down there, were not meant to find it. She glanced at the floating islands one last time as they faded into the abyss, the strange, unnatural hums still echoing in her mind. She'd never come back here again.

Not if she could help it. And I never go into the mountains, she muttered to herself, gripping the controls. Even the floating islands, I hate. The story of Angie shook the immigrant community in the United States, regardless of where they came from. United them was the shared dream of seeking a better future for themselves and their families. Angie Daniela Diaz Rivera, known simply as Angie, was born in Nicaragua on October 21st, 2001. She was the eldest of four children born to Dania Diaz. Her family struggled financially, barely scraping by. This dire situation forced her mother to make a heartbreaking decision,

to leave for the United States in search of work and send money back home. For many immigrants, this was a familiar story. But in Angie's mother's case, some accounts suggest that her reasons weren't solely financial. Allegedly, she was also fleeing an abusive relationship, seeking both safety in a way to support her children. Regardless of the motivations, leaving her children behind wasn't easy. Angie and her siblings were left in the care of their maternal aunt, Maria Libertad, who raised them as if they were her own.

Maria described Angie as a kind-hearted and generous young girl who was naturally hardworking and full of dreams. To Angie, Maria was more than an aunt, she was a second mother, and the bond they shared was incredibly strong. Angie was known for her joyful and lively personality. She wasn't afraid to be herself, and she loved sharing her life on social media. Whether it was family jokes, dance videos, advice, or just her daily life, Angie's online presence was full of energy in positivity. But behind the laughs and smiles, Angie had a serious side. She was focused on her education, determined to build a better future. In 2018, she graduated from high school and enrolled at the National Autonomous University of Nicaragua, the country's oldest university.

Angie had big dreams, but life had other plans. Her beloved aunt and mother figure, Maria Libertad, fell gravely ill. Initially, Maria ignored her symptoms, but when her condition worsened, she sought medical help and received devastating news, cancer. The cost of treatment was far beyond what the family could afford. Faced with this harsh reality, 18-year-old Angie made a bold decision. She packed her bags and, alongside a cousin, set off for the United States to follow in her mother's footsteps, find a job and send money back home to cover Maria's treatment. Upon arriving in the U.S., Angie settled in Houston, Texas, with her biological mother, Dania. Despite being so young, Angie was resolute. Her mother described her as unique, strong, and always cheerful.

Angie quickly found work in the meat department of a grocery store. She also picked up English rapidly, made friends, and got along well with her boss and neighbors. Angie's charisma was undeniable. One thing Angie noticed immediately was the unhealthy food culture around her. Fast food was the go-to for many, and Angie decided to make a change in her own life. She adopted healthier eating habits, started exercising, and began sharing her journey on social media. Her posts included workout routines, meal plans, and motivational messages. Angie's content gained traction, and she realized she could turn this into a second career.

She attended workshops, completed a few courses, and became a health coach. With two jobs and a steady income, Angie was thriving. She sent money home, enjoyed her social life, and made new friends. Life seemed perfect. While working at the grocery store, Angie met Jarrett James Dacus, a 21-year-old. old coworker. Jarrett was reserved and shy, but everyone described him as charming. He had training as an electrician and was passionate about sports, having played football and practiced wrestling. Angie and Jarrett's shared interest in fitness and healthy living brought them closer.

They started as friends, but their connection quickly deepened. Within weeks, they were inseparable. In October 2022, they announced their relationship publicly. Their bond was so intense that just 10 days after they began dating, they decided to elope. The news of their marriage shocked everyone. Without informing their families or inviting witnesses, Angie and Jarrett went to the Magnolia City Hall in Montgomery County, Texas, and tied the knot. They then moved into a small cabin on Jarrett's parents' property. When they told their families, the reaction was a mix of disbelief and concern. Everyone adored the couple, but they couldn't understand why they had rushed into marriage. Angie's in-laws, however, quickly grew to love her. They described her as

sweet, caring, and a joy to be around. Angie spent a lot of time with her mother-in-law, cooking, watching movies, and chatting. She became like a daughter to them. Despite the idyllic start, cracks began to show. Angie's co-workers noticed occasional changes in her demeanor. Normally cheerful and hardworking, she sometimes appeared withdrawn and sad. When asked, Angie would brush off concerns, focusing only on positive topics. Her boss, Veronica Jimenez, later remarked, she was happy with her husband, but there were days when she seemed different. I couldn't tell if it was work or something else. Many assumed her sadness stemmed from being far from Maria Libertad, who was battling

cancer in Nicaragua. On the surface, Angie and Jarrett seemed like the perfect couple. Their social media was filled with smiling photos, loving captions, and moments of joy. But some friends found Jarrett's behavior unsettling. He was always by Angie's side, constantly texting or calling her. While Angie seemed content, others viewed Jarrett as overly possessive. In December 2020, the couple attended a work party. Angie was her usual bubbly self, but Jarrett acted strangely. Whenever Angie was enjoying herself, Jarrett would pull her aside, and her mood would shift.

Eventually, he stormed out of the party, and Angie followed, apologizing to everyone and explaining that Jarrett wasn't feeling well. Some witnesses claimed Jarrett was jealous, but Angie dismissed any concerns. After the party, she posted a picture of them together, smiling and hugging. Jarrett's comment on the photo, Merry Christmas, My Beautiful Wife, My Trophy, Raised Eyebrows. While it could have been a joke, it struck some as possessive. Things took a darker turn in January 23. On January 9th, Angie posted a cryptic message on Instagram, when I'm crying, but I see myself in the mirror. Two days later, she shared a photo of her breakfast, her last social media post.

On the morning of January 11th, Angie's routine took an unexpected turn. She usually rode her bike to work, stopping by her in-law's house to say goodbye. That morning, however, she never showed up. Instead, Jarrett's parents heard shouting from the couple's cabin. Then, silence. Moments later, they heard a car engine and assumed Jarrett was driving Angie to work. But Angie never arrived at her job. Later that day, Jarrett showed up at the grocery store alone.

Surveillance footage captured him parking, entering the store, grabbing a beer, and leaving without paying. Witnesses described his behavior as erratic, and his clothes appeared stained. Despite the unsettling scene, no one intervened. Back at home, Jarrett's parents grew increasingly worried. Angie hadn't called or messaged anyone, a stark departure from her usual habits. When they confronted Jarrett, he evaded their questions. Finally, around 4 p.m., his parents entered the cabin and discovered a horrifying scene.

Blood covered the walls and floors. Angie's lifeless body lay in a room, bearing multiple stab wounds, particularly on her back. To their shock, she had been decapitated. Devastated, Jarrett's parents called the police. Jarrett offered no resistance when arrested, calmly confessing to the murder but refusing to explain why. Authorities suspect the crime was driven by jealousy, as Jarrett had displayed possessive behavior in the past. The investigation revealed troubling details about Jarrett's history. While he had no prior domestic violence charges, neighbors reported hearing arguments and

disturbances from the cabin. Additionally, Jarrett had been arrested in November 22 for an alcohol-fueled altercation at a fast food restaurant. Despite these red flags, Angie never reported any issues, leaving no official record of abuse. Angie's tragic death left her family heartbroken. Maria Libertad, still battling cancer, struggled to bring Angie's remains back to Nicaragua. With the help of a crowdfunding campaign, the family managed to raise the necessary funds, despite scammers creating fake donation pages to exploit the tragedy. As the case progresses, prosecutors are seeking the maximum penalty for Jarect.

In Texas, this could mean life imprisonment or even the death penalty. Angie's story is a sobering reminder of the dangers of. unspoken abuse and the importance of seeking help. What do you think about this case? What punishment do you believe Jarrett deserves? Today's story starts with a girl who seemed to have it all, or at least, that's how most people described her. Meet Asami Chita, a 16-year-old teenager who, in the eyes of many, was the epitome of perfection. Born in 1984 on Hokkaido Island, Japan, Asami was the eldest of two kids in a hardworking family. Specifically, she grew up in Muroran, a small city where her family lived in a company-owned apartment block.

Her dad worked for a local business. Some say it was an energy company, others claim it was in the metallurgy field. Either way, the details aren't too important. What matters is that the Cheetah family had been in that building for ages, and pretty much everyone in the area knew who they were. The younger Cheetah sibling, a primary schooler, was known to be polite and charming. But Asami? Well, she was in a league of her own. She wasn't just the older sister, she was the superstar. Asami was what you'd call the ideal Japanese teenager. She was tall, slim, graceful, and had long, shiny black hair that looked like something out of a shampoo commercial. On top of that, she was academically brilliant, attending one of

Mororan's most prestigious secondary schools, Mororan Sakai. Now, this wasn't your average school, it was the kind of place where future leaders and high achievers studied. Getting into this school was already a big deal, and being one of its top students. That was a whole other level. And guess what? Asami nailed it. She was punctual, helpful, polite, and known for excelling in everything she did. She had dreams of becoming a nurse someday and was well on her way to making that happen. But wait, there's more. Asami wasn't just a great student, she also had a part-time job at a bakery right across the street from her home. Her daily routine was pretty intense. She'd wake up early, get ready, catch the bus to school, study like a pro, and then head to

work after classes. By the time she got home, it was late, but she never slacked off. She was giving her 100% at school network, all while managing to be the kind of person everyone admired. Oh, and did I mention she was insanely popular? At school, she wasn't just another face in the crowd. Nope, Asami was the it girl. She had a huge group of friends, and boys practically lined up for a chance to talk to her. In fact, some guys were so smitten that they started a fan club just for her. Yup, a real-life fan club. These guys would leave her notes, give her gifts, and basically act like she was a pop star. But despite all the attention, Asami always told people she didn't have time for dating. Except, that wasn't entirely true.

She did have a boyfriend. Only a few close friends knew about it, and her parents had no clue. Asami kept her personal life tightly under wraps while continuing to juggle school, work, and her social life like a pro. Life seemed to be running smoothly for Asami, but things took a strange turn out of nowhere. One day, she started getting text messages from an unknown number. The messages were, intense. This mystery person claimed to be in love with her, begged for a chance to meet, and insisted on sending her gifts. They said they adored her and just wanted to see her in person. At first, Asami was baffled. Who was this? How did they get her number? She had no idea. The messages didn't stop. Morning, noon, and night, her phone buzzed with texts and missed

calls from this unknown admirer. They seemed to know where she was and what she was doing at all times. Creepy, right? At first, Asami was completely freaked out. Imagine someone watching your every move, it's enough to give anyone the chills. But as days went on, she started to relax. The message is, while obsessive, didn't seem threatening. She figured maybe this person was just harmlessly infatuated. By 2001, Asami was 16 years old and following her usual busy routine. Every morning, she'd wake up early, grab breakfast, and hop on the bus for her 30, 40-minute commute to school. After classes, she'd catch another bus to her job at the bakery across from her home. But here's the thing, the bakery's schedule didn't really align well with her school hours.

If she worked mornings, everything would have been perfect. But since she had school in the mornings and work in the afternoons, her days were pretty hectic. To make life a bit easier, Asami decided to transfer to another branch of the bakery chain closer to her school. She talked to her supervisor, who arranged a meeting with the manager of the new branch. This meeting was set for Tuesday, March 6, at 1 p.m. The plan was simple, she'd meet meet the manager, go through a quick training on making coffee, since the new bakery required

that skill, and everything would be set. That week, school was out because of high school entrance exams, so Asami didn't have classes. She woke up early that Tuesday, ate breakfast, and got dressed in her usual stylish but casual way, a beige jacket, dark blue jeans, a burberry scarf, and green shoes, classic high school girl style. At noon, she called the bakery to confirm her meeting. But instead of reaching the manager, another employee picked up. The woman on the line didn't know anything about the meeting but assured Asami that if the manager had promised to be there at one o'clock, he'd definitely show up. Feeling reassured, Asami ended the call, zipped up her jacket, and stepped out the door. Now, here's where things start to get a little

strange. Asami's routine was practically set in stone. She always took the same bus from the stop right in front of her apartment. But that day, she walked past her usual stop and headed to another one two blocks away. Weird, right? Maybe she just needed a moment to clear her head or wanted a quick stroll before the meeting. But there are a couple of things that don't make sense here. First, Asami wasn't the type to break her routine. She was meticulous and disciplined, so this sudden change was out of character. Second, the weather that day was awful, cold, windy, and a bit rainy. Not exactly ideal for a leisurely walk. Despite the odd choice, she stopped by a convenience store on her way to the second bus stop and reportedly

bought a drink. At 12.25 p.m., she boarded a bus heading toward the Higashimuroran terminal. A friend of hers happened to be on the same bus and noticed Asami sitting at the back, smiling and looking cheerful. The bus arrived at the Shardori stop, where Asami was supposed to get off, at exactly 12.53 p.m. But here's the twist, she didn't get off. The bus kept going for three more stops before she finally stepped out. Now, maybe you're thinking she got distracted, lost track of time, or even dozed off. But here's the thing, when she got off the bus, two of her classmates saw her. They said she looked totally fine, her usual cheerful self.

After chatting with them briefly, she headed to the Mororan Sadie Shopping Center. Surveillance cameras caught her entering the mall at 104 p.m. For the next 22 minutes, she wandered around, casually browsing makeup and other items. She didn't seem to be in any kind of rush. At 1.26 p.m., she left the mall. From there, she apparently headed toward a bus stop that would take her to the bakery. At 1.42 p.m., her phone rang, it was her boyfriend. He wanted to know where she was. Asami answered, saying, I just got downtown, but here's the kicker, she'd already been downtown for a while. Even stranger, her meeting at the bakery was supposed to be at 1 p.m., not 2 p.m.

What was she doing? After chatting briefly, she hung up. A few minutes later, her boyfriend called again, possibly realizing something was off. Why would she just be arriving downtown when she'd had plenty of time to get there earlier? But this time, Asami couldn't talk. She whispered, I can't talk right now. I'll call you back later. Her boyfriend noticed two odd things during this call. First, Asami was speaking softly, almost as if she didn't want anyone nearby to hear her.

Second, the background was dead silent. No street noise, no bustling sounds, nothing. It was eerily quiet. They ended the call, and her boyfriend waited for her to call him back. But an hour later, when he tried calling her again, she didn't answer. The phone rings again. The young man tries calling her one more time, but this time, the girl doesn't answer. According to authorities, during this entire period,

Asami's phone had been connected to a cell tower located roughly 100 meters from the bakery where she was supposed to meet her manager. She had been in the area, nearby, but after the second call, the phone's signal vanished, suggesting someone had turned it off. When the young man tries a third call, there is no response. Hours pass, and as night falls, Asami's parents, increasingly worried, go to the police station. What they encounter is a wall of indifference. The officers do nothing and advise the family to wait until the next morning,

promising to take action only if Asami still hasn't returned. The family is left with no choice but to endure the long, agonizing night. As dawn breaks, they head back to the station. This time, a pair of officers finally start moving, albeit reluctantly. Mororan, a city known for its quiet and uneventful nature, seemed unprepared for a case like this. Back in 2001, Mororan had a population of about 100,000 people and was primarily an industrial hub. Its steel production and fishing industries had defined the city's rhythm for decades. People there were focused on work and little else.

In such an environment, crime was rare. The few incidents that did occur rarely required extensive police involvement. That's why the authorities' slow and dismissive response to Asami's disappearance baffled everyone. This wasn't just any teenager, Asami was a standout in every way. She excelled in academics, was popular, and had a bright future ahead. Yet, it wasn't until March 18th, a full 11 days after she vanished, that the police publicly announced they were actively searching for her. To make matters worse, they didn't start distributing missing person posters until March 24th, nearly a month after her disappearance.

By this point, Asami's family, friends, and the entire city had done more than the police. The delay in action outraged the community, especially given Asami's popularity. She was well known in her neighborhood, at school, and at the bakery where she worked. She had a boyfriend, close friends, and even a fan club at school. Everyone in Muroran knew who she was, and the pressure on the police to solve the case was immense. The investigation began by retracing Asami steps on the day she disappeared. Surveillance cameras revealed an unsettling pattern. Her usual routine was straightforward, leave home, catch the bus directly to the bakery,

meet the manager, and return home. But on March 6, her actions were anything but routine. She wandered from one store to another, got off the bus three stops later than usual, visited a shopping center, and then disappeared without a trace. None of this behavior was typical of Asami, who was known for her punctuality and discipline. The prime suspect was, unsurprisingly, her manager. He was supposed to meet her that day. When questioned, he gave a vague account, I waited until 1.30 p.m., but Asami never showed up.

I started to worry, so I looked for her on the street. But I wasn't feeling well, I had a bad cold, so I went home and rested. he claimed to have been home, alone, resting due to his illness. However, there were no witnesses to corroborate his story. No one saw him enter his house or stay there during the crucial hours. As the investigation continued, two testimonies emerged that sent chills through everyone involved. The first was from the bakery employee who had spoken to Asami on the phone that day. The employee found Asami's call unusual and was puzzled by the mention of a coffee-making course,

something that didn't exist at their bakery. The second revelation came from an anonymous interview published in the weekly Shonan magazine on April 12, 2001. The anonymous source, claiming to be a former bakery employee, described the manager as a predator. According to her, he had a history of pursuing young female employees, inviting them to dinner, and engaging in inappropriate relationships. She speculated that he might have had something to do with Asami's disappearance. Digging deeper into the manager's background, the police discovered he owned the entire building where the bakery was local. The ground floor housed the bakery, while the second and third floors contained apartments, some of which were vacant.

Behind the building was an isolated parking lot, hidden from public view. This raised the chilling possibility that the manager could have lured Asami to one of these locations and made her disappear. Despite being under intense scrutiny for three days of interrogation, the manager maintained his innocence. The police placed him under surveillance, monitoring his every move for months. Yet, his routine never wavered, he carried on as if nothing had happened. Frustrated, the police eventually abandoned their surveillance.

The public, however, wasn't so forgiving. Convinced of his guilt, the townspeople boycotted his bakery, vandalized his property, and harassed him in the streets. Unable to withstand the backlash, he sold the building, closed the bakery, and left Mororon. Before leaving, he demolished his own home. Even after the police searched the ruins and excavated the site, they found no trace of Assami. With the manager no longer a viable suspect, investigators explored other theories. The first involved Asami's boyfriend. Few people knew she was in a relationship,

and his three calls to her on the day she disappeared raised eyebrows. However, cell phone records showed he was in a completely different part of the city when she vanished, ruling him out as a suspect. The second theory was that Asami had run away voluntarily. The pressures of being the perfect daughter, student, and employee could have driven her to escape. But those who knew her dismissed this idea. Asami had no history of rebellion or dissatisfaction with her life. She was organized, ambitious, and deeply connected to her family and friends. The third theory was far more sinister, North Korean abduction.

During the late 20th century, there were confirmed cases of Japanese citizens being kidnapped by North Korea to teach their culture and language to operatives. While the official count of such abductions ranged between 15 and 20, unofficial estimates were much higher. Asami's profile, intelligent, disciplined, and attractive, fit the criteria for potential targets. The area where she disappeared also raised suspicion. Although busy, it had construction sites with loud machinery that could have drowned out any cries for help. Additionally, several nearby buildings were vacant, including apartments once rented out to hospital patients. It was conceivable that Asami could have been taken to one of these locations without anyone noticing.

The final theory revolved around her stalker. In the months leading up to her disappearance, Asami had received persistent, obsessive messages from an anonymous admirer. While the police could not definitively link the stalker to her disappearance, his fixation on her added another layer of complexity to the case. Some speculated that he might have posed as a co-worker or even facilitated her transfer to the new bakery, using the opportunity to isolate an abductor. As of 2024, the case remains unsolved. Despite being declared open, there have been no significant breakthroughs. Asami's face still adorns missing person posters across Mororan. Her story is occasionally discussed on radio shows and television programs. Psychics have even contacted the police, claiming to know where she is, often pointing

to a dense forest near the hospital. However, extensive searches of the area have yielded nothing. So, what do you think? Was Asami the victim of foul play, a planned escape, or something even more unimaginable? One thing is certain, her disappearance continues to haunt Mororon, a city still searching for answers nearly a quarter-century later. Some tenants occasionally heard banging noises coming from the basement, but Joseph claimed that it was the pipes and rats. To Joseph, the double life was practically perfect.

Above ground, he was a good husband, father, and grandfather, below ground, he was feared by everyone. We begin this story on August 29, 1984, when a scared mother went to a police station in Amsterdam, Austria, to report the disappearance of one of her daughters, 18-year-old Elizabeth Fritzel. The girl had run away from home before, so the police didn't even take the disappearance seriously. They thought she would eventually return home, so they didn't put up any posters or do much of anything. A month later, Elizabeth sent the following letter, Dear Mom and Dad, I've decided

to move out to be independent. I'm with people who care for me, and I'm safe. Please don't worry about me or try to look for me. This is my decision, my life. Please send my love to the rest of the family. This is when the police closed the case, believing that Elizabeth had run away of her own free will. But what happened to Elizabeth, and did she escape voluntarily? We'll find out next. Before we get to the case itself, we must get to know the person who orchestrated the crime from the beginning, Joseph Fritzel, the father of the girl. Joseph Fritzel was born on April 9, 1935, in Amsterdam, Austria, to a very unstable marriage. We know very little about his childhood, but we do know the historical context in which it developed.

It was the Second World War, which, as we all know, started in 1939 and ended in 1945. In 1939, when the conflict began, Maria Fritzel, Joseph's mother, kicked her husband out of the house because he was supposedly unfaithful, even though he swore he would change. The man never did, so the woman packed his bags and kicked him out. Many of you may think that her decision was very right because a mother is the best person to raise her own child, but mentally, Maria was emotionally unstable, and this made Joseph's childhood a complete mess. According to several sources, Maria was very strict, and she completely subdued Joseph. She blamed him for everything, beat him, and threatened him. Despite this, the boy loved her madly.

Another very interesting point about Joseph's childhood is that when a-raised, siren started to sound, his mother didn't hide him in any bunker, didn't take him to the shelter, didn't try to protect him, she simply handed him over to the neighbors and let them take care of him. Joseph was always known for being an educated, responsible, organized, and meticulous boy. All sources say he was very shy and reserved. In the early years of the war, the boy didn't go to school, but in the last two years, he did, and he began to study with children two years younger than him. Despite this, he managed to become the best student, he got the best grades, always submitted his assignments on time, and was organized. He was practically the perfect student.

After finishing his studies, he became an engineer, which made him an independent man, at least financially. He began to go out, party, drink, and meet several girls, one of whom was Rosemary. Rosemary was very different from all the other girls he had known. She was shy, reserved, and had no character, so in his mind she was perfect for him. The couple married in 1956, when Joseph was 21 and Rosemary was 17, and they immediately moved into her parents' house, which was very close to the factory where he worked. From here, everything seemed fine. Joseph got along very well with her parents, who saw him as a kind, responsible, and pleasant

guy. But shortly after, they noticed something very dark in this man, he was a tyrant, foul-mouthed, a bad person, and constantly humiliated Rosemary for anything. He called her fat, ugly, and sometimes pushed her in front of her parents. Even so, the young woman claimed to be very happy with him, and in 1957, she gave birth to their first child. But it was from this point that Joseph adopted a strange routine, he said he was working extra hours. He left the house before the sun came up and returned in the early hours of the morning. But what happened was that many people saw him wandering the streets aimlessly. Neighbors began to comment that Joseph spied on the housewives, that he did go to work and did his shift,

but when he left, he wandered the streets, peeking through windows. Finally, on October 6, 1967, this man was arrested for spying on a 24-year-old woman inside her own house. After spying on her for a long time, he finally climbed through the kitchen window and into her bed. For this, he was sentenced to 18 months in prison, of which he only served 12. After prison, many hoped that Joseph would focus, regret what he had done, and apologize. But as soon as he hit the streets, he tried to attack another woman. This is when two very important things happened in this case. The first is that Rosemary was a very Catholic woman.

woman, a woman who didn't believe in divorce. So, when she saw Joseph, she forgave everything, she forgave him absolutely everything and once again accepted him back into their home. The second is that in Austria, there was a law stating that crimes had an expiration period. If you committed a crime of a certain type, after 10 years, it would be wiped off your record, and you could continue with your life as if it had never happened. This point is very important for understanding the case. The Fritzel marriage went on to have seven children, three boys and four girls.

Among them, Joseph's favorite was his fourth child, Elizabeth. Elizabeth was born on April 6, 1966, and was always known to be a beautiful girl. She was shy, reserved, kind, and always reflected her mother. She was a good student, a good friend, organized, and responsible, practically the perfect girl. But there was something about her. that made many people uncomfortable, she had a great respect for her father. When she was around, she would look down and simply obey everything he said. Everyone knew that Joseph had a very hard character and was very strict, so no one ever noticed the fact that Elizabeth was afraid

of him. But in reality, the girl had a secret she never told anyone, at the age of 11, this man became part of her daily life. As the girl grew, she began to plot a way to escape. This is when two versions emerge, Elizabeth's version and Joseph's version. Elizabeth's version says that at some point, she wanted to escape, applied herself to her studies, got good grades, and at the age of 15, she enrolled in a hospitality school. Her intention was to become a waitress, as there was guaranteed work in that field. She was going to do a two-year course and then leave to work far away. But what happened was that the assaults were so constant that the girl couldn't take it anymore.

At one point, she packed her bags and escaped to Vienna with a friend. The girls stayed there for three weeks, but at one point, the police found them and called her parents. Joseph picked everything up and went to look for her, and from that moment on, the girl never left home without telling him where she was going. The important thing is that the police never asked Elizabeth why she had run away. They didn't question her, didn't interrogate her. They simply took her, put her in a police station, and called her father.

The second version is Joseph's, and it says that Elizabeth was a lost cause who didn't study, drank, did drugs, and hung out with bad people. He was so fed up with this that he decided to retain her and show her that life was much more than partying. In Austria, at that time, in order to be considered an adult, a person had to be 19 years old. So, based on this premise, we know the father. following, if a minor under 19 ran away from home, the police would search everywhere for them, put up posters, and call the radio and television. But if the person who ran away was

19, the situation was different, they were an adult and had run away by their own will. So, if Joseph wanted his daughter to stay at home forever, he had to do everything possible to prevent her from turning 19. If she turned 19, she would leave home and never return. So, the man devised the perfect plan over the years. By 1980, Joseph Fritzel began planning to imprison his daughter for life, and where would he do it? In the basement of the house. The Fritzel family lived at number 40, Staw Street, in Amstetten, a two-story house with a backyard. Initially, the house didn't have a basement, but it did have an area that could be converted into several rooms.

So, Joseph called his brother-in-law, a man named Walter Lank, and asked him to help him build the structure. Walter was a builder, so Joseph thought he was the perfect accomplice, an accomplice who wouldn't ask questions. According to this man, the work began between 1981 and 1982 and was completed in 1983, the year in which the city council granted the building permit. As you can imagine, it was a huge amount of work, taking measurements, making plans, obtaining materials, making sure everything fit and was stable. At a certain point, Joseph stopped relying on Walter Lank's help. He told him everything was done, that he no longer needed his assistance, and that he would

take care of the remaining work himself. It was at this point that a real prison was created. To reach this basement, you had to go down long stairs and pass through eight. locked doors before reaching one that was hidden behind a bookshelf. Beyond the final door was a small apartment, an apartment with low ceilings, an electric kitchen, a bathroom, and a living room. Further ahead, there were two tiny bedrooms. To be continued.

Further ahead, there were two tiny bedrooms. The basement was isolated from noise, no sunlight entered, and it had no ventilation, making it permanently a very humid place. With this modification, the house now had three floors, the top floor where the Fritzels lived, the lower floor for tenants, and the basement, at least at first, was uninhabited. But evidently, Joseph wanted to change that. On August 28, 1984, when Elizabeth was 18 years old, Joseph brought her to the basement to install a door.

Everyone knew Joseph worked in the basement and that he supposedly wanted to rent it out. So, the girl simply obeyed, went downstairs with her father, and while he installed the hinges, she held the door. But at one point, Joseph stood behind her, pressed a cloth soaked in ether to her face, and she lost consciousness. This is when the man picked up her unconscious body, dragged her into the basement, and locked her there. Hours passed, and Rosemary began to wonder where Elizabeth was. She asked her children, asked her husband, and no one,

absolutely no one knew where Elizabeth was. She called friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and no one could tell her where Elizabeth was. So, the next morning, she went to the police station and reported her disappearance. But mentally, the girl had already run away before. So, the police didn't even search for her. They obviously did some tracking, looked around Amsterdam and Vienna, but they didn't put much effort into the search. Finally, the next month, Joseph Fritzel went to the police station with a letter supposedly written by Elizabeth. The letter stated that she asked everyone not to search for her, Dear Mom and Dad, I've decided to move out to be independent. I'm with people who care for me,

and I'm safe. Please don't worry about me or try to look for me. This is my decision, my life. Please send my love to the rest of the family. With this note in hand, Joseph told everyone that his daughter had run off with a cult, that she was crazy and would never return. Gradually, everyone started to believe him, and the police, of course, stopped searching for the girl, unaware that what Elizabeth was living through was a complete hell. In the first weeks, Elizabeth was simply isolated and tied by a rope to a wall in the basement. It was dark, cold, and she was alone. Occasionally, her father would come down to bring her food, but soon his visits became longer

and turned into something much worse. Joseph Fritzel kept his favorite daughter locked in the basement 24 hours a day, tied up, alone, in a place where no one could hear her screams. Experts say that over the 24 years, Elizabeth suffered a total of 3,000 assaults. As a result of this, she had seven children. In 1986, the girls suffered a miscarriage. She tried to escape from the very beginning, but every time she tried, the punishments were terrible, she was beaten, left in the dark, and deprived of food.

Her last hope of escape vanished on August 30, 1988, with the birth of her first daughter, Kirsten. From there, Elizabeth had six more children. On February 1st, 1990, she gave birth to Stefan, and on August 29, 1992, to Lisa. It was at this point that something very interesting happened, Joseph decided it was time for the children to see the light. When the baby turned nine months old, Joseph forced Elizabeth to write a letter renouncing her, word for word, stating that she was leaving her daughter in the care of her parents. He then took the letter, grabbed the baby, brought her to the surface, and pretended to find her at the door of his house. Obviously, the whole town was shocked by the news, and Elizabeth was publicly seen as a wicked,

despicable woman. Joseph, on the other hand, appeared as an incredible father, a great man who adopted his little granddaughter as his daughter. In 1993, according to some sources, Joseph Fritzel forced Elizabeth, Kirsten, and Stefan to clean the entire basement with their hands. They were forced to work day and night and were threatened with being left without food if they stopped at any point. In 1994, Monica was born, and when she turned 10 months old, she was once again abandoned at the Fritzel doorstep. This time, the child appeared with a small note, and the case hit the news, on the radio, television, and in the newspapers. The whole of Austria was talking about the girl who had disappeared and abandoned babies. This is when social workers

entered the picture. Social workers visited the Fritzel house more than 20 times, and on every occasion, they suspected nothing. They believed that Joseph and Rosemary were perfect parents, and that the abandoned children were being cared for perfectly, well-fed, loved, and cherished. However, they did advise the Fritzels not to adopt more grandchildren, as they would receive aid, and if they kept the children, the state would pay them a pension of between 400 and 600. On April 28, 1996, Elizabeth gave birth to twins, Alexander, and Michael. Unfortunately, Michael was born with a respiratory illness. What happened then was that Elizabeth asked her father to take the little one to the emergency room,

but Joseph flatly refused. He let the child die, and then he took his body and burned it in a house's furnace. When Alexander turned 15 months old, Joseph did the same as always, he left the child at the doorstep of the house with a note written by Elizabeth. Once again, the child was taken in, and Joseph received a payment from the state. At this point, Rosemary commented to her husband that if Elizabeth kept abandoning more children, she wouldn't be able to take care of them anymore. So, Joseph decided that the next child would stay in the basement. In December 2002, when Felix was born, Joseph allowed Elizabeth to keep him. It was brutal with me if I didn't accept to have relations with him. Then the children suffered. We knew he would beat us or be

mean to us. He told us we could close the door when we wanted, and then we'd see how we'd survive. Elizabeth did everything she could to educate her children. She taught them math, history, geography, and how to speak and write. As they grew, Joseph equipped the basement more, he installed an electric stove, a washing machine, and a television. Occasionally, he would show the children videos of the little ones living upstairs. When he left, we left, we lived our own lives, but when he was there, it was all silence. He was omnipotent. He communicated with us by insulting U.S. He would insult me and the kids when we were at the table, and if they shrank from the knife or didn't want to eat, there were verbal punishments. He didn't let the

children develop their personalities. He simply didn't let them have their own will. While underground, it was hell. Above, it was heaven. Joseph practiced. went on a trip every month. He went to Thailand, had mistresses, went to brothels, and no one, absolutely no one, suspected what was happening. Some tenants occasionally heard banging noises coming from the basement, but Joseph said they were the pipes and rats. To Joseph, the double life was practically perfect. Above ground, he was a good husband, a good father, and a good grandfather, and all the neighbors respected him. He was a hard-working, honest, good man. And below ground, he was feared by everyone. However, this paradise ended on April 19, 2008, when

Kirsten, Elizabeth's oldest daughter, fell ill. She woke up with stomach pain, and within a few hours, she began convulsing and lost consciousness. Kirsten, at 19 years old, was in a pitiful physical state, very thin, missing many teeth, and because she had never seen the sun, her skin was very pale. Elizabeth begged Joseph to take her daughter to the emergency room, to call a doctor, to call an ambulance, but Joseph refused again and again. At first, the man was firm, but one thing was to burn the body of a baby, and another was to do it with a 19-year-old girl.

So, he agreed and thought of repeating the same operation as always, writing a note, leaving the girl at the door, and pretending to have found her. The theory, as you can see, was perfect. The letter read, please help her. She bites her tongue and lips. She's never been to a hospital. People terrify her. If you have doubts, ask my father. He's the only one who knows her. Kirsten, please stay strong until we see each other. Unfortunately, abandoning children was one but abandoning a 19-year-old girl was something entirely different. Kirsten Fritzel had a very peculiar clinical picture. She was malnourished, missing teeth, her hair was falling out in clumps,

and a very strange thing was that she lacked vitamin D. According to doctors, it was as if she had never seen the sun. So, they quickly called the police and asked them to search for Elizabeth Fritzel. But what happened was that no one was able to find the woman. She wasn't in Vienna, she wasn't in Amsterdam, she wasn't in any registry. On April 21st of that same year, the doctors themselves made a call through the media. A doctor appeared on television, radio, and newspapers, and still, Elizabeth did not appear. Kirsten was in critical condition, and if they couldn't find Elizabeth, they would have to find

other ways to know what was happening to the girl. So, the police went to the Fritzel House and asked everyone for D'Inty. DNA samples. They wanted to know if Elizabeth's children were all from the same father. To get Elizabeth's DNA, they asked for samples from Rosemary and Joseph. To get the parents' DNA, they asked for samples from the children Elizabeth had abandoned. Rosemary provided the test, and the children did too, but Joseph flatly refused. He said he was busy, stressed, and didn't have time. The police insisted again and again, calling him on the phone, but he didn't answer, going to the house, and Joseph would leave.

Finally, on April 26, he allowed Elizabeth to leave the basement. He wanted the doctors to get her DNA, to let the girl give her DNA, and then lock her up again. But what happened was that the doctors called her three times. The girl came out once, said she was in a sect, apologized to her children, and said she would never do it again. She returned to the basement, went to the hospital, and returned to the basement. When she came out again, the police stopped her for three hours, asking her 1,000 questions, where had she been? Why had she left her children?

After several hours, the girl broke down and told the truth, a truth that shocked the entire world. On March 19, 2009, Joseph Fritzel was declared guilty of the following charges, manslaughter by negligence of his youngest son, slavery, incest, coercion, and false imprisonment of his daughter Elizabeth. For all of this, he was sentenced to life in prison. For several months, Elizabeth, Rosemary, and all the children were sent to a psychiatric center, where they painted the famous mural. Afterward, they were sent to a protected house. Unfortunately, in 2009, a journalist revealed their location, and they all returned to the psychiatric center. Years later, the whole family was relocated to the north of Austria, specifically to a house with video surveillance, no doors, and no basement.

From there, the old Fritzel house, the house of horrors, was sold, and the basement was sealed. As for Joseph Fritzel, it's worth mentioning that since last year, he has been repeating that he wants to die. He says that life in prison is hell and that he hopes God will take him soon. So, now it's your turn. What do you think about the case, and do you believe justice was served in the end? The end. We begin. The ancient Ramon holds a legendary past, from which stand out child sacrifices, devil worship, and malevolent spirits that still dwell in this place, making it one of the most terrifying

and haunted places in the world. Some of its guests have been so terrified that they ended up jumping out of the windows, fleeing from the unknown. But is what is found there really that horrifying? When we refer to the ancient Ram Inn, we are referring to a structure built in the town of Botton Under Edge in Gloucester, a building also known as the Ten House or the Old Sun. The construction was built over an ancient pagan cemetery more than 5,000 years old, and that gives it an even more chilling touch. It seems that its construction dates back to the early 10th century, with evidence that it was already being used in the year 1145 as a house attached to the Church of St. Mary's. for a long time it served to house the slaves who were building the church slaves forced to do hard labor in extreme weather conditions the suffering of those people was imprinted on the walls of the ram inn but we're not talking about a building like the one we can see today when we refer to the number of people who stayed there we probably imagine a small place crammed with people but according to some very ancient maps found at this site everything points to the original structure being three times large

than what can be seen today. It was even verified that there was a tunnel connecting the chimney of the inn's main bar to St. Mary's Church, and another one that connected that same chimney to the local abbey. According to scholars, these tunnels were used not only to help slaves reach St. Mary's quickly, but also to hide criminals. The ancient ram and became the hideout for all the criminals in the area. In its attic, known as the Weaver's Attic, more than 20 murderers, thieves, and rapists were hiding. They would hide there after committing their misdeeds and then escaped through the tunnels to never be found by justice. In the foundations of that building, pagan rituals were performed, satanic rituals that included sacrifices of both animals

and children. The proof of this lies in a human remains over 5,000 years old that have been found there. In 1930, the property was acquired by Maurice DeVie, turning it into a private property, changed hands many times over the years. All the surroundings of the town are stained with the blood of innocence. We're talking about a town that has historically been closely linked to accusations of witchcraft. There are countless legends about botten underedge that speak of demons roaming the streets in the early hours of the morning and inhabiting each and every one of its houses. Besides the town's dark legend, it is said that the ancient Ram Inn is located at the intersection of two lay lines, which are believed to be conduits of spiritual energy.

But what exactly are lay lines? Lay lines are supposed alignments of places of historical and geographical interest, lines that carry paranormal activity from one place to another. On a map, we can establish these connection points, points that range from Stonehenge itself, a megalithic monument from the Neolithic period, to places of great paranormal activity. It's as if, somehow, from the very origins of humanity, this type of connection was already known, as if the great monuments of history had some kind of link with spirituality, as if those points were chosen as a warning that there, in that place, there was great paranormal activity. A large number of studies indicate that these lay lines are what produce great paranormal

activity in the ancient Ram Inn. However, other scholars lean more toward the idea that the paranormal activity there is so intense because, at a certain point, the course of water beneath the houses of Botten Underedge was altered. There was a change in water flow due to renovations led by the town council itself, and this could have opened an energy portal that caused a large amount of dark energy to take refuge in the ancient ram-in. Be that as it may, we cannot set aside the dark history of this place. We cannot ignore the large number of accusations of witchcraft and unjust deaths that took place there. It is said that at the dawn of the 1500s, a woman named Alice was accused of witchcraft.

If we look up information in the town archives, we see that the jury literally invited her to redeem herself from her sins, abandon the path of, underscore, underscore, and embrace Christianity by joining the church, in short, to publicly apologize and convert to Christianity. Those of you who saw my video about the Salem witches, if you haven't seen it, you'll find the link in the description box, know that when a person was accused of witchcraft, whatever they did, they were doomed to die. If you apologized publicly, the town would hunt you down and kill you. And if you refused to confess, you were automatically sentenced to death and publicly executed. So the woman decided to flee. The town searched for her for a long time until someone claimed

to have seen her looking out one of the windows of the ram inn. The entire town quickly stormed the inn, dragged her out, and burned her at the stake in front of the watchful eyes of her neighbors. Since then, the room in which she is said to have hidden has been called the witch room, and there have been many reports of manifestations there, the spectral appearance of a female figure sitting at the foot of the bed, strange mists, shadows, whispers, wails, and the appearance of a face looking out the window of that room, as if the spirit of that woman were repeating over and over the fateful mistake that led her to burn at the stake. In the year 1968, John Humphreys was captivated by the building.

He was as enchanted by it as so many other men have been by mysterious places. He fell so in love with the ancient ram and that he decided to acquire it to save it from demolition. From then on, he felt that the bond that tied him to the building was so strong that his life's mission had to be to preserve it, to dedicate himself until his dying day to saving the building from the passage of time. But this dream of his cost him dearly. Specifically, it cost him his sanity and practically all his savings. When the Humphreys family arrived at the ancient Ram Inn, they were full of dreams and hopes. In it, they saw a prosperous future.

So they not only decided to make it their home, but also their main source of income. They patched up a few cracks, gave it a couple of coats of paint, and began renting out its rooms, as previous owners had been doing for years. They wanted to preserve the nature of the place, they wanted it to remain the Inn of Botten Under Edge. Unfortunately, none of their tenants was able to spend the entire night there. They even ended up jumping out of windows, fleeing from something invisible. And on more than one occasion, there were those who left all their belongings there and never came back for them.

Rumors that the building was haunted spread like wildfire. But the Humphreys refused to make it public, they didn't want to be part of the town's dark legend. They didn't want to fuel the fire with ghost stories. But sadly, that curse was a fact. The first night the Humphreys family stepped foot in that place, paranormal events targeted them viciously. John was ripped from the bed by invisible forces, something or someone grabbed his arm and threw him to the other side of the room. His daughter Carolyn Humphreys suffered the consequences of disembodied whispers, wails, and saw the shadow of what, for years, would caress her day and night. The family tried everything, they tried every kind of exorcism, every kind of

pagan ritual, sprayed walls and floors with holy water, and none of it did anything but worsen the situation. All it did was anger the entities, entities that became more aggressive each day, that targeted them more viciously every day. The paranormal pressure was so intense that it ended up breaking the Humphrey's marriage and completely isolating John, who ended up becoming a hermit who lived for and within the building. John was obsessed with restoring the building, with turning it into a true home, with expelling those entities. So he began to investigate, the reason why there were so many angry entities in that building. And his investigations bore fruit, for hidden in some of the rooms were objects that must have been used to worship

the devil. But the thing didn't end there. While renovated, the barn, he found fragments of daggers mixed with the remains of children's bones, bones that were over 1,000 years old. And these remains were just the tip of the iceberg. In other areas of the house, he also found pagan graves, graves that confirmed his research about the area was not misguided. He already knew there had to be a pagan cemetery there. He knew it from the neighbor's rumors, he knew it from the books he had consulted. But he didn't know those remains would be just a few meters deep, that just by digging a little, they would begin to emerge. Approximately 50 corpses were found beneath the floor of the ancient Ram Inn, and he could have

continued, he could have kept on digging up corpses, corpses, corpses. But he decided to stop the excavations. The University of Bristol actually wanted to continue, wanted to keep digging and exhuming bodies. But John refused, because he knew that continuing with the excavations would mean tearing down part of the building, and tearing down the building meant tearing down his dreams. So he simply focused on investigating the paranormal nature of the place. He focused on researching the history of all those men and women who once stayed at the ancient Ram Inn. He dubbed deep into the archives of all the guests. He also started inviting

paranormal investigators to test the evil in the building, to measure electromagnetic fields, pressure, temperature fluctuations, to measure everything and find out whether the entities there had consciousness. They pushed the power of the place to such a limit that the manifestations eventually began to take physical form, like the specter of a supposed centurion on horseback. John Humphrey's own grandson, a fan of the paranormal, after a Ouija session in the house, was lifted a meter off the ground and then thrown by an invisible force against the barn door. He himself devoted much time to researching the place's history of witchcraft, focusing specifically on a figure that always appears at 3 a.m., the figure of a goat standing

upright on its hooves, a clear allusion to, underscore underscore. But he's not the only person who claims to have had a truly unpleasant experience there. Many of the hotel's tenants have claimed to be attacked by incubi and succubi, demons that sexually assault their victims. One of the most visited rooms by investigators and paranormal enthusiasts is the so-called Bishop's Room. This room is on the first floor of the building, and when it was still a bed and breakfast, it was the most feared by visitors. Almost no one dared to stay there because the entities within are extremely aggressive. They are capable of yanking you from bed and throwing you

across the room. They can levitate furniture, throw objects at you, and make you believe you're in hell itself, with their whispers, their wails, the wounds they inflict all over your body, burn wounds, scratch marks. It is said that more than nine different entities appear in that room. And around ten people who have stayed there have ended up seeking an exorcism at St. Mary's Church. We all know that the people most susceptible to possession by demonic entities are those who believe in nothing, those without faith, with fragile minds. But the people possessed there were believers, believers in something beyond human understanding, strong-minded people, experts in the paranormal, people who had already faced very powerful entities. And those are the very people

the demons of the ancient ram and prefer to possess. Historically, it said that many murders and rapes were committed at the Ram Inn. And it said that the ghosts of the victims still remain trapped there. It is said that there are at least 20 spectral manifestations inside, of all shapes and sizes. The most powerful spectre is named Edward. Everyone who claims to have seen him describes him as a tall, strong man with sharp features, long sideburns, and the hat. It is said that he's so powerful that when he appears, all other entities vanish, they are all afraid of Edward. Another entity that appears there is named Michael. They say he might be Edward's younger brother and is so unpleasant and aggressive that he's blamed for many of the murders and rapes. They say he was so

evil in life that even the underscore underscore doesn't want him in hell. And they say that if you sit in the chair next to the fireplace, you can feel his cold hands trying to strangle you. But not only have extremely negative entities been reported in the ancient Ram Inn, there are also some more or less positive presences. Clear examples of this are the figure of Marion, an elderly woman who tries to protect tenants from the negative entities. She is considered by investigators to be the first owner of the ancient Ram Inn. Other positive entities there include the ghosts of the children who were sacrificed as offerings

to Satan. One of those children is named Rossi, a little girl who runs through the lower floor of the building when the clock strikes midnight. Regardless, there is an abundance of audio and photographic recordings of what happens there. In this image, for example, we see one of the most commonly reported manifestations by investigators. Here we can see the staircase that leads directly to the infamous witch's room. In it, not only have shadows, whispers, and whales been reported, but also a kind of a kind of ghostly mist. A mist that appears in practically every photograph taken by investigators and paranormal fans. But that's not the only photograph taken there, there are countless more photos,

countless more pieces of evidence. But if I showed you every single one, we'd never finish. In this house, all three levels of poltergeist activity manifest daily, sometimes at the same time. That's why parapsychologists strongly advise against spending a night there. They've repeatedly urged John Humphreys to leave the building, to leave it for good, because it's highly dangerous to expose yourself to such a place for so long. But John, after 50 years living in the ancient Ram Inn, is unable to leave. He's resigned to staying in the place, convinced no one would ever be able to buy the property. He's accepted that he can't sell it.

It's true there's a long waiting list of writers, researchers, and paranormal enthusiasts. but none of them can spend an entire night at the ancient Ram Inn. John Humphrey's own daughter, Caroline Humphreys, can't sleep inside the building and has even bought a caravan to sleep outside. Even the owner himself, when he's inside the house or needs to walk through a room, is always accompanied by a Bible. A Bible he places on his chest, and every time he feels a cold draft, hears a whisper, or senses the touch of an invisible force.

He pleads with God to protect him. He begs God, life, energy, anything, to protect him from the demonic entities that dwell there. And now comes my question, if you had the money to buy the property. Would you be able to live in it, just as John Humphreys has all these years? The end. If a well-executed hit was a work of art, then Zoe Horn was Pablo fucking Picasso. She could create a pseudo-accident so believable that homicide detectives would laugh out loud if anyone suggested foul play. She could frame a former lover with such conviction that their own lawyer would recommend plea deals before the defense attorney could.

She could stage a suicide that would fool a coroner and leave grieving family members hurrying to start a non-profit for mental health awareness. As international assassins go, Zoe's code was rather typical, no kids under 15 and no members of her own family. While she didn't take any pleasure in civilian casualties, there were no guarantees in this business. Sometimes this shit just involved ending innocent lives. As a freelance journalist, Zoe had the perfect cover. Her constant travel did not raise suspicion. She gained access to public figures, all but invisible to security with her press pass. She could, and had on more than one occasion, write engaging articles about the life and deeds of the same public figure she had just assassinated.

Her editors were constantly pleased with the quality of such articles delivered so much. quickly after the tragedy, and Zoe always accepted the praise with the appropriate amount of modesty. Zoe had a handler that rendezvoused exclusively by phone to set up her hits, and she had two loving parents that recently figured out how to FaceTime, and now used it with frustrating frequency. Zoe's extravagantly large Swiss bank account for her assassin-based earnings dwarfed the typical, lower-middle-class Bank of America account where she deposited her freelance-based earnings. She was just as comfortable playing high-stakes baccarat in a Moroccan penthouse as she was gossiping with her university friends at a baby shower in the Chicago suburbs. Having done this for

nearly a decade now, she had come to enjoy her double life. She loved that the radius of one life didn't overlap with the radius in the other, like a Venn diagram that didn't quite then. There was a certain freedom to leaving Zoe Horn's average life behind for days or weeks at a time, knowing she could come home and pick up right where she left it once the job was finished. She had some help, of course. All international assassins have a network. However, Zoe's network consisted of just one person. She only knew him as Machine Teddy, a moniker she had come up with in lieu of exchanging real names.

Machine, because A, his work with tech and advanced robotics was second to none, and B, he worked tirelessly once he received a job. Teddy, because well, the guy just looked like a teddy bear, round face and tummy, brown hair, and scraggly beard. When Zoe asked him to pick a name for her, he kept it simple, calling her, Jane. She was a bit disappointed considering he chose the name after she had dubbed him Machine Teddy, but she didn't make a fuss. She should have expected a tech geek to have the creativity of a fucking lamppost. Two weeks ago she'd received a contract calling for an accidental death. After a week researching the target, she figured out the perfect way to handle it. The solution required some nuanced tech, so she contacted Machine Teddy.

He said he could make the device she requested, he just needed seven days to build and properly tested. Those seven days were now up, and Zoe trekked to a grimy, abandoned warehouse on the north side of Washington, D.C. The building was two stories and Machine Teddy had taken over the second floor. 10 cages, each holding a dead animal, were lined up side by side against the back wall. Zoe counted three mice, one parrot, two cats, and four dogs. Their stench was almost physical, a pungent combination of shit, piss, and the early hints of rot.

Zoe breathed through her mouth to keep from gagging, but Teddy seemed unaffected. She assumed he must be nose dead after a week in it. Either that or he grew up in an alleyway dumpster and just enjoyed the nostalgia. You're sure it works. Zoe asked. She sat in a folding chair opposite Teddy. The remote device lay on an upside-down cardboard box between them. I'm as sure as one can be.

Teddy jerked his thumb at the cages behind him. After the last round of animal testing, I increased the output power a hefty amount just in case it needs an extra push for humans. So it just shuts off the pacemaker. She asked. Teddy shook his head. Much more than that. It turns the pacemaker against the wearer. The device hacks the electrodes and directs the generator to dash.

Fucking English, man. Teddy nodded apologetically. The remote speeds the pacemaker up to dangerous levels and then dash. He snapped his fingers, fatal heart attack. How close will I need to get? Zoe asked, Will I need to aim it at the target? Aiming is not necessary.

It should engage any pacemaker within a 15 or 20 foot radius. Show me. Machine Teddy smiled, revealing teeth the color of earwax on a used Q-tip. I thought you'd never ask. He walked toward the cages, stopping in front of one that held a black lab Zoe was confused as to how he'd demonstrate anything on a dead animal, and then the dog opened his its eyes. It hadn't been dead, just sleeping. She quickly re-examined the other cages. None of the others could be alive, they laid too heavily. Teddy snagged the dog by its collar

and led it back to Zoe. The pitiful animal stumbled a few times, forcing Teddy to drag it the last few feet. Zoe assumed it still had some sedatives in its system. Initially, I had planned on using this one and its twin to test how well the device works in duplicate DNA pairs, he said. But his brother escaped after I implanted their pacemakers two days back. Lucky him, Zoe said. Teddy tied the dog's collar to a metal beam near Zoe then reached for the remote. He paused halfway there. Would you like to do the honors? I would. The remote was the length and width of a credit card but as thick as three on top of each other. There were only two buttons.

She glanced up at Teddy. The top button powers it on and the bottom button engages the pacemaker. It's already powered on. Zoe took 15 deliberate paces away from the beam. She held the remote and despite not needing to, she aimed it toward the animal. The dog watched her with the depressed, guileless eyes of an unloved pet. Sorry, pal. Those sad eyes never worked on me.

The family dogs I lost, growing up can attest to that. She looked the lab in the eyes and held the button down. Before she could finish counting to two in her head, the dog twitched. It flipped over onto its back and began seizing. The yelp that came next was wildly similar to the animalistic howls of a dying human. Three seconds later the dog was still. Zoe walked to the animal and kneeled down, searching for breath or heartbeat with her hands. Perfect. She stood up again, grinning. The device had surpassed her expectations.

Although it was taboo to speak of another assassin's hits, word of her work today would spread in certain circles. No one but Zoe could have come up with such an elegant solution to this particular contract. So, you are satisfied? Teddy asked. Very. Zoe pocketed the remote, then tossed Teddy an envelope from her back pocket. His toothy smile matched the manila of the envelope as he examined the bills. $225,000 in total, a worthwhile expense considering the payout she'd receive at day's end. Before leaving, she gave him a new burner phone for the next time she might need his services.

Teddy thanked her and began dousing the dead animals in gasoline. Zoe parked her car, a cheap and previously used Mazda, near an apartment building six blocks away. As she walked along the sidewalk, she wondered whether Teddy would control the burn or let the whole warehouse catch fire. But before expending too much thought on it, Zoe decided she honestly didn't care either way. Two blocks later, Zoe passed an alleyway and had to double take. A black lab, identical to the dog she had just killed, lay on its back against the curb. Its wide open eyes and stagnant chest waylaid the possibility that it was just having a nap. Not so lucky after all, Zoe thought.

Don't worry, buddy, your twin only lived a few days longer. Zoe heard the wails of a far-off siren when she reached her car. She turned around to check the warehouse, but it wasn't a flame. And even if it were, she highly doubted Machine Teddy would have called the fire department. The sirens volume increased steadily as its source, an ambulance, rounded the corner. Zoe lit a cigarette and watched with the professional curiosity of a fellow tradesman in death. Two EMTs hopped out of the truck, grabbed a stretcher from the back, and hurried into the nearby apartment building.

Zoe's phone buzzed, a call from her father which she promptly ignored. She felt a little guilty, considering he and his surgery were her inspiration for the device, but not so guilty to answer his call on the day of a job. She wasn't Zoe Horn, loving daughter, today. She was Zoe the international assassin. The E.MTs reappeared carrying the body of an old woman on the stretcher between them. The look on their faces combined with the lack of hustle toward the truck told Zoe all she needed to know, the woman was as dead as the black lab in the alleyway.

They loaded her into the truck and sped back toward the city. Zoe ground her cigarette into the sidewalk with her boot then climbed into the front seat, of the beat-up Mazda. Two cigarettes and 20 minutes later, she had found a parking spot on the fourth floor of the Washington Convention Center parking garage. Around the corner, a long line was forming at the entrance to the convention center. There were well-dressed politicians and business folk. There were poly-sized students gearing up to write their various theses. There were parents leading their children, eager to hear the front-runner for the next presidential election speak.

And finally there were the thrift store-clad hippies ready to protest and boo every remark. But the line held no issue for Zoe. She was press. A security guard saw her badge and waved her ahead. Her press pass was for a mid-tier online publication, so she was in the second row rather than the first. That put the speaker's podium about 14 feet from her. If the remote worked at the range it did in the warehouse, then she would.

she should be close enough. Then again, she highly doubted Machine Teddy did any testing on the device around enough sound equipment for a Stone's concert. But the senator was set to take questions from the press after he spoke, so if the remote didn't work now, it certainly would later. While the rest of the crowd slowly piled in, Zoe pulled a notebook from her book bag. As the only member of the media who knew that the candidate was going to die today, Zoe pushed her advantage. She quickly outlined two versions of the story, depending on the success of the pacemaker remote's range. The first version assumed the senator died on the podium mid-speech. Zoe figured she'd try, as reverently as possible, to link it with his age and the extreme

passion with which he campaigned. The second version assumed he died during press questions shortly after the speech. Zoe thought it might lead nicely into a subtle reprimanding of the intensity and overzealousness of the media surrounding U.S. elections, one of those self-righteous, we can do better, type of articles that people seem to really get behind. The seats filled up throughout the room. By the time Zoe finished each rough outline and put her notebook away, the senator's wife, a former member of the U.S. House of Representatives, walked on stage to introduce her husband. The crowd greeted her enthusiastically and she returned the fervor by delivering an impassioned speech about the change in Washington that her husband would usher in.

And now, she finished, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce my husband, and your 28 presidential nominee, Senator Michael Wilkins. The crowd erupted, giving the senator a standing ovation. While they applauded and the senator hugged and kissed his wife, Zoe palmed the pacemaker remote. She powered it on. Senator Wilkins took the podium. He quieted the the crowd and thanked them for the show of support. He thanked his wife for the introduction. Zoe waited. Senator Wilkins thanked the Washington Convention Center for putting on the event. He thanked his campaign team. He thanked his political party. Zoe waited. After a few paragraphs lifted directly from his various stump speeches, Senator Wilkins dove into the current political

climate and the state of the country. He spoke about where he came from and where he grew up. up. He mentioned all the ways his parents had influenced him. Zoe waited. The senator brought up his political opponent. His volume increased, his hand movements intensified. The senator spoke fiercely about the corruption in his opponent's campaign. Zoe let her thumb hover above the button. The senator pounded on the podium with his fist. His face reddened. He waved a finger into the crowd. Zoe looked him in the eye and pressed down, holding the button for four long seconds. At first nothing happened. Then dozens of things happened in quick succession.

The senator stopped speaking. The crowd hushed. The senator groaned into the microphone and grabbed the podium with both hands. The crowd murmured and whispered. The senator clutched his chest. Help. A strained voice in the back shouted. Zoe turned around and her eyes went wide.

Two dozen elderly men and women were standing around the room, hands on their hearts. One by one they toppled and began to seize. Someone in the front row gasped. Zoe turned back to the stage just in time to see the senator fall on his back. He didn't even seize. He was dead before he hit the floor. Security rushed the stage. More shouts from the back of the crowd for help.

Some people hurried to the fallen. Most hurried for the exit. Zoe grabbed her book bag and fled, blending in with the latter group as best she could. She knew her editors would be pissed if they found out she left the scene so quickly, but she didn't care. She wasn't Zoe the freelance writer right now. She was Zoe the assassin who just accidentally killed a bunch of fucking civilians. Emotionally, the casualties didn't bother her, but eventually someone would put together that every death involved the pacemaker. She could not risk being caught in a convention

center with the device. The main lobby was chaos as hundreds tried to squeeze out of two exit doors. Security was trying to lock down the convention center, but they couldn't handle the force of the crowd. The people finally broke through, Zoe along with them. The scene outside on the street was just as hectic. Two ambulances were already on the scene. EMTs pushed through, the crowd to get into the convention center. A handful of bodies littered the street. Some were protesters. Some were office workers.

Some were tourists. All were elderly. How large is the radius on that fucking device? She hurried down the sidewalk to the parking garage. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it and broke into a run. She didn't care which of her two lives the call came from. Her handler, her editor, it didn't matter.

She needed to get to her car. She needed to leave the scene. Zoe skipped the garage elevator and took the stairs. She climbed two at a time until she reached the fourth floor. She sprinted to her Mazda. Once in the driver's seat, she finally let herself breathe. Her phone buzzed again and she fished it out of her pocket. It was her mother.

Of course. All of that was broadcasted live. She just wants to know if I'm safe. I can put my loving daughter hat on for a few seconds. Mom, I'm fine, Zoe answered as calmly as she could. Oh, thank goodness. Are you with your father? I can't reach him.

Why would I be with Dad? He was at the event. He went to see you. CNN said people in the crowd were fainting. They think it could be a gas leak. Zoe? Are you there? Zoe?

The end. Isabella Gussmann's story is one of those true crime cases that leaves people scratching their heads. It's bizarre, tragic, and full of twists that make you question how everything spiraled out of control. So, let's unravel this shocking tale piece by piece, exploring every layer, until we reach the chilling conclusion. The early days of Isabella Gussman, born in June 1995 in Aurora, Colorado, Isabella was the only child of photographers Yunmi Hoi and Robert Guzman. Her early years seemed idyllic at first glance. Her parents, who were devout Jehovah's Witnesses, raised her in a tight-knit, religious

environment. They ran a photography studio together, and it wasn't unusual to find little Isabella hanging out there, tinkering with negatives, watching them develop pictures, and even helping out in small ways. However, behind the scenes, cracks were forming. Yunmi and Robert's marriage was falling apart. By the time Isabella was around four or five years old, the couple decided to call it quits. The divorce wasn't just a legal separation, it marked the beginning of a turbulent chapter in

Isabella's life. After the split, Yunmi moved with Isabella to a house on Lima Street, while Robert stayed in a nearby apartment. Even though they managed to co-parent and continued running the studio together, the arrangement wasn't smooth. only got worse when Yinni started dating a man named Ryan Hoy. Now, imagine being a little girl whose world has already been turned upside down by your parents' divorce, and suddenly there's a new man in your mom's life.

For Isabella, this felt like the ultimate betrayal. Her mind started piecing together theories, was Ryan the reason her parents had divorced. Had her mom cheated on her dad? Her resentment toward her mother began to fester, and soon, their relationship took a nosedive. rocky adolescence. By the time Isabella was seven, her behavior had become so unmanageable that Yunmi decided to send her to live with Robert. It was a desperate move, but Yunmi hoped it would calm things down. Interestingly, Isabella's behavior was noticeably different when she was with her dad. Robert later said that while she could be moody and temperamental, she

never treated him with the same level of disrespect she showed toward her mother. Robert tried to teach her the importance of respecting her parents and being more cooperative, and for a while, it seemed like things were improving. Eventually, he returned her to Yunmi's care. Unfortunately, the peace didn't last. As the years went by, Isabella's behavior became more volatile. There were three main issues that fueled Isabella's hatred toward her mother. The relationship with Ryan Hoy, Isabella couldn't stand Ryan.

She was convinced he was the reason her family fell apart and saw him as an interloper. Her disdain for him only grew as he became a permanent fixture in their lives. her mom's long work hours, Yunmi and Robert were practically workaholics, spending long hours at the photography studio. This meant Isabella often felt neglected, especially by her mom, whom she frequently accused of prioritizing work over family. Her mom's spending habits, despite working long hours, Yunmi was frugal. Isabella resented this, feeling that her mom worked hard but never spent money on things she wanted, like new clothes, gadgets, or other luxuries. To address some of these complaints, Yunmi and Robert decided to give Isabella a part-time

job at the studio when she turned 14. They thought it would teach her responsibility and help her appreciate the value of money. Instead, it backfired spectacularly. Isabella didn't want to work, didn't want to spend time with her parents, and certainly didn't want to follow anyone's rules. The breaking point, by the time Isabella was in her late teens, things had reached a boiling point. She stopped attending school regularly, frequently sneaking out or skipping class altogether. She brought boys home, sneaking them into her room through the back door and letting them escape through her window.

The arguments at home became explosive, with yelling matches and even physical altercations. Then, on August 27, 2013, everything came to a head. Isabella and her mom had their worst fight yet. It started as a shouting match but escalated and Isabella spat in her mom's face. Furious, Yunmi grounded her daughter and sent her to her room. thinking it was just another teenage tantrum. But this time, Isabella's anger took a dark turn. That night, while everyone else was asleep, Isabella sent her mom an email. The exact contents have never been made public, but it reportedly contained chilling threats. The next morning,

Yunmi read the email and was so disturbed that she showed it to Ryan. Furious, he called 911, demanding that the police come and arrest Isabella. When the officers arrived, Isabella acted contrite, apologizing and promising to behave. Since there were no physical injuries or immediate danger, the police left without taking further action. Yunmi, shaken but trying to move on, asked Robert to come over later that day to talk to Isabella. Robert, ever the peacemaker, had a heart to heart with his daughter in the backyard. He thought the conversation had gone well.

Isabella seemed calmer and even agreed to apologize to her mom that evening. Satisfied, Robert left, believing the situation was under control. The night of the attack, that evening, Yunmi came home from work with McDonald's, hoping to ease the tension with some comfort food. She asked Ryan where Isabella was, but he didn't know. Shrugging it off, Yunmi went upstairs to shower. While Ryan was eating his meal, he suddenly heard screams coming from the upstairs bathroom. He ran up to investigate but found the door locked. Inside, Yunmi was being brutally attacked. Ryan tried to force the door open, but whoever was inside managed to keep it shut and lock it with the latch.

Panicking, Ryan called 911. He reported hearing terrifying sounds, thuds, splashes, and screams. Yunni cried out for help, her final word being, Jehovah, before everything went silent. Moments later, the door swung open and out walked Isabella, drenched in blood, clutching a knife. Her expression was vacant, almost as if she were in a trance. She walked past Ryan without acknowledging him. When Ryan entered the bathroom, he found Yunmi lying in a pool of blood.

She had been stabbed 79 times, including 31 times in the face and 48 in the neck. Additionally, she had been bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Despite his efforts to revive her, it was too late. The aftermath, Isabella fled the scene but was apprehended the following morning after a 16-hour manhunt. She was found near a parked car and arrested without incident. In court, her bizarre behavior continued, with her making sense. strange faces, smiling, and crying alternately. A psychological evaluation revealed that Isabella suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. She claimed she hadn't intended to kill her mother,

but was instead targeting a woman named Cecilia, who she believed was a threat to the world. The voices in her head had convinced her that this act was necessary to save humanity. The verdict, given her mental state, Isabella was found not competent to stand trial and was instead committed to a psychiatric facility indefinitely. Over the years, she has claimed to be rehabilitated and has repeatedly requested her release, but the courts have denied her every time. Final thoughts. This case raises difficult questions about mental health, family dynamics, and accountability. Was Isabella's crime purely the result of her illness, or did her troubled upbringing contribute to her breaking point? While some believe she has been rehabilitated,

others fear she remains a danger to society. What do you think? Should Isabella ever be released, or is she too dangerous to be trusted outside the confines of a hospital? It was one of those crisp autumn evenings in Fondulac, Wisconsin, the kind where the air smells like leaves and excitement buzzes through the streets. Halloween 1973 was shaping up to be magical. Kids ran from house to house, their laughter mingling with the faint rustle of the wind. The pumpkin fair was in full swing, bursting with lights, candy, and spooky decorations. But amidst all the joy and candy-filled chaos, something sinister

was about to unfold. By 8.30 p.m., flashing police lights bathed the quiet streets, and the news spread like wildfire, a nine-year-old girl had gone missing while trick or treating. Her name was Lisa and French. Born on June 2nd, 1964, Lisa was a lively, spirited girl who adored the outdoors. Whether it was running through the yard, climbing trees, or playing dress-up, she embraced life with a contagious enthusiasm. Halloween was her absolute favorite. Every year, Lisa poured her heart into her costume. One year she was a princess, another a witch, and for Halloween 73, she had her heart set on being a butterfly. But here's the thing about Wisconsin in late October, it's cold. Her mother decided the butterfly costume wasn't warm enough, so they

switched it out for something practical. Lisa would be a construction worker. Decked out in overalls, a reflective vest, and a little hard hat, she grabbed her candy bucket and headed out the door. Lisa lived on Rose Avenue, a small street where everybody seemed to know everybody else. Fondulac wasn't a bustling metropolis by any stretch. Back then, it was the kind of place where you could leave your doors unlocked and send your kids out without too much worry. Still, Lisa's parents had rules, be back home by 7 p.m. No stopping to hang out with friends, it always made her late. Only visit six houses. Any more than that, and they'd know she had wandered too far. Absolutely no going to the Pumpkin Fair. It was crowded, chaotic, and, frankly,

unsafe. Lisa promised she'd stick to the plan. After dinner, she set off. Her parents assumed she'd visit the usual houses, wave at some neighbors, and be back right on time. But Lisa had other ideas. Her first stop. A friend's house, where they chatted and laughed, breaking rule number two right off the bat. Then, she began her candy route, stopping first at her teacher's house, then a classmate's, and finally at a house farther down the street, number 152, Rose Avenue. This house was a bit farther than her parents would have liked, but Lisa wasn't worried. After all, the people who lived there, Gerald Turner, his girlfriend, and their newborn baby, were family friends. Lisa and her sister often visited to play with the baby, so this stop

felt safe. Gerald Turner welcomed her in. They chatted briefly. He gave her some candy and reminded her to head back home. Lisa left, walking off into the chilly night toward her house. But after that, no one ever saw Lisa alive again. When 7 p.m. came and went without Lisa walking through the door, her parents weren't immediately alarmed. Maybe she'd lost track of time, maybe she was at a neighbor's house.

But as the minutes dragged on, 10, 20, 30, they grew uneasy. They called the Block Parent Program. a community safety network designed for moments like these. Within hours, the town of Fawn Doolak sprang into action. Police cruisers roamed the streets, and neighbors went door to door, asking if anyone had seen Lisa. The search continued through the night, but by morning, there was still no sign of her. Over the next few days, the entire town mobilized. More than 5,000 people joined the search effort, distributing 6,000 flyers with Lisa's face plastered on them.

Her image was everywhere, gas station, store windows, telephone poles. The search expanded to nearby forests, cliffs, and rivers. And then came November 3rd. A local farmer was driving his tractor down a rural road when he spotted something strange, two garbage bags lying in a ditch. It was an odd place for trash, far from any houses or dumpsters. Curious, he stopped, climbed down, and opened the bags.

What he found inside would haunt him forever. In one bag were the belongings of a little girl, a candy bucket. it, a butterfly costume, and a pair of shoes. In the other bag was Lisa's lifeless body. Word spread like wildfire, plunging Fondulac into shock and grief. The crime scene quickly descended into chaos. Police arrived, but so did crowds of curious onlookers. People cried, shouted, and even touched the bags, contaminating vital evidence. A local Reverend knelt beside the scene, praying for Lisa's soul as reporters snapped photos. It was a grotesque spectacle. Three days later, on November 6, Lisa's funeral drew thousands of mourners.

Amid the tears and calls for justice, the town gave her killer a chilling nickname, the Halloween killer. The police were under immense pressure to solve the case. They began by interviewing everyone who'd seen Lisa that night, her parents, her friends, her teacher, her classmates. And, of course, Gerald Turner. Turner's story didn't add up. At first, he claimed Lisa hadn't come to his house at all.

Then he said she'd stayed only briefly. Later, he changed his story again. His contradictions raised red flags, and the police pushed harder. After nine months of investigation, Turner finally confessed. On Halloween night, Turner was home alone, his girlfriend and baby were at the Pumpkin Fair. When Lisa knocked on his door, he invited her inside. Turner later admitted he was sexually motivated. With the noise of trick-or-treaters and the bustling fair masking any sounds,

he believed he could act without anyone noticing. What happened next was horrifying. When Lisa screamed, Turner panicked, covering her mouth and nose until she stopped moving. Thinking she was dead, he tried to revive her, but failed. His girlfriend returned home around 7.15 p.m., so Turner had Lisa's body in the bathroom, locked the door, and pretended to be sick. Once his girlfriend left, he put Lisa's body in one bag and her belongings in another, then dumped them on a desolate road.

An autopsy revealed that Lisa had endured unspeakable terror. While she was, her actual cause of death was shock, her body had simply given out from fear. At Turner's trial, the town hoped for justice. But Turner showed no remorse. He sat through the proceedings with an eerie calm, even as photos of Lisa's body and the trash bags were displayed in court. His sentence Homicide in the second degree.

Because Lisa's death was attributed to shock rather than asphyxiation, it wasn't considered premeditated. This meant Turner's sentence was eligible for review. He entered prison in February 1975, but by 1992, he was being prepared for release. The idea of Turner walking free enraged the community. Protests erupted, with civilians and police alike demanding he remained behind bars. Yet, the justice system deemed Turner rehabilitated. He was released and even managed to secure a job, only to lose it after protesters swarmed his workplace. Over the years, Turner became a notorious figure. He filed lawsuits against employers who fired him and won substantial settlements.

But in 2002, police raided his home and discovered a trove of explicit materials involving minors. This time, Turner was sentenced to 15 more years in prison. As his release date approached in 2018, the French family and the community once again rallied to keep Turner behind bars. They invoked that Turner Law, a legislative effort aimed at preventing violent offenders from being released. without psychiatric evaluations. Despite their efforts, Turner remained a looming threat. Today, the question lingers, should Gerald Turner ever be allowed to walk free? What do you think?

Is he still a danger to society? The wild story of Eva Grace Marjorie and the stalker who changed her life. Eva Grace Marjorie's story is like something out of a thriller. Born on September 6, 2006, in New Jersey, Eva grew up as the middle child of Kimberly, 45, and Rob Marjorie, 51. She was the only girl in the family, which naturally made her the apple of her retired police lieutenant father's eye. Eva's life was pretty ordinary at first. She was a sporty kid who loved playing soccer, even winning awards with her team.

Her family lived in Naples, Florida, in a quiet, gated community called Raffia Preserve. It was the picture-perfect life, or so it seemed. But as many of us know, life took a wild turn when the pandemic hit in 2020. For most teenagers, the pandemic was a time of isolation, fear, and boredom. TikTok became a global sensation during this period, offering a connection to the outside world, a way to escape, and for some, a shot at fame. Eva was no exception. At 13, nearly 14, she hopped on the TikTok bandwagon with her parents' blessing. At first, Eva was just another user, liking and commenting on other people's videos.

But soon, she decided to create her own content. Using her phone, she began filming dances, makeup tutorials, and lip sync videos. Her classmates, already impressed by her popularity at school, started hyping her up online. Before long, the TikTok algorithm worked its magic, and Eva's account began blowing up. By the time she turned 14, Eva had amassed over a million followers across TikTok, Snapchat, and Instagram. Brand started taking notice, offering her deals and sponsorships. Her parents weren't too concerned at first. After all, Eva had always been entrepreneurial.

As a kid, she'd started a small business selling custom stickers she made with a kit her dad gave her. It wasn't surprising to them that she'd found a way to turn social media into a money-making venture. But here's where things got complicated. From teenage fun to online fame, Eva quickly realized two things about her online presence. First, her audience was way bigger than just her school friends. and second, a significant portion of her followers, about three-quarters, were men. At first, this didn't seem like a big deal. More followers meant more likes, more views, and more opportunities.

But as her fame grew, so did the attention from strangers. Among her most devoted followers was someone using the username Eric Justin 11. Eric was everywhere, on her TikTok, Snapchat, and Instagram. He was her first commenter, her biggest fan, and a constant press. presence in her online life. At first, Eva responded to his comments and acknowledged his support, but Eric always wanted more. He began sliding into her DMs, sending long, detailed messages about his life and even pictures.

It was unsettling, but Eva tried to ignore it. Eric, however, didn't take the hint. When she stopped responding privately, he ramped up his public comments, demanding more attention. The situation got creepy fast. This turned betrayers. Eva's older brother, Evan, who attended the same school, noticed the changes first. He warned Eva to be cautious of the people around her. He could tell some classmates were being fake, trying to get close to her because of her online fame. Evan was right. Some of Eva's so-called friends started exploiting her popularity for their own

gain. They noticed Eric's obsession and decided to profit from it. These friends began selling personal photos of Eva, pictures taken in class, in the hallways, and Eve. even from her private social media accounts. It didn't stop there. Eric wanted more. He paid for details about her family, her likes, her dislikes, and even her phone number. Evo was horrified when she found out. She blocked Eric and cut ties with anyone who had betrayed her trust.

But the damage was already done. Crossing the line, Eric wasn't just some harmless fan. He started calling Eva repeatedly, sending her more messages, and refusing to back off. Desperate, Eva told her parents everything. Here's where things took an unexpected turn. Instead of shutting down her social media accounts or involving the authorities immediately, Eva's parents came up with a different plan. They suggested Eva take control of the situation by selling Eric content herself,

effectively cutting out the middlemen. Reluctantly, Eva agreed. She sent Eric a couple of selfies she'd already posted elsewhere. For these, Eric paid her $300. dollars. But soon, his demands escalated. He wanted more intimate photos, offering higher sums of money. The explicit nature of his requests horrified Eva. She blocked him on all platforms, but Eric wasn't done. A dangerous obsession, Eric created fake accounts to keep contacting Eva. He sent her unsolicited money transfers and found new ways to harass her. When Eva's

dad, Rob, discovered Eric's real identity, Eric Rohan Justin, an 18-year-old from Maryland, he He took matters into his own hands. Using his police contacts, Rob warned Eric to stay away. For a while, it seemed to work. But then, a classmate informed Eva that Eric was planning something sinister. He had sent the boy photos of a shotgun and a rope, claiming he would travel to Florida to harm Eva because, in his words, if I can't have her, no one will.

On July 10, 2021, Eric showed up at the Marjorie home. Armed with a shotgun, he tried to break into Eva's bedroom by shooting the lock. Terrified, Eva managed to escape and lock herself in the bathroom. Hearing the commotion, Rob grabbed his gun and confronted Eric. In a dramatic standoff, Eric aimed his weapon at Rob, but his shotgun jammed. Seizing the moment, Rob opened fire, killing Eric on the spot. Aftermath, Eric's death revealed the depth of his obsession. His phones contained countless photos and videos of Eva, evidence of a fixation that had spiraled

out of control. Although Rob acted in self-defense, the aftermath was brutal. Neighbors began collecting signatures to have the Marjorie family removed from the community, fearing the incident could happen again. Forced to move, the Marjories tried to rebuild their lives. But Eva's troubles weren't over. Just a month later, another man began harassing her online. This time, her father immediately reported him to the authorities, discovering that the man was a registered sex offender. Trying to move on. By the end of 2021, Eva had also faced harassment from classmates, including one boy who allegedly stalked her. She left her traditional school and switched to homeschooling, stepping away from social media temporarily. Yet,

Eva couldn't walk away completely. Despite everything, she saw her online presence as both a passion and a career. I couldn't let him take away everything I built, she said, referring to Eric. Today, Eva continues to post, though the shadow of her past experiences lingers. Her story serves as a chilling reminder of the risks of online fame, especially for young creators. Would you risk your life for fame and fortune? That's a question only Eva can answer. We begin. Old houses hold many stories, especially those with a past as dark as the one we're about to explore.

On a residential street in the small town of Alyska, Iowa, there's a house completely different from the rest. It's an old wooden house with white walls that has no lighting at night. But it's not just the lack of light that draws our attention, behind the house, there's an outhouse, which indicates this home is much older than the others. But why is it still anchored in the past? Why has it never been renovated? That's what we'll discover today. In the early 1900s, Valiska was a quiet and welcoming community of barely 2,000 inhabitants. It was some of the an idyllic town that it was considered one of the safest in the United States. That's why, after getting married in 1899, Josiah Moore, a prosperous local businessman, and Sarah Montgomery decided

to move there and begin their new life together. Everything was perfect, the neighborhood, the neighbors, they had good relationships with everyone in the community. As the years went by, the couple brought four children into the world, Herman, Catherine, Boyd, and Paul, well-behaved, respectful kids loved by all. The more children were like everyone's children. The family went to church every Sunday and helped the community whenever they could. Sarah was a devout woman, deeply involved in charitable work through the local church, and therefore had connections with people both inside and outside the town. However, one ordinary day, a neighbor approached her and asked if she was expecting a visit from a family member, perhaps a distant relative who had

never been to the town before. Sarah, puzzled, said no and asked what prompted the question. The woman responded that, in recent days, a very strange man had asked her where the more house was. Hearing this, Sarah was horrified. She claimed that in recent nights, a strange man seemed to be lurking around her house, a man who appeared to peer through the windows. She felt some someone was watching her family. Even so, both women concluded it must have been a lost man looking for a different more family, since, after all, this was one of the safest towns in the U.S. On Sunday, June 9, 1912, Belisca's Presbyterian Church held its annual Children's Day celebration, largely organized by Mrs. Moore. It began around 8 p.m. in a festive atmosphere

that filled every corner of the town, and everyone was invited. The event was attended. The event was by locals, people from neighboring towns, and the Stillinger family, who were very close friends of the Moors. According to many witnesses, the children from both families had a wonderful time, they played, danced, and laughed together as if they hadn't seen each other in years. At around 9.30 p.m., after the event ended, young Catherine Moore begged her mother to let Ina and Lena Stillinger stay the night at their home. At first, their parents said no, not wanting to inconvenience their friends, but eventually, after the girls insisted, they gave in, on one condition, that they be as quiet as possible. The families chatted a bit longer until about

9.45 p.m., after which the stillings began their long walk home, and the Moors, along with Ina and Lena, took a short walk to their lovely white wooden house. The next day, around 7 a.m., Mary Peckham, the Moor's neighbor, went out to hang her laundry. Around that time, she usually met Sarah to chat about the previous day's gossip. But as the minutes passed, she became concerned, there was no activity at the Moor House, and they were known to be early risers. Plus, Sarah never missed a gossip session. Mary finished hanging her laundry and went to knock on the Moor's front door.

She knocked three times, but no one answered. Visibly worried, she walked around to the back door, which was usually unlocked, but found it locked as well. So she ran to find Ross Moore, Josiah's brother. Upon hearing what was happening, he became instantly alarmed. It was very unusual for a family like theirs to fall so behind in their routines and not respond when someone knocked. With his spare key, Ross entered the house with Mary Peckham. The place was eerily silent, a silence broken only by their voices as they called out the names of each family member, Josiah, Sarah,

Herman, Catherine, Boyd, and Paul. As soon as they entered the home, they noticed all the mirrors were covered, someone had gone to the trouble of covering them with the more family's clothing. This was extremely unsettling. Even more disturbing was what they found when they entered the downstairs guestroom. Ina and Lena Stillinger were lying on the bed with their faces covered by a large gray coat. Ross called their names from the doorway, but neither responded, they seemed to be in a deep sleep. But Ross quickly realized they were not sleeping. He cautiously approached them and lifted the coat. Their small skulls were completely destroyed, their bodies drenched in blood. The horrific sight sent both Ross and Mary fleeing into the street,

screaming for help. Their cries echoed through the neighborhood, and before the police could arrive at the crime scene, the house was filled with curious onlookers. At that time, police protocol was non-existent, any curious person could enter a crime scene and contaminate the evidence with dirty hands. As repulsive as it sounds, it's true. When the police finally arrived, they tried to clear out the onlookers and began their investigation. They started with the downstairs scene, but the sight of the two girls with crushed skulls was only the beginning. Upstairs was where the real carnage lay. The two parents and their four children had all been murdered in the same manner, bludgeoned with what appeared to be the blunt end of an axe.

According to the investigation, the crime occurred around midnight. The killer first entered the Moor's bedroom. Josiah received the worst of it, his face was so brutally beaten he was unrecognizable. Then the killer calmly moved to the children's room and killed all four of them in the same way. Finally, he went downstairs and murdered the stillinger girls. After the murders, he returned up. upstairs and began covering not only the victim's faces but also the mirrors with the family's

clothes, perhaps following the old belief that if you don't cover mirrors after someone dies, their soul becomes trapped in them forever. He also closed all the curtains, except for two windows, which had no curtains. For those, he improvised using more family clothes, perhaps to prevent neighbors from seeing inside and discovering the massacre. But the investigation didn't end there, things only grew more disturbing. Let's begin with the less gruesome details and move toward the most shocking. A kerosene lamp was placed at both major crime scenes, the Moore's bedroom and the Stillinger girl's room.

Both lamps were very similar and placed at the foot of the beds. In the second room, they found the murder weapon, a bloodied axe the killer had attempted to clean, but when he failed, he left it on the nightstand. And don't think it was random, it belonged to Josiah Mew. more. Perhaps the killer was symbolically returning it. Next, he went to the kitchen. No one knows exactly what he did there, but on the table sat a pot filled with reddish water, blood-tinted water that looked exactly like an untouched bowl of soup. This added to the investigator's profile of the killer, social deviance, mental instability, and even vampirism.

But the killer's strange feast didn't stop there. Dr. Lindquist, the coroner, found a slab of bacon wrapped in paper next to the Stillinger girls' bed, about two pounds in weight. Coincidentally, another identical piece was found in the Moors' pantry. Now let's return to the Stillinger girls. Ina was sleeping on the side closest to the wall, next to her sister Lena. A gray coat covered their faces. But Lena, according to the lead investigator Dr. F.S. Williams, did not appear to have been asleep when she was attacked. One foot hung off the bed, as if she had tried to kick her attacker. She was turned slightly on her side with one hand beneath her pillow. It appeared she had been struck in the head while writhing in

bed. Her nightgown was pulled up, and she wore no underwear, suggesting she may have been sexually assaulted before her death. Adding to the evidence that she had fought back, Lina had a bloody wound on the inside of her knee and additional injuries on her arm. From the beginning, the investigation was badly handled. It was confirmed that the killer likely entered the house sometime between midnight and 5 a.m., but by then all doors and windows had already been locked. To be continued. It was confirmed that the attacker could have entered the house between midnight and 5 a.m.,

but all the doors and windows were already closed, so several hypotheses were considered, one of which was the idea that the killer was already inside the house. And what was this theory based on? Only the closed doors and windows. No, it seems this crime was planned to the smallest detail. Through the observation of the crime scenes, it was discovered that all the wicks of the oil lamps in the house were twisted. This would indicate that the attacker, taking advantage of the more family's absence the

night before, snuck into their home and twisted the wicks so that the light would be very dim and that, if at any moment before killing them he was discovered, it would be much harder to identify him. The absence of the killer's fingerprints, as well as strands of hair or fundamental evidence, was a big problem. That's not to mention the flood of curious people who trampled through the entire house, which may have facilitated the destruction of evidence. Even so, the number of suspects was enormous. Next, I will give you a brief list with the names of the most prominent people considered possible murderers of the Moore family and the little Stillinger girls. Andrew Sawyer, a bridge foreman, was a lonely man with a certain degree of paranoia,

and his co-workers complained that he slept every night with an axe. He showed great interest in the case and asked some very sinister questions about it, but he was ruled out since that night he had been in a town 150 kilometers away. George Kelly, an unbalanced Reverend known for his reputation as a pedophile, was in charge of conducting the services on Children's Day, and later confessed to having murdered the Moors and the Stillinger girls, but for some strange reason was acquitted by the jury. Frank F. Jones, a former senator and resident of Valiska, had great tension with Mr. Moore's since Moore was his employee, and after leaving, he started his own business and took clients from him. There were also rumors that Moore had seduced his daughter.

One of the strongest theory suggests that Mr. Jones paid William Mansfield to murder the Moore family. William Mansfield, one of the main suspects, had clear signs pointing to him as a true serial killer. Two years after the Moor family's deaths, he killed his wife and son with an axe. For days before the Moor's murder, he committed the murders in Paola, Kansas, and also perpetrated the double homicide of Jenny Miller and Jenny Peterson in Colorado. All the places where the murders occurred were easily accessible thanks to railroad lines. However, this man was acquitted of all charges, as the jury found it appropriate. Finally, we have Henry Lee Moore, who shortly after the Moore's deaths,

killed his mother and grandmother with an axe, but due to lack of evidence, was also acquitted. Unfortunately, and as you may have guessed, no one was convicted of the murder of the Moore family and the stillinger girls, and to this day, the identity of the killer remains a mystery. From the beginning, the fact that the killer covered the mirrors, the windows, and the victim's faces gave rise to rumors linking these deaths with satanic rituals or even considering them a bloody act carried out by the devil himself. The house remained completely uninhabited for more than two decades, specifically until 1930, when it was acquired by a young couple who had recently had their first child. Their intention was to modernize the house and make it their new home.

However, although it seemed like an idyllic place, their nightmare soon began. The woman found it impossible to sleep at night. As soon as her eyes began to close, she would wake up instantly because she felt someone watching her from the foot of the bed. But that was only the beginning. From simple stairs, it progressed to the sound of footsteps, the annoying sound of someone running up and down the stairs, someone who seemed very nervous to finish some kind of task. someone with firm and forceful steps.

And every time she heard that person running through the hallway and stairs, she could hear the voices of children crying inconsolably. At first, upon hearing these strange sounds, the woman would get out of bed and walk through the house, but eventually, since she never found anyone, she gave up. There came a time when she decided to stop getting up, to stop paying attention, as she concluded it was all in her mind. That's why from then on, she decided she would never again get up, never again look at the foot of the bed, as she was convinced it was all her imagination and that if she looked, she wouldn't find anyone.

However, one night was different. She usually slept on the right side of the bed, with her back to the door, covered up to the top because she loved the warmth of the blankets, even in summer. That night it started to get cold, a cold that chilled her to the bone. The woman kept pulling the blankets, kept pulling and pulling, until she realized that the cold wasn't coming from everywhere, it came only from the foot of the bed. That's when she realized that she had felt that strange presence for quite a while, the presence that had kept her awake so many nights. She convinced herself that, like every other night, if she looked, she would see no one. But just in case, she decided to sit up, and she found herself face to face with the figure of a man. A man dressed entirely in black, wearing a hat, and holding an axe in his hands.

The woman, completely horrified, let out a scream of terror, a scream that woke her husband and baby, who, upon hearing her, began to cry uncontrollably. Her husband tried to calm her, tried to reason with her, saying things like, It was just a dream or, it's your imagination. But she didn't respond to that. She didn't want to believe it, because she had seen it with her own eyes. The woman forced her husband to check the house, made him make sure there was no intruder in that little building.

Together they went to check on the baby and comforted him until he fell asleep again. Then her husband promised her that from then on, he would keep watch, he would make sure no intruder disturbed her sleep. He gave her his word that he would guard the nights if it made her feel safer. He was completely determined to stand guard, and the next night, he didn't sleep a wink. The surprise was immense when, at midnight, he heard footsteps on the stairs and the cries of children his wife had described. No one really knows what happened after that.

The only thing known for sure is that two days later, the couple abandoned the residence and never returned. Another of the stories told about this house is that of the Griesman family, who, unaware of the property's history, decided to purchase it. No one knows exactly what happened to them. The only thing known is that a few weeks after moving in, neighbors noticed that the family had set up a makeshift camp in the yard. The greasmans had pitched countless tents all across the garden and were living outside.

It is known that the couple's children attended a local public school, and one of their daughters told two friends that her parents had decided to live outside because at night, the doors would open and close by themselves, and her little brother had seen a woman in a nightgown, completely covered in blood, walking around the upper floor of the house. Another family who lived in the house was Linda Clouds. Her father was a truck driver, so he traveled a lot and spent little time at home. Therefore, her mother, she, and her sister spent most of their time alone in the house. The first night they spent there, both she and her sisters experienced a real nightmare.

Their parents had installed them on the ground floor of the house since there weren't enough beds for everyone yet. That night, none of the girls could sleep because they kept hearing children. crying from every corner. It was as if those lamenting voices were walking in circles around them, as if those cries were surrounding them. The next morning, they told their mother, but she didn't believe them. She told them they were too old to play that kind of game. This woman would come to regret that statement. Just weeks later, she herself experienced the strength of that little house. One day, while doing her chores, she began hearing footsteps upstairs. At first, she thought it was the typical noise of an old house, but then realized it sounded

like children playing. She immediately thought one of her daughters hadn't gone to school and was skipping class, hiding upstairs. So she dropped what she was doing and went up the stairs. As she stepped on to the last stair, she noticed that one of the doors in front of her had just slammed shut. She ran toward it and, upon opening the room, found a grotesque scene, all her daughter's clothes were scattered across the floor, covering the ground, the furniture, the mirrors.

And instead of the curtain being drawn, the window was covered with that same clothing. This situation repeated many more times, and each time she told her husband, he didn't believe her. He said she was probably stressed and her mind was playing tricks on her. Her husband would also come to regret his words. He eventually made the decision to leave that house. The man liked to sharpen his own knives, he loved the feeling, the magic of a well-polished metal blade. Until one day, in the presence of his daughter Linda, while sharpening a knife, he became completely paralyzed. He had a blank stare, an expressionless face, as if he had lost control of all his senses. Then it happened, the hand holding the knife moved impulsively

and he stabbed himself. In 1994, new buyers arrived, Darwin and Martha Lynn from Corning, Iowa. But this time, the couple was not going to live in the house, they were going to return it to the night of June 9, 1912. Afterward, it was added to the National Register of Historic Places and open to the public for ghost tours and occasionally used as a bed and breakfast. Visitors from all walks of life have witnessed inexplicable events. Strange orbs and black shadows often appear in their photographs. Additionally, just being there often causes objects to move on their own or unexplained chills to pass by. At the same time, countless paranormal experts and enthusiasts have gathered there and conducted extensive investigations.

Those who understand the subject say the place holds two types of energies, positive and negative. The positive energy is residual, while the negative is intelligent, can't. capable of responding through EVP's electronic voice phenomena. In fact, if you're interested in digging a little deeper into the topic, I'll leave a link in the description box that will take you directly to the ghost-seekers investigation. But before I go, I have one question for you, would you dare to spend a night in this lovely little house? The end.

I've lived in the city for a while now. It's not glamorous. Not some skyline view with penthouse lights and rooftop parties, know, just a plain old apartment in a concrete maze, stacked with lives I don't know, voices I wish I didn't hear, and stories I never asked to be a part of. My building sits right across from another, barely a few feet apart. There's this narrow alley wedged in between, and the way it echoes. It's like living in a giant megaphone. You hear everything, babies crying, arguments over dinner, TV shows blasting from ancient speakers. Sometimes it's annoying,

sometimes funny. But nothing prepared me for the hellish symphony that would begin when the new family moved in. It was around February, cold, gray, the kind of weather that clings to your skin. That's when I first started hearing the kids. The crying wasn't normal kid stuff either, it was constant. 24-7. At first, I thought maybe the kids were sick or having a rough adjustment. But then came the mother's voice, sharp, furious, violent. She wasn't just yelling, she was screaming, telling them to shut the fuck up, using words I don't even want to repeat. Every day it got worse.

I'd be working at my desk, trying to concentrate, and in the background I'd hear the sound of children sobbing, a woman snapping, sometimes what sounded like things being thrown. It got to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. I wasn't just disturbed. I was scared for those kids. I tried to do the right thing. I called CPS. Turns out, they need an apartment number to even file a report. Great. I didn't know it. So I looked up the property manager's contact online. Took a few tries, but I finally got her on the phone. I explained the situation, what I was hearing, how serious it felt. And she did. She did. didn't even hesitate, she knew exactly who I was talking about. She gave me the apartment number

without skipping a beat and guessed the kid's ages too. Said they lived on the fifth floor, like me, but around the back where I couldn't see their window directly. She asked me to send an email about it, probably to cover herself. I did. Then I went back to CPS with the info and made the report. The next day or so, cops showed up for a wellness check. I won't watched for my window. They knocked, stayed maybe five minutes. Then left. Later, one of them even told me everything looked fine. That yelling at your kids wasn't a crime. I wanted to scream. They quieted down for a bit after that. A week or two. Maybe less. But it didn't last. The screaming started again. And now, it wasn't just verbal, it sounded, physical.

Like slaps. Smacks. Maybe worse. That sound of skin hitting skin, the abrupt stop in crying that comes after a blow. I emailed the manager again. Her tune changed. Said it wasn't her building, it was mine. Claimed there were no children in her property. Didn't want anything to do with it. Just like that, washed her hands clean. I felt powerless. Helpless. Like the system had shrugged its shoulders and said, oh well, and then Tuesday happened.

June 25th. I was working from home. Same old routine. Headphones in, trying to tune out the usual noise. Then I heard it. A woman screaming. But not like before. This wasn't anger, it was horror.

A gut-wrenching scream that cracked right through me. I looked out my window, thinking it was the same woman yelling at her kids again. But then I froze. There was a baby. On the ground. In the alley. Lying still. In nothing but a diaper.

I swear, I couldn't breathe. I blink like I was hallucinating, but it was real. EMTs were rushing in. The mother, her, was nearby, sobbing, frantic. I saw them do CPR. Pull out a defibrillator. Work on him for what felt like forever. Then, stop.

They pulled a sheet over his tiny body. The cops showed up next. A helicopter circled overhead. They taped off the alley. Took notes. looked up at the building it wasn't just some accident they were investigating

and I knew I knew it was one of the kids I had tried to save one of the voices I had heard crying night after night two years old just like the property manager had said he'd come from the fifth floor I've never seen a dead body before especially not a child especially not one I tried to help

I couldn't wrap my head around it. I still can't. I feel like I watched something evil unfold while the world just, kept spinning. I had to sit there, at my desk, and finish my shift while his body lay outside, covered, not ten feet from where I live. Four hours. They didn't move him for four hours. I kept thinking, why me?

Why did I have to be the one to witness this? I keep seeing that little body. I keep hearing the sound of nothing. That silence after the defibrillator stopped. I talked to a few neighbors after. They'd heard the abuse too. Some of them tried to report it as well. But it seems I was the only one who saw Tuesday go down.

I'm glad they didn't have to see it. But it's a weird kind of lonely. Like I'm carrying this truth and no one else really gets it. people around me are acting like everything's normal going to work walking their dogs drinking coffee and I'm sitting here wondering how the hell life just keeps moving I don't feel like a person right now I feel like a ghost a hollow shell of myself just trying to get through the day I don't even know what to do with this it's like the trauma doesn't have a shape just wait heavy crushing. The worst part. I don't think it was an accident. And now I'm terrified she's going to get away with it. That she'll keep custody of her other child. There's still a baby, under a year old. And if the system failed this kid, why wouldn't it fail again? I called CPS again. Gave them my name, referenced the earlier report, told them one of the kids I had reported died. That I was seriously worried for the safety of the surviving baby. They put me on hold. When they came back, they just kept

saying, I can't tell you anything. I told them I wasn't asking for information. I was making a report. Again, she repeated the same line. I can't tell you anything. All I can say is we work with the police. You can always file a police report, so I guess that means there's an investigation now. I hope so. I need to believe there is. My neighbor and I haven't gone to the police yet. We're both just wrecked. Emotionally shredded. I'm not sleeping right. I'm eating like a robot, if at all. I see that alley in my dreams. I hear the crying that never stopped. I hear that final scream. People say the system is broken. But that doesn't really hit you and until you see the consequences firsthand.

Until you look out your window and see a dead child that you tried, really tried, to save. And no one listened. No one did anything. I don't know how to end this. I don't even know why I'm writing this, honestly. Maybe I just needed to get it out. Maybe I needed someone, anyone, to read it and say, you're not crazy. That was real.

and you did your best. I didn't write this to get pity. I don't want applause. I just want that little boy's life to mean something. I want people to know that he existed. That he cried. That someone heard him. That someone cared. And I want justice for him. For the baby still in that apartment. For the neighbors who tried. For me. Because I'm still sitting here, trying to put myself back together. Trying to live in a place where echoes carry more than sound, they carry ghosts. The end. My parents left me with a killer, hey there. I'm a 38-year-old woman, and I have a story to tell. A story that, to this day, shakes me to my core whenever I think about it. It's the kind of thing you see in crime documentaries or horror movies, but it was my reality.

Back in the early 90s, when I was just a little kid, my mom and stepdad decided to pack up our lives in Arkansas and move to Chicago. My stepdad had family there, and I guess they figured it would be a fresh start. We didn't have a place of our own when we first got there, so we moved in with his mother. Looking back, it was one of the happiest times of my early childhood. My grandma was the sweetest woman. She was Pentecostal, had long, thin hair she always wore up in a bun and she loved Elvis Presley. She used to take me to church and on shopping trips to thrift stores, and I adored every second of it. She even bought me a doll

once, and I cherished that thing like it was my best friend. For a short while, life felt safe and happy. That time with my grandma didn't last long, though. Once we got somewhat settled, I started preschool. My mom and my stepdad sister, my aunt, both worked there as teachers. Because of that, I was placed in my aunt's classroom. You'd think that would be comforting, having family close by, but looking back, there were things that just didn't sit right. One of the first memories I have of preschool is from a bus ride. It doesn't make sense to me why I even had to ride the bus when my mom worked there, but I did. And one day, while sitting toward the back, a little boy told me to lie down on the seat. Then he climbed,

climbed on top of me and started acting out what he saw his dad do to his mom. We were preschoolers, just tiny, innocent kids. Or at least, we were supposed to be. I shudder to think about what that poor boy's home life must have been like. Despite that horrible experience, I remember my aunt being one of my favorite people back then. She was nice to me, at least in a way that made me feel comfortable at the time. I do recall her making comments about the crack babies in my class, which is a pretty messed up thing for a teacher to say.

Another thing that stands out is that I was the only white child in the class. I don't know if that plays into why I've always felt attracted to black men, probably not, but who knows? My aunt babysat me a lot. She had a son, about five years older than me, and I spent a lot of time with him. I don't have many clear memories of him, but something inside me tells me he wasn't good to me. I remember falling down the stairs at their place more than once. But was I pushed? I think so.

Was he hurting me in other ways? I think so. I remember being in his bed a lot, but the memories are foggy, like my brain doesn't want me to access the truth. The strange thing is, my mom never really liked my aunt. People whispered about her, and there was always this feeling that something was off. Yet, despite this, she still left me in my aunt's care. Over and over and over again. I am 38 now.

And not too long ago, I found out something that turned my stomach, something that sent ice-cold shivers down my spine. My aunt, this woman who babysat me, who had power over me as a child, had murdered her first child. A five-year-old boy stabbed to death By his own mother She even went to prison for it But she got out on a technicality Claimed that someone must have broken into her home

while she was showering and killed her son But they didn't buy her story at first I guess someone later did Because she was free And this is the woman my stepdad let watch me My mom swears she didn't know anything about the crime back then Maybe she didn't, but she always had a bad feeling about my aunt. So why, why, was I left alone with her so many times?

The thought still haunts me. She could have snapped and killed me too. Or maybe her son, who I strongly suspect hurt me, could have gone too far and ended my life. It's not just paranoia. He grew up, got married, had kids of his own, and then abused those kids so badly that he ended up in prison. It's a cycle. A sick, twisted cycle. And I was thrown right into the middle of it. Thankfully, we moved back to Arkansas when I was in first grade. I never saw my aunt again, and I hope I never do. I think she's still alive somewhere, out in the world. That thought alone

is enough to make my skin crawl. I guess I just wanted to share my story. Maybe because writing it down helps me process it. Maybe because I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I was left with a literal child murderer. Maybe because I just need to remind myself that I survived. Because let's be real, I am lucky to be here. And that's something I don't take for granted. I still find myself thinking about it sometimes. You know those moments when your brain just dredges up old memories out of nowhere? That's what happens to me. I'll be going about it. I'll be going about my day, and suddenly, bam, flashbacks. Not clear, not detailed, just hazy, disturbing glimpses of things that don't feel quite right. I'll remember the feeling of the stairs

beneath me as I fell. I'll remember being in that bed. I'll remember my aunt's voice, the way she spoke, the way people whispered about her. I wonder what my life would have been like if we had stayed in Chicago. If my mom hadn't decided to move back to Arkansas, would I have been okay? Or would something have happened? Would I have ended up as just another tragic news story? I don't think I'll ever have the answers to those questions. And maybe that's for the best. But what I do know is that I made it. I got out. And for that, I am grateful. Still, I can't help but wonder, how many other people have stories like mine. How many other kids were left with people they never should have been left with?

And how many of them didn't make it out? It's a terrifying thought. But it's real. Anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading. I guess I just needed to get this off my chest. Because, at the end of the day, I'm just trying to make sense of something that will never truly make sense. And maybe that's the scariest part of all. The chilling story of Shirley Hitchings and her family began with something as simple as a key,

a mysterious antique key that appeared one morning on a pillow. Little did they know, this peculiar find would open the doors to 12 years of relentless terror. The events that followed captured the attention of the public, with newspapers and radio stations reporting on their ordeal. Some called it a hoax, while others believed it was proof of the supernatural. This is their story. In 1956, the Hitchings family lived in a modest home at 63, Wycliffe Road, southwest London. The family consisted of Wally, a London underground driver, his wife, Kitty, who was confined

to a wheelchair due to chronic arthritis, Shirley, a 15-year-old aspiring artist working as a seamstress, her older brother John, and their grandmother, affectionately called Old Mother Hitchings. They were a quiet, hard-working family who lived an unremarkable life, until the morning of January 27, when Shirley discovered the key. It was beautifully ornate in silver, unlike anything she had ever seen. Curious, her father, Wally, tried it on every lock in the house, but it fit nowhere. Shirley, enamored by its antique beauty, decided to keep it in a drawer. That night, the house erupted into chaos. Strange noises echoed through the walls, scratches, bangs, and murmurs, as if the house itself were alive. The walls creaked, the floors trembled,

and lights flickered uncontrollably. These sounds grew so loud that neighbors began knocking on their door, demanding they stopped the racket. The hitchings, however, were just as confused and frightened. For three weeks, the unrelenting noises haunted the family every night. Desperate, they called the police, but after a brief inspection, the officers left without finding any explanation. The disturbances were unlike anything the family, or even their neighbors, had experienced.

And then surely remembered the key. When she checked the drawer, it had vanished. No one in the house claimed to have moved it. By mid-February, the disturbances intensified. Objects began moving on their own. One evening, while the family sat together, one of Shirley's gloves flew across the room, striking her father. Soon after, pots, pans, and even furniture floated and hurled themselves around the house.

A clock floated gently through the air before settling on a table, as if mocking the family. The hitchings were petrified but helpless. The police and even firefighters were called multiple times, yet no one could explain the phenomena. The entity seemed to have its own agenda, and its antics escalated further. Surely became its focus. One night, as she lay in bed, her blankets were pulled off by an unseen force. When she tried to grab them back, the force tugged harder, dragging her to the edge of her bed.

Suddenly, she began to levitate, her rigid body hovering several inches above the mattress. Her family could do nothing but watch in horror. The news spread quickly. On February 20, 1956, the Daily Mirror ran a story about the Hitching's plight, drawing reporters and onlookers to their home. Some camped outside, desperate for a glimpse of the paranormal activity. Among the chaos, a beacon of hope appeared in the form of Harold Chibbitt, a parapsychologist intrigued by their case.

Chibbett determined that the family was dealing with a poltergeist. He explained that such entities often latch on to. adolescent energy, hormonal changes and emotional turmoil could feed their strength. In Shirley, the entity had found its ideal target. The family tried to rid themselves of the spirit through exorcisms. Wally even enlisted a coworker, Harry Hanks, who claimed to be a medium. However, the attempted rituals only added to the chaos. Neighbors, hearing the commotion, accused Hanks of practicing black magic, drawing more unwanted attention to the family. Chibit suggested a different approach, communication. Using knocks on the walls, the family tried to interact with the spirit.

In time, they discovered its name, Donald. The entity became increasingly bold, setting small fires around the house and growing violent. One night, Wally suffered burns while extinguishing a fire, and beneath the scorched skin were scratch marks, as if claws had inflicted them. Donald's fixation on surely grew more disturbing. He began writing messages, first by knocking on letters of the alphabet, and later, through full-fledged notes. Locked in a room with pen and paper, the entity would leave behind dozens of letters. Donald claimed to be the lost Dauphin of France, Louis Charles, heir to the throne, who had died during the French Revolution.

He recounted details of his life, mentioning names that Chibbitt later verified as historically accurate. Despite his aristocratic claims, Donald's behavior was far from noble. He demanded surely dress a certain way and threatened to burn the house, if his wishes weren't met. His demands and violent outbursts pushed the family to the brink. Their grandmother, Ethel, became a frequent target, with Donald pulling her hair and whispering eerie messages. In October, scratches on the wall spelled out a chilling command, bring Ethel here. Shortly after, Ethel suffered a stroke and passed away, fulfilling Donald's dark prediction. Life with Donald was unbearable. When Shirley started dating, Donald's jealousy turned dangerous.

He would hurl heavy objects at her suitors and spy on her outings, relaying details to her family through notes. Derek, the man who eventually became her husband, endured relentless harassment, with Donald even sending reports of their dates to Derek's mother. It seemed the poltergeist would stop at nothing to isolate Shirley. After Shirley and Derek married in 1968, Donald left a final note, an apology in a farewell. The family believed they were finally free. Years later, Shirley encountered a medium who described a young red-haired boy in an elegant blue

satin outfit. The description matched Donald's claims of being the Dauphin. Though his activity ceased, Shirley always felt his presence lingering, a silent observer in her life. The hitching story is one of the most documented poltergeist cases in history. It raises questions about the unknown and leaves us wondering, was Donald a tormented spirit, or the manifestation of something even darker. What do you think? Could this case be real? The sound of heartbeats creeps me out, like a lot, Mercy muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned against the cold, rusting wall of the abandoned medical facility. The faint flicker of her flashlight cast jittery, uneven shadows across the devastated corridor, making the shattered remains of the lab seem to

breathe in the darkness. Kyle shot her a glance, his expression a mix of surprise and faint amusement. Seriously? Of all the things that freak you out, out, its heartbeats, he asked, his voice breaking the oppressive silence. Mercy shrugged, her grip tightening on the flashlight, her knuckles white. Yeah, she said quietly, her eyes scanning the desolation around them. It's the rhythm. The way it keeps going, even when everything else is dead quiet. It feels, wrong.

Like something still alive when it shouldn't be. They had been exploring the facility for hours, sifting through the wreckage of what had once been a thriving research station. The devastation was worse here, in the deeper levels. The walls were cracked, stained with time, dried fluids, and worse. Pools of congealed blood marked the floors, along with the faded remnants of other, unidentifiable substances. The facility had been abandoned after a disaster, one that had left no survivors and no real

explanation for what had happened. The place was a tomb, yet there were no bodies. No signs of life. Just emptiness. Shell's flashlight swept across the corridor, landing on the shattered windows of the observation room ahead. The thick glass had been blown inward, jagged edges still clinging to the frame, while shards littered the floor like jagged teeth.

Behind the glass, the observation room lay in ruin. Medical equipment lay scattered and overturned, cables snaking across the floor, monitors flickering with static. The devastation was absolute, broken syringes, smashed containment units, and streaks of blood that led nowhere. there were no bodies. Only the unsettling absence of life. Well, you're in luck, Kyle said, his attempt at levity strained. This place is dead quiet. No heartbeats here. Mercy didn't respond. She stepped forward, her flashlight beam sweeping over the wreckage. There had been

an event here, something catastrophic. She could see it in the way the walls were dented and scored, as though something had fought its way through the facility with savage force. The observation room had once looked down into a containment chamber, but the thick window separating the two spaces was obliterated. Below, more devastation lay in the darkness, smashed restraints, overturned medical tables, and strange, twisted equipment designed for purposes she didn't want to imagine. Her skin prickled with unease, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up. The place felt wrong, like the air itself held on to the memory of whatever violence had taken in place here. The walls seemed to echo with it, a silent scream that lingered, heavy in

the cold, still air. Kyle moved toward a control panel on the far wall, wiping away layers of dust and debris. This should be the main data hub, he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. If there's anything left, it'll be stored here. Mercy glanced over at him, her nerves on edge. Hurry up. I want to be out of here soon. Kyle nodded, his fingers working over the panels worn keys. The terminal word to life, the display flickering as corrupted files and fragmented code scrolled across the screen. The low hum of the machinery cut through the oppressive silence, but it did little to ease the tension in Mercy's chest. And then, in the middle of the broken silence, they heard it. A faint, rhythmic sound. At first, it was barely

noticeable, a soft thump, almost imperceptible against the hum of the equipment. But it grew louder, more distinct. A heartbeat. Mercy's breath caught, her flashlight shaking slightly as she turned to Kyle. Kyle, tell me you hear that. He froze, his fingers hovering over the controls. His brow furrowed as he listened. There it was again, a steady, slow thump-thump-thump, like the pulse of something hidden in the walls, something alive. His face paled as the sound became undeniable, reverberating through the broken remains of the facility. Yeah. I hear hear it, Kyle whispered, his voice tight. It's probably just an old system rebooting or,

No, Mercy cut him off, her voice laced with fear. That's not a machine. That's biological. The sound grew louder, more defined, echoing off the shattered walls. It came from below, deep within the bowels of the facility, and with every second, it felt like the heartbeat was getting closer, like it was pulsing through the very air around them. Mercy felt her chest tighten, her own heart pounding in rhythm with the sound. It filled the space, the rhythmic pulse of something waiting, something watching.

We need to leave, she said, her voice trembling as she took a step back. We need to leave now. Kyle hesitated, torn between his curiosity and the sudden wave of dread washing over him. His eyes darted to the data drive, still downloading fragments of information. But the heartbeat, it was wrong. It shouldn't be there. He yanked the drive from the terminal, nodding quickly. Yeah.

Let's go. They turned to leave, but the moment they stepped back into the corridor, the lights flickered again, bathing the hall in an ominous red glow. The heartbeat was louder now, pounding in their ears, shaking the walls as if the facility itself was alive. The devastation around them, the shattered glass, the streaks of dried blood, the broken equipment, all seemed to vibrate with the pulse. It felt as though the station was no longer abandoned, no longer dead.

Something had woken up. Come on! Mercy urged, grabbing Kyle's arm and pulling him into a sprint. Their footsteps echoed down the broken corridor, the sound of their breathing harsh and panicked. The heartbeat followed them, a relentless, terrifying presence that filled the air, growing faster, closer. Mercy's mind raced. What had this place been experimenting on?

What had they created in these cold, sterile rooms, surrounded by glass and steel? They passed more rooms, each one as devastated as the last, overturned medical tables, shattered containers, but still no bodies. No sign of what had caused the disaster. Just the empty remains of a place that should have been swarming with life. And now, the only sound was the ever-p-p-thump-thump-thump. They reached the exit, the heavy steel door looming before them, but as they approached, the heartbeat stopped.

Mercy and Kyle skidded to a halt, their breath ragged in the sudden silence. For a moment, neither of them moved, the stillness pressing down on them like a suffocating Then, from the shadows beyond the door, came a new sound, a faint, dragging noise, like something heavy in wet being pulled across the floor. It was slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly close. Mercy's heart raced again, pounding in her ears as she strained to see into the darkness. Whatever had made that heartbeat, whatever had woken up inside this cursed facility, wasn't finished with them.

And this time, it wasn't just a sound. Something was out there, something alive. it was coming for them. Mercy's hand slammed against the control panel, desperately trying to open the heavy steel door that stood between them and the outside. Kyle was beside her, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his eyes wide with panic. The dragging noise behind them was getting closer, too close, and the sound of that steady heartbeat throbbed in their ears like it was inside their own heads, vibrating through

the walls, the floor, their bones. Come on! Mercy growled through gritted teeth, her fingers shaking as they worked the controls. The emergency systems in the facility had been failing for years, and now, of course, the door wasn't cooperating. A red light blinked angrily at her, refusing to grant them access to the outside world. Behind them, the faint, slow scrape of something being dragged across the floor grew louder, accompanied by that terrifying, rhythmic pulse.

Thumb-thump! Thumb-thump, asterisk. Kyle stumbled backward, his flashlight sweeping across the corridor. Hurry, mercy! His voice was filled with desperation as he spun around, pointing the light at the darkened hall behind them. The beam revealed nothing but twisted metal and shattered glass, but the heartbeat was there, reverberating through the very air, and the sound of the dragging grew more pronounced, more

deliberate. Mercy bit her lip, her heart hammering in her chest as she frantically punched the override sequence. The panel flashed green and the door hissed open, a gust of cold air rushing in from the planet's surface. Without waiting, she grabbed Kyle's arm and yanked him forward. They barreled through the doorway, sprinting into the dim twilight outside. The facility loomed behind them like a decayed monolith, its broken windows glowing faintly

in the fading light of the dying sun. But there was no time to look back. They ran, their feet pounding against the cracked ground as the heartbeat followed them, asterisk thump-thump-thump-a-sterisk, growing faster, as if whatever was inside that facility was chasing them, unseen but undeniably there. The Pathfinder was in sight, its sleek form silhouetted against the barren landscape. The ship's landing lights cast long, thin shadows across the dusty terrain, beckoning them like a sanctuary. Come on!

Kyle shouted, sprinting ahead, his legs burning from the effort. The ship's ramp had never looked so welcoming. Mercy was just behind him, every muscle in her body screaming as she forced herself to keep moving, the sound of the dragging and the heartbeat growing louder with each step. Her mind raced, images of the ruined facility flashing through her thoughts, shattered glass, overturned tables, streaks of blood, but no bodies. Nothing. It was as if whatever had caused the devastation had taken them all, consumed them whole,

and now it was coming for them. Kyle reached the ramp first, slamming his hand on the control to lower it. It descended with agonizing slowness, every second feeling like a lifetime as the two of them stood exposed, vulnerable in the open air. Then, just as the ramp touched the ground, the heartbeat stopped. Mercy skidded to a halt, her chest heaving, her ears ringing from the sudden silence. Kyle froze too, his wide eyes darting around, his body tense, waiting for the inevitable. But there was nothing.

No sound. No movement. For a moment, the only thing Mercy could hear was the wind whipping across the barren ocean planet, a low, mournful howl that sent shivers down her spine. Go, she whispered, her voice barely audible. Kyle didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled up the ramp and into the ship, slamming the hatch closed behind them. The familiar hiss of the ship's pressurization system greeted them as they stumbled

into the cockpit, their breath ragged, their nerves frayed. Get us out of here, Mercy gasped, collapsing into the co-pilot seat. Kyle nodded, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the controls. The ship hummed to life beneath them, its engines roaring in defiance of the horrors they had just escaped. The Odyssey lifted off the ground, the blue-green ocean covered planet shrinking below them as they ascended into the atmosphere. Mercy leaned back in her seat, her heart still pounding in her chest. Her body trembled, every muscle still tense with the memory of that sound, that heartbeat. Whatever it had been, they hadn't seen it, thank God, but they

had felt it, heard it, and whatever had created that noise, it was not human. The ship broke through the planet's upper atmosphere, the sky turning from red to black as they ascended into the safety of space. The planet, 4546B, slowly disappeared behind them, becoming just another distant rock in the void. Mercy exhaled a long breath, trying to calm her racing pulse. What the hell was that thing, she asked, her voice still shaky. I don't know, Kyle replied, his own voice still tinged with fear. I don't want to know. But just as the tension in the cockpit began to ease, something else filled the air, an unnatural, deafening roar. A sound so primal, so utterly inhuman, that it made their blood run cold. It echoed through the asterisk

Odyssey Asterisk, vibrating through the hull, as if whatever had been inside the facility was reaching out, screaming into the vastness of space with a rage borne from something ancient and monstrous. It wasn't a roar of pain or frustration, it was a scream of recognition. A scream that told them they weren't escaping it at all. Mercy's hands gripped the edges of her seat as the sound filled the cockpit, the primal roar tearing through her mind, shaking her to her core. She didn't know how, but she felt it, whatever was down there, whatever had been making that heartbeat, it knew them now. And it wouldn't stop. Kyle's fingers hovered over the controls, his face pale as the roar finally faded into the silence of space. For a long

moment, neither of them spoke, the cold terror settling into their bones. Mercy swallowed, her voice barely a whisper as she stared into the black void ahead. We've got to leave this system, now. Kyle nodded, his face grim as he silently prepared the jump to light speed. The engines roared to life beneath them, and in a flash, the Odyssey shot into the darkness, leaving the haunted planet and the horrors it contained far behind. But even as they sped away, mercy couldn't shake the feeling that the creature, the thing they had never seen, the thing that had somehow reached out to them, called to them from the depths, was still out there, lurking somewhere in the vastness of space. Space is worse for me, Talitha muttered, her voice barely

audible over the hum of the Pathfinder's engines. She sat slouched in the pilot seat, her lean figure wrapped in a standard-issue explorer suit. Her dark hair, cropped short and practical, hung slightly in her eyes as she stared out at the swirling nebula beyond the cockpit. She was always more comfortable in motion, whether planet's side or working on the ship, but in these long stretches of quiet space, she felt like a prisoner in her own thoughts. Her co-pilot, Mara, shifted beside her, adjusting the controls as she shot a sidelong glance at Talitha. Mara was taller, with a more athletic build, her silver suit fitted perfectly to her frame.

Her pale blonde hair was tied back into a tight knot, keeping her vision clear as she monitored the readings on her screen. Unlike Talitha, Mara had an easy confidence about her, a natural thrill seeker who found excitement even in the unknown stretches of the universe. Her pale green eyes flickered with curiosity and a hint of amusement. Seriously? Worse than the deep oceans of planet 4546B. We barely survived those Leviathems, Mara said with a chuckle, her voice breaking the quiet

tension in the cockpit. Her fingers danced over the controls, adjusting their course slightly, but her attention remained on Talitha. Planet 45-46B had been a nightmare. The Pathfinder had stopped their months earlier, drawn by the distress signals of both the aurora and the sunbeam. The missions were meant to be straightforward, search for survivors of the doomed vessels, provide aid, and hopefully bring them back to safety.

but from the moment they had broken through the planet's atmosphere, it was clear this would be no routine rescue. The vast, endless ocean that dominated the planet's surface was deceptive in its beauty. Its crystalline waters stretched on for miles, but beneath that serene exterior lay a world of unimaginable danger. As the Pathfinder hovered above the wreckage of the aurora, its broken hull half buried in the sea, Talitha, and Mara had scanned the area for any signs of life. They'd found only the crumbled remains of escape pods, twisted metal, and and eerie silence. For days, they scoured the surface, diving deep into the planet's alien waters. The ocean was home to massive creatures, Leviathans that moved like shadows

in the depths, their immense forms gliding just out of reach, watching. The sheer scale of them had shaken Talitha to her core. Every dive felt like walking into a predator's den, the water thrumming with an ancient, predatory energy. They searched for survivors tirelessly, but every lead led to disappointment. The emergency logs they recovered from the or Aurora told a grim story of the crew struggled to survive against the hostile environment and the strange alien technology embedded deep within the planet. The remains of the sunbeam told a similar tale, its rescue mission ending in catastrophe before it could even touch down. Life pods were either empty or abandoned. There were no bodies, no traces of the hundreds of souls aboard the two ships. Talitha had hoped, in vain, that they might find a small group of survivors eking out an existence in one of the alien biomes, but the planet gave up nothing. It was as if the ocean itself had swallowed them whole, leaving no trace of their existence. By the time they left, the weight of failure pressed heavily on both of them. They'd come looking for survivors, but planet 45-46B had been nothing but a graveyard,

a hostile world where nature and technology intertwined in ways they couldn't fully understand. The nightmares of the Leviathan still haunted Mara, though she rarely admitted it. And as they left the planet behind, Talitha couldn't shake the feeling that whatever had happened on 45-46B, whatever force had claimed the lives of the Aurora and Sunbeam crews, had been watching them, too. Talitha didn't smile. She kept her gaze on the void outside, the swirling, pulsating colors of the nebula painting her face in blues, purples, and greens.

Her brown eyes, usually sharp and alert, were clouded with unease. The oceans were terrifying, she replied quietly, her voice flat. But for me, the concept of being in deep, empty space. Nothing around you at all, no control over where you're going, just emptiness, that's worse. The Pathfinder, their ship, hummed softly beneath them, the vibrations running through the floor plates a constant reminder of their delicate existence in the vast unknown. The ship was designed for long-range exploration, a sleek, angular vessel capable of both deep space travel and atmospheric landings.

Its exterior was plated in dark gray alloys, designed to blend into the shadows of space, with streaks of luminescent blue running down its sides to mark its power lines. It wasn't large, but it was built for two, maybe three people at most, with a small living area in the rear, a storage bay for their gear, and the cramped cockpit where they now sat. Above the controls, the cockpit window stretched outward in a panoramic arc, offering an uninterrupted view of the nebula they were drifting through. The nebula itself was a swirling mass of cosmic gases, shimmering tendrils of iridescent light that stretched for light years in every direction.

Stars blinked like distant candles beyond the mist, flickering in and out of sight as the gaseous clouds shifted and swirled around them. It was beautiful in a haunting, almost menacing way. The kind of beauty that reminded you how small and fragile you really were in the grand scheme of things. The nebula wasn't the only thing that filled the space around them. chunks of debris, asteroid fragments, and pieces of long-forgotten ships, floated in the distance, occasionally catching the light from distant stars and casting eerie shadows

across the cockpit. Some of the wreckage looked ancient, dating back to the earliest explorers who had ventured this far from the galactic core. Others were more recent, their jagged edges and exposed wiring telling stories of ships that had encountered something out here in the dark and hadn't survived. I get it, Mara said after a long silence, her voice softer now, sensing the weight of Talitha's space can feel overwhelming. But we're explorers, Tau.

We signed up for this. It's what we do. Talitha nodded, but her eyes remained locked on the blackness between the stars. Yeah, but have you ever thought about what's really out there? Beyond the stars? Maybe it's not just empty space. Maybe it's something worse. Something we're not supposed to find.

Mara didn't respond right away. She stared out the window, contemplating the endless strapped contemplating the endless stretch of the nebula and the faint pinpricks of light that marked distant solar systems. There had been strange things on their journey, anomalies that defied explanation, strange signals, and structures built by civilizations long dead. But nothing had ever truly shaken her. Space was vast, yes, but Mara had always seen it as a challenge, something to conquer.

The Pathfinder beeped suddenly, it soft, rhythmic pulse breaking the stillness in the cockpit. Mara leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she tapped the display in front of her. You seeing this? Talatha snapped out of her days, her instincts kicking in. What is it? A signal, Mara said, her voice tinged with curiosity. It's faint, but it's there. Talitha's eyes flicked to her own screen.

The signal wasn't coming from any recognizable source, no planet, no station, not even debris. It was coming from somewhere deeper in the nebula, from a region of space that appeared completely on their charts. And yet, the signal was growing stronger. Maybe it's a distress call, Mara suggested, though her tone sounded less certain than before. Talitha's brow furrowed. No, it's too organized. This isn't a random SOS.

It feels, deliberate. Outside, the nebula shifted slightly, the gaseous clouds parting just enough to reveal an area of deeper blackness ahead. No stars, no planets, just an emptiness that felt wrong. as if it wasn't just the absence of light, but something more. We should steer clear of it, Talitha said, tension creeping into her voice. Whatever's out there, it's not natural. But Mara's curiosity had already taken hold.

What if it's something important? Another ancient artifact. We've been following these signals for months, Tal. This could be the breakthrough we've been searching for. Talitha clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the armrests of her seat. Or it could be a trap. You've seen what happens to ships that disappear out here. No one comes back.

Mara hesitated, glancing between Talitha and the readings on the console. Her mind raced with possibilities, but her gut told her to press forward. Just a quick look. We'll stay at a distance, keep our shields up. If it looks dangerous, we'll back off. Talitha opened her mouth to protest, but the ship had already begun to shift course, its engines humming louder as Mara engaged the pulse drive. The stars outside the cockpit blurred for a moment,

the nebula stretching and twisting as they were pulled forward toward the source of the mysterious signal. In a matter of seconds, they dropped out of warp, and the ship jolted as it came to an abrupt stop. The lights inside the cockpit flickered, and the familiar hum of the engines quieted to an eerie stillness. Talitha's heart raised as she scanned the controls. Mara, what just happened? Outside the window, the nebula had vanished entirely, leaving them surrounded by nothing but endless black. No stars.

No planets. Just an infinite, empty void. And in that void, something was moving. Talitha leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat. It was subtle at first, just a faint shimmer in the darkness, but as she focused, the shape became clearer. Something vast and formless, writhing in the empty space around them. Tara, Talitha whispered, her voice trembling.

We need to leave. Now. Mara's eyes widened, her hands frozen over the controls. The darkness outside shifted again, and Talitha realized with dawning horror that the void itself wasn't empty, it was alive. Mara's hands were frozen on the controls, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at the tendrils closing in on the ship. The creature, or whatever it was, moved with a terrible grace, its form shifting and morphing,

as though it were made of the very fabric of space itself. The tendrils reached out, wrapping around the ship, and Talitha felt a pressure, like the entire hull was being squeezed. Mara, please. Talitha's voice cracked as she tried to rest control of the ship, her hands trembling over the manual controls. I'm trying. Mara shouted, snapping out of her trance.

She slammed her hand onto the emergency thruster, and the ship jolted forward, but only for a moment. The tendrils wrapped tighter, coiling around the hull like a predator constricting its prey. Talaitha gasped, her chest tightening as an overwhelming sense of dread washed over her. This wasn't space. Not anymore. This was something else, something alive, something beyond their comprehension. The void wasn't empty. It had been waiting for them.

Then, from deep within the blackness, it began, the sound of a heartbeat. Slow at first, thump-thump, thump, thump, pulsing through the ship like it was emanating for from the walls themselves. The rhythm was steady, deliberate, each beat vibrating through their bodies, growing louder, more insistent, as though something massive and unseen was drawing closer, its life force palpable. Before Talafit could even register the terror of the heartbeat, a deafening, primal howl ripped through the ship. The scream was unearthly, an all-consuming roar that filled the cabin, shaking the walls,

sending tremors through every console. It wasn't just a sound, it was a force, pressing against their minds, vibrating through their bones, tearing into their very sense of reality. It was the sound of something ancient, something alive, and it was furious. The heartbeat grew louder, faster, thump-thump, thump, each pulse matching the beat of Talitha's own racing heart. The tendrils tightened their grip on the ship, and it felt as if the creature itself, hidden in the darkness, was feeding on their fear, its presence looming over them like a predator, savoring its kill. Mara, we have to get out of here now. Talitha screamed, her voice shaking with terror as the heartbeat and

the howl merged into a cacophony of nightmare sounds. Mara's hands trembled as she fought the controls, her face pale and slick with sweat. I'm trying. Just hold on, she shouted over the roar of the straining engines, her fingers scrambling to free them from the creature's relentless grip. The howl grew louder, an all-encompassing wail of something far too large, far too powerful to be seen, shaking the entire ship. The heartbeat pounded faster, more aggressive, thump-thump-thump, a terrible reminder that the

creature was alive, and that it was coming for them. Talitha gripped the edges of her seat, her knuckles white as terror took hold. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't going to let them leave easily. The heartbeat, the howl, the crushing tendrils, they were in its world now, and it wasn't done with them. With a frantic shout, Mara slammed her hand onto the warp drive controls. The ship lurched violently as the engines roared to life, their strained hum filling the cabin. The Pathfinder groaned under the pressure, its hull rattling as if it might tear apart

at any moment. The lights flickered wildly, plunging the cockpit into brief moments of darkness between flashes of blinding white. The heartbeat outside pounded louder and faster, thump-thump-thump, sinking with Talitha's own racing pulse. Talitha gripped her seat, her knuckles bloodless, fear clawing at her chest. The tendrils outside tightened, dragging them deeper into the void. The howling roar of the unseen creature echoed around them, shaking

the ship with its sheer, otherworldly power. For a terrifying instant, Talitha was sure they wouldn't escape, that this was the end. The walls creaked as if the ship was about to be crushed, and the heartbeat pounded louder, filling the air with a living pulse. Thumb-thump, thump! Mara! Talitha screamed, her voice barely cutting through the roar. But Mara was already moving, her face a mask of fierce determination.

She hit the warp drive again, pushing the ship to its limits. The engines screamed in protest, and the ship buckled under the force. Then, with a deafening crack, the Pathfinder was suddenly torn free from the tendrils grasp. The ship rocketed forward, the darkness behind them collapsing as they were thrust into the swirling, vibrant embrace of the nebula. A blinding flash of light engulfed them, and then, silence. The ship drifted, weightless, the vast colors of the nebula spinning slowly around them like

a dream scape. For a moment, neither of them moved. Both women sat in stunned silence, their breaths ragged and shallow, the hum of the engines echoing faintly in the still air. Talatha's wide, haunted eyes stared into the void beyond the cockpit. Her chest heaved with each breath, the sound of the heartbeat still lingering in her ears, as if it had been imprinted into her very soul. I told you, Talitha whispered, her voice trembling.

Space is worse. Mara didn't argue. Her hands were still clenched around the controls, knuckles white, her eyes fixed on the swirling colors outside the ship, but her mind was elsewhere. She had felt it too, that presence, that living void, the heartbeat and the howl of something incomprehensible. They had escaped, but she knew it wasn't over. Whatever was out there, whatever ancient thing had reached for them, was still waiting in the darkness. We begin. There are countless legends and stories that speak of ghosts who have saved human lives, countless testimonies

of people who say their loved ones, their deceased ones, have come down to earth to bring positive messages, messages of hope, messages of encouragement to pursue their dreams. But in this case, I bring you a story that speaks of quite the opposite, a story that tells us how dangerous it can be to play with the world of Spectres. We move to the area of Mayfair, one of the most expensive in London, because there we would find a curious location, number 50, Berkeley Square. Probably, many of you haven't heard of it, but after watching this video, you will hardly be able to erase it from your minds. Built in the year 1740, this residence was dubbed by many in the early 20th century as the most haunted house in London. But that title is much older. By the mid-19th

century, several legends were already circulating about this building. The most widespread tells that a young woman, after being raped by her uncle, threw herself from the attic. Another story tells that a boy was kidnapped and locked in the attic, fed through a small little door. until he went mad and died. Since then, it said that his disturbed spirit always moves from the attic to the basement. That specter is believed to have become a terrible murderer, and his descriptions were very ambiguous, for those who had seen him had died, and those who had survived his attacks had gone mad, and their testimonies were terribly unrealistic. For a long time, the upper floor bedroom was considered a haunted place. None of its guests could stand a single

night there. They all ended up fleeing in terror, overcome by panic from the deep fear they felt, sensing that someone was watching them from somewhere in the darkness. It is said that the specter always appeared in animal form, with the shape of an unknown creature, a mix between a human and a fish, a being that many claimed lived in the sewers of London. But I tell you, the descriptions are very ambiguous and nonsensical. One of the first accounts we can find about the ghost appears in the novel The Map of Time by Felix J. Palma. It takes us back to the year 1840 and tells us the tragedy of a young man, Sir Robert Warboys, who at the time was barely 20 years old. This young man was full of courage, pride, and deeply

scorned those stories. One night, while staying at a nearby tavern with his friends, one of them dared him, to sleep at number 50, Berkeley Square. He dared him to spend the night in the haunted room, the room known by all as the demon's room. Alcohol took effect, and the young man accepted the challenge. The group showed up at the house and asked the owner, Mr. Benson, to rent the room to Robert. At first, he refused, as that room was forbidden. But Robert insisted, he wanted to prove his courage, to show that ghosts do not exist. Finally, Benson agreed, under two conditions, first, that he carry a weapon, and second, that if anything happened, he would ring a bell to call for help. The boy accepted and quickly settled into the room.

Minutes passed, and there were no signs of danger. The owner went to bed and looked at the clock. It was midnight, and Robert had been in the room for about half an hour, a room that was just above his own. At first, he decided to stay awake, just in case anything happened, but Morpheus. came knocking, and little by little, his eyes closed until he fell asleep. The little bell rang, followed by a gunshot. The owner jumped out of bed and ran upstairs. He burst open the door and came upon a terrible scene. The room appeared unchanged, except for one thing, Robert's clothes were folded on the table,

and he was sitting in a corner of the room. As the landlord approached, he realized Robert was dead. His eyes were white, and his face bore an expression of horror. The pistol, still in his hands, was still warm. Benson tried to follow the bullet's path, it had pierced the wall, but there was no blood, no sign of struggle. The supposed being he had shot it wasn't there. It was as if it had never existed.

But clearly, Robert was now a corpse, and clearly something had disturbed him, enough to kill him. Just three years later, the house once again became the center of another horrifying disappearance. Although the details of this account may vary depending on the source, they all say the same thing. Two sailors from Portsmouth, Edward Blondon and Robert Martin, after spending nearly all their money in a local tavern, decided to rent a room in that building. They chose it because, basically, it had the lowest prices in the city. And besides, the men were unaware of the residence's terrible secret. They saw several rooms and finally chose the last one, it seemed the cleanest. But by coincidence, this was the demon's room.

Blondon, presumably the more sober of the two, expressed his discomfort. He said he felt watched and didn't like the room at all. He'd rather sleep on the street. But his companion ignored him, telling him it was all in his mind. Martin took his rifle and used it to keep the window open, he wedged it there. After that, both went to sleep. Sometime after midnight, Blondon woke up. The room's door creaked.

As he slightly sat up in bed, he realized it was slowly opening, as if someone were trying to enter. He quickly woke his companion and pointed toward the door. Both froze, as a sort of grayish light entered through there, and they could hear a kind of thumping sound, like a very heavy, body trying to drag itself across the floor. Before they could even react, a huge monster was upon them, a foul and horrifying creature, a shapeless being. Martin managed to jump out of bed and ran, but Blondon was left behind. The last thing Martin could remember was the image of his friend being strangled by that creature. Martin ran with all his might, screamed with all his voice, and made it to the street. He found a policeman and begged him to enter that house and rescue

his friend. When the two men entered the house, all the tenants were awake. Even the owner had gotten up, and they all searched for his companion. And finally, they found him, or at least what was left of him, on the basement stairs. The man's neck had been broken, and he had been left there like a bag of trash. What did this death have in common with that of Sir Robert? That both, the corpses had a grimace of horror and white eyes after the incident with the two sailors. The owner of the house wanted to get rid of it, wanted to sell it, but nobody wanted it. He was practically desperate when a woman knocked on his door and said she was not afraid of ghosts, as she was used to dealing with them.

She was an old maid of a wealthy family, soon to retire, so she wanted a residence to practice her hobby. And her hobby was the occult, but the occult in its darkest form, as she practiced black magic. benson didn't want to feel guilty so he rented the house to her with an option to buy if anything happened to the woman he could get rid of it but if nothing happened she could purchase it as she wished the woman accepted and at night her new residence became a show dozens of people showed up there and enjoyed the marvelous spiritism sessions all the participants in those seances claimed to hear strange knocks coming from the attic and the basement knocks growls they felt presences, they felt chills. But the woman said she felt nothing. The seance nights continued, and the presences became unbearable. The communications with spirits in that house were very aggressive, until one night, something went wrong. One night, the floor began to shake,

and a guttural growl was heard coming from the center of the table. All the attendees ran out screaming and fled to the street. But upon leaving, the owner of the house was nowhere to be found. They searched for her everywhere and couldn't find her. They called the police, notified the neighbors, but no one could find her. The house was empty. Many spread the word that the woman had been dragged to hell by malevolent forces. However, several days later, they discovered that this wasn't the case, as the woman was found wandering along the banks of the Thames, with her clothes in shreds and mumbling something about the horror of number 50, Berkeley Square. She died a week later in the psychiatric hospital.

Her last words were, don't let it touch me, fate knocked on the house owner's door. A merchant deeply in love with the building decided to buy it for his future son-in-law. The young man was about to enter the business world, studying law, and needed money to fund his thesis. So, he decided to join his future father-in-law's business. He had a truly promising future. But as soon as he set foot in that house, everything about him changed. His pets began to disappear. He claimed to hear something crawling on the walls, something that climbed up and down the stairs

through the wall, that he smelled repulsive perfumes, that he felt watched, and that a monster lived in that house. Little by little, he began to shut himself in. He stopped going outside and began investigating the monster. His whole life revolved around it. The young man believed he had found a passage connecting the attic to the basement, and that this passage, once in the basement, led straight to the sewers. He opened the wall and wanted to prove it to the world.

He made plans of those secret passageways, created his own investigation group, a group of people willing to enter the sewers to hunt the monster. But when that moment came, his girlfriend left him, and his family distanced themselves, hoping he would come to his senses, hoping he would return to Norfolk. But what they got instead was that no one ever heard from him again. The only thing he left behind were his plans, his drawings, and his theories, paragraphs and paragraphs describing the creature, claiming he had seen it and that its mouth not only used a kind of green, viscous slime, but also a breath that could be that of death itself.

In the 1840s, the house couldn't find an owner, and so it became a hostile once again, a hostile frequented by travelers and sailors, people unaware of the legend. One night, a young man used to traveling, especially from America to England, decided to stay there, spending the night in the attic room. The next day at dawn, the young man had to be taken out on a stretcher with the help of two orderlies who struggled for over 15 minutes to keep him restrained. He had gone completely mad and kept screaming that in that room was a horrific monster, a monster that drooled foul-smelling fluids, a monster with countless tentacles and enormous size.

From that story on, many paranormal and unexplainable phenomenon researchers went to investigate the house and the legends. But none of them could last a whole night. An expert whose name is unknown, after spending a night there, disappeared. A few days later, his corpse was found in the basement with the same horrified face and white eyes as two of the spectre's victims. From then on, the building ceased functioning as a hostel and was put up. for sale. The owners no longer wanted anything to do with the matter. Intrigued by the events,

a ghost hunter named Lord Leart decided to confront the creature, decided to destroy the monster of Berkeley Square. He armed himself with two revolvers, one with regular bullets, and the other loaded with small silver crucifixes. He then stayed in the demon's room, and just minutes after settling in and provoking it, a monster appeared before him and lunged at his body. The man fired normal bullets, but they had no effect. But when he fired with the crucifix-loaded revolver, the creature was wounded, wounded in one of its tentacles, and fled in terror. Lord Leert survived the encounter with the beast and declared it was the most horrible night of his life. He acknowledged that it was the most terrifying thing he had ever faced, and his experiences were

compiled into a later book titled Nome Cuev, published specifically in the year 1887. Today, the building has been restored and turned into a bookstore. A bookstore that occupies the first floor, the upper floor is sealed off, and the basement as well. The current owner says this was done primarily to prevent a tragedy. It is said that even today, that monster can still be felt, but it can no longer harm anyone because it is now unable to access the various areas of the house. But what do you think about it? Do you believe the monster is something real or just a product of collective hysteria. The end.

It all began on the peaceful afternoon of February 11th, 2023. A couple decided to take their two dogs out for a walk in Coulcheth Linear Park, a well-known green area in Birchwood, England. This park is like a little slice of nature nestled in the middle of the city, a place for relaxation, a spot where you can escape the chaos and feel connected to yourself and the trees around you. For this couple, it was the perfect way to wind down after a long day. The air was crisp, the skies were clear, and everything felt just right.

So, with their leashes in hand and their furry companions trotting alongside, they set out toward the park. Once they reached the open space and found a quieter area, they let the dogs off their leashes, allowing them to run free and chase sticks. The pair laughed, enjoying the wholesome energy of their playful pets, the peace of the afternoon surrounding them. As they ventured further, away from the busier sections of the park, they noticed something odd in the distance. Two teenagers, maybe 15 or 16 years old, were darting out of some nearby bushes. At first glance, it looked like they were just fooling around, laughing and running as if they were playing some silly game. Both had their hoods pulled up, but there was something peculiar about their movements, something that didn't sit right.

The couple watched as the teens scurried off, seemingly leaving something behind in the shrubbery. They noticed what appeared to be a mannequin sticking out awkwardly from the bushes, just a pair of lifeless legs visible. At first, they shrugged it off. Maybe it was just a weird prank or some forgotten prop. But as they continued to throw sticks for their dogs and tried to focus on their walk, they couldn't shake the strange sight. Curiosity got the best of them, and they decided to approach the spot. As they drew nearer, their casual amusement quickly turned to shock.

That wasn't a mannequin. What they found was a young girl, bloodied, broken, and barely clinging to life. Her body was limp, and she was struggling to breathe. She couldn't call for help, she couldn't even move. Her injuries were so severe that it was clear she didn't have much time left. Panicked, the couple immediately called emergency services. The clock read 3.13 p.m. when they made the call. Paramedics and police arrived on the scene not long after, and the area was quickly cordoned off.

They did everything they could to save her, but by 402 p.m., the girl was pronounced dead. This was how the tragic and highly publicized case of Brianna J. began. Who was Brianna J? Born on November 7, 2006, in Birchwood, England, Brianna was the daughter of Esther and Peter J. Unfortunately, her parents divorced when she was still young, and they both moved on to build new lives with other partners. By 2023, Brianna was living with her mother, stepfather, and younger sister, Alice. Described by those who knew her as a vibrant, kind-hearted, and witty girl, Brianna had a contagious smile and an undeniable charm. Her family said she was unapologetically herself. She loved who she was and carried herself with a confidence that inspired others. When she reached eighth grade, Brianna came out as transgender, embracing her true self without hesitation. She started identifying as a girl and decided to wear the girl's uniform at school. While this decision could have been met with resistance in some circles, Brianna's family stood by her side, celebrating her bravery in authenticity.

Brianna also found joy and connection through social media, particularly on TikTok, where she amassed a following of over 31,000 people. Her content ranged from light-hearted dance routines to advice and stories about her experience as a trans girl. She was a vocal supporter of the LGBTQ plus community, often encouraging others to embrace who they were and never be afraid to stand out. But behind her bubbly persona and infectious energy, Brianna faced challenges. The struggles beneath the surface, there are conflicting reports about Brianda's life at school. Some accounts suggest she endured severe bullying, harassment, insults, and even physical attacks, because of her identity. In a few TikTok videos, Brianna mentioned feeling excluded by her peers, which many took

as evidence of her struggles. However, others, including her school principal and her own mother, disputed these claims. According to them, Brianna was not a victim of bullying. Her mother stated, Brianna wasn't someone who lived as a victim. She was strong, resilient, and gave as good as she got. If anyone had tried to bully her, they wouldn't have gotten away with it. Beyond her school life, Brianna was diagnosed with ADHD, autism, and generalized anxiety disorder. The COVID-19 pandemic made things even harder for her.

The isolation took a toll on her mental health, and she reportedly struggled with depression and disordered eating. Some sources even claim that she attempted to take her own life during her lowest points. But Brianna was determined to heal. With the support of her family, she slowly began to recover. By late 2022, things seemed to be looking up, especially after she met Scarlett Jenkinson, a girl who would change her life forever. Scarlett Jenkinson, the perfect, best friend. Scarlett joined Brianna's school in 2022, and the two hit it off almost instantly. Their friendship started when Scarlett complimented Brianna's makeup, and from there, they became inseparable. They bonded over their shared love for fashion, humor, and social media.

To Brianna's family, Scarlett seemed like the perfect friend. She brought out a happier, more confident side of Brianna. But Scarlet had a darker side, a side that Brianna's family couldn't have imagined. Before transferring schools, Scarlet attended Colchiff High School, where her behavior raised eyebrows. While teachers saw her as shy, polite, and well-behaved, her classmates painted a very different picture. According to several students, Scarlett had a fascination with dark and morbid topics. She would often tell others that she was a powerful witch and even kept a kill list of people

she fantasized about harming. At the age of 14, her interests turned toward serial killers, and she became obsessed with figures like Jeffrey Dahmer and Richard Ramirez. Scarlett also dabbled in drugs. In September 2022, she was expelled from her previous school after giving marijuana-laced candies to several classmates, one of whom ended up hospitalized. Despite this incident, Scarlett managed to enroll at Brianna's school, where she kept her troubling tendencies hidden, at least from the adults.

A dangerous obsession, what began as a seemingly innocent friendship between Brianna and Scarlett soon took a dark turn. Scarlett grew increasingly fixated on Brianna, describing her feelings as a mix of admiration, jealousy, and obsession. In private conversations with her other best friend, Eddie Relife, Scarlett confessed that she couldn't stop thinking about Brianda. I don't think I'm in love with her, Scarlett wrote to Eddie. It's something else, like I'm just fascinated by her. She's so different, you know, Eddie, who shared Scarlet's macab interests, encouraged her obsession. The two often discussed violent fantasies, even planning hypothetical crimes

together. A dangerous obsession, continued. As Scarlet's obsession with Brianna deepened, her behavior grew increasingly alarming. She would spend hours scrolling through Brianna's TikTok profile, analyzing her posts, memorizing her dance routines, and even imitating her makeup looks. Eddie, meanwhile, acted as Scarlet's confidant and enabler. Their conversations often veered into disturbing territory, with Scarlet expressing her darker impulses. Eddie found this thrilling, egging her on with messages like, you should do something that'll make everyone remember you. Be legendary.

By late 2022, Scarlet's fascination had morphed into resentment. She began to view Brianna's confidence and charisma as a threat. Scarlet felt overshadowed, as if she would never be able to match the light Brianna exuded. That envy festered, turning toxic. January 20203, a twisted plan. On New Year's Day 2023, Scarlet confided in Eddie about a plan that had had been brewing in her mind for weeks. I think I want to hurt her, Scarlet wrote in one of their chilling exchanges.

Not just hurt her, make her disappear. Forever, Eddie, far from dissuading her, responded with enthusiasm. Together, they began crafting a plan. They spent hours discussing every detail, from where to carry out the attack to how to cover their tracks. Coulcheth Linear Park became the focal point of their scheme. Its secluded nature, coupled with the lack of surveillance, made it the perfect location. Scarlett and Eddie envisioned the park as the stage for their twisted performance, a place where no one would hear Brianna scream.

The day of the murder, February 11, 2023, started like any other Saturday for Brianna. She woke up in her cozy bedroom, surrounded by posters of her favorite K-pop bands and the trinkets she had collected over the years. She spent the morning recording TikTok videos, laughing as she danced to trending songs. Her followers flooded the comments with hearts and compliments, as always. Around noon, Scarlett texted her, asking if she wanted to hang out. Let's go to the park, Scarlett suggested. I found this cool spot we can chill at. Unaware of her friend's sinister intentions, Brianna agreed.

She grabbed her favorite hoodie, slipped on her sneakers, and told her mom she'd be back by dinner. The trap is set. When Brianna arrived at Colchiff Linear Park around 2.30 p.m., Scarlett was already there, waiting with Eddie. Brianna greeted them with her usual cheerful energy, completely oblivious to the tension simmering beneath the surface. The trio walked together, chatting and laughing, as Scarlet led them toward a secluded area

of the park. Once they were far from prying eyes, Scarlet signaled to Eddie. Stop struggling, Scarlet hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration. Brianna froze, her wide eyes darting between Scarlet and the blade. What are you doing? Scarlett, this isn't funny, but Scarlett wasn't laughing. The attack, what happened next was swift and brutal. Scarlet lunged at Brianna, plunging the knife into her chest.

Brianna cried out in pain, falling to the ground as blood seeped into her hoodie. Scarlet, please, Brianna whimpered, tears streaming down her face. But Scarlet didn't stop. She stabbed Brianna repeatedly, each blow fueled by a torrent of rage and jealousy. He stood by, frozen at first, but eventually joined in, kicking Brianna as she lay defenseless. By the time the attack ended, Brianna's body was lifeless, her once bright eyes staring blankly at the sky. Scarlett and Eddie stood over her, panting, their hands and clothes stained with blood.

The aftermath, realizing the gravity of what they had done, Scarlett and Eddie panicked. They dragged Brianna's body into the bushes, hoping it would go unnoticed. We need to get rid of the knife, Scarlet muttered, her voice shaking. Eddie nodded, tossing the weapon into a nearby pond. They then fled the scene, leaving Brianna behind. Justice for Brianna, the discovery of Brianna's body sent shockwaves through the community. Vigils were held, and social media lit up with tributes to the young girl whose life had been cut short. The hashtag-hastag Justice for Brianna began trending worldwide, drawing attention to the violence faced by transgender individuals.

It didn't take long for police to track down Scarlett and Eddie. Forensic evidence, coupled with their own confessions, sealed their fate. In the courtroom, Scarlett showed little remorse. She claimed she had been, inspired by serial killers, and wanted to feel what it was like to take a life. Eddie, while initially more apologetic, eventually revealed his complicity. Both were convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. Remembering Brianna, in the months following Brianna's death, her family and friends worked

tirelessly to keep her memory alive. They established the Brianna J Foundation, dedicated to supporting LGBTQ plus youth and raising awareness about the dangers of bullying in hate crimes. To those who knew her, Brianna was more than a victim, she was a beacon of light in a dark world. And while her life was tragically cut short, her legacy continues to inspire others to live authentically and unapologetically. The haunting of 30, East Drive, a chilling tale, It all started with something as ordinary as a family moving into their dream home. But what unfolded at 30, East Drive, Pontefract, a quaint town in Northern England, is anything but ordinary.

Known for its quiet streets and an economy rooted in coal mining, brewing, and milling, the town seemed like the perfect place for a fresh start for the Pritchard family. Jim, his wife Jean, their teenage son Philip, and 12-year-old daughter Diane had worked hard to afford the cozy home at 30, East Drive, and in 1966, life seemed to be on an upsworth. Little did they know, they were about to become the center of one of the most infamous paranormal cases in the U.K. The summer of 1966 was particularly eventful. England had just won the World Cup, spirits were high, and the Pritchids decided to celebrate by taking a family vacation. However, their son Philip, at 15, was determined to stay home.

He wanted some independence, time to see his friends, and perhaps spend some time with a romantic interest. His parents, cautious but understanding, agreed, on one condition, Grandma Sarah would stay with him to supervise. The arrangement seemed harmless enough. On September 1st, Jim, Jean, and Diane left for their trip, leaving Sarah and Philip at home. The first evening passed quietly, but as night fell, the house began to whisper its secrets. The strange beginnings. That night, while Sarah was knitting peacefully in the living room, she felt a sudden chill. Dismissing it as her own sensitivity to drafts, she shrugged it off. Moments later, a loud bang startled her so much that her knitting needles clattered to the

floor. She couldn't find any open windows or doors that might explain the noise. Confused, but determined not to let it unsettle her, she resumed her knitting, until another deafening slam echoed through the house. Philip returned shortly after, only to be greeted by a distressed grandmother. She urged him to check every door and window, but everything seemed normal. Later, as Philip poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen, something odd caught his eye. Dust was falling, but not from the ceiling. Instead, it seemed to materialize in mid-air.

Philip called Sarah, and the two stood transfixed, watching the strange phenomenon. Concerned, Sarah sent Philip to fetch his Aunt Mary, who lived nearby. Mary arrived skeptical, dismissing the mysterious dust as leftover plaster from renovations. However, when she stepped into the kitchen to fetch a broom, she slipped on a puddle of water that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. They chalked it up to an accidental spill or a possible leak, cleaned up, and decided to leave the matter for the morning. The escalation, by the next day, things seemed normal again, until evening.

As Sarah prepared to sleep, she noticed fresh puddles in the kitchen, despite no apparent leaks or spills. A plumber was called to investigate, but he found no faults with the plumbing or the structure of the house. The puddles continued to appear and vanish inexplicably. That night, another bizarre incident occurred. As Philip and Sarah sat in the kitchen, the tea dispenser on the counter began clicking wildly, spitting out tea bags one after another.

Then came a loud crash from the hallway. They rushed to find a large potted plant inexplicably moved from its usual spot to the top of the stairs, the plant itself uprooted and placed halfway up. Terrified but determined to understand what was happening, Philip and Sarah stayed vigilant. But the disturbances didn't stop. cabinets rattled, dishes shifted on their own, and a bitter chill seemed to hang in the air. By now, even Aunt Mary could no longer deny that something strange was happening. A house possessed.

When the rest of the Pritchard family returned from their vacation, they were greeted with Sarah's account of the haunting events. Jim, the family patriarch, was skeptical and attributed the happenings to overactive imaginations and logical causes, drafts, faulty renovations, or neighbors doing construction. But his dismissive attitude was short-lived. That very night, Jim experienced his own chilling encounter. As he lay in bed, he felt his blanket being tugged off him. Assuming it was his wife, he pulled it back, only for an unseen force to yank it away violently. Shaken, Jim realized something unexplainable was indeed happening in their home.

The entity reveals itself. Things took a darker turn when the entity began to target Diane. One night, the young girl was yanked from her bed by an invisible force. force and thrown to the floor. On another occasion, as she passed the staircase, the same force grabbed her ankles and dragged her screaming up the stairs. Bruised and terrified, Diane became the focus of the entity's attacks, leaving the family desperate for answers.

A local priest was called to bless the house, but midway through the ritual, a heavy candlestick lifted off the table and hovered menacingly close to his face. Declaring the presence in the home demonic, the priest fled, leaving the family to fend for themselves. The black monk of Pontifract, the Pritchards began researching the history of their property and unearthed a chilling story. In the 15th century, the land had been the site of a monastery. Legend spoke of a monk who was hanged for murdering a young girl. The family believed the restless spirit of this black monk was the source of their torment.

The attacks continued sporadically, with objects flying across rooms, furniture moving on its own, and unexplained noises filling the nights. Despite the chaos, the family chose to stay in the home, unable to afford a move after investing their savings in the property. One of the most terrifying encounters occurred when Jim and Jean awoke to find a shadowy figure at the foot of their bed. The apparition, cloaked in black robes, stood silently before vanishing into thin air. This sighting marked a turning point, as the disturbances seemed to lessen afterward.

The legacy of 30 East Drive. Decades later, 30, East Drive remains a hotspot for paranormal investigators and thrill-seekers. Reports of poltergeist activity, eerie sounds, and shadowy figures persist. The story of the Black Monk has been featured in numerous documentaries and TV shows, cementing the house's reputation as one of the most haunted locations in the world. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, the tale of 30, East Drive continues to fascinate and terrify. Was the Pritchard family truly haunted by the spirit of a vengeful monk? Or could the events be explained by psychological and environmental factors?

Whatever the case, the mystery endures. What do you think? Is 30 East Drive genuinely cursed, or is it all a product of overactive imaginations? It all started the moment the girl walked past the stairs. Out of nowhere, an invisible force grabbed her ankles and dragged her upwards. She was pulled along the entire flight of stairs, her screams echoing through the house until she was left sprawled on the upper landing. Every cry she let out carried a mix of terror and disbelief.

Hey, folks, welcome to another spine-chilling entry in my Terrifying Tales series. Buckle up because today, we're diving deep into the haunting saga of the infamous house at 30 East Drive. To understand this tale, we need to go back in time and travel to a quiet little town in the north of England called Pontefract. This charming town of about 30,000 people was mostly known for its coal mining, brewing, and grain milling. Nothing much happened there, honestly. It was one of those places where life revolved around work, and the locals prided themselves on their uneventful lives. Among these folks were the Pritchids, a hardworking family of four. Jim and Joe Pritchard had two kids, 15-year-old Philip and 12-year-old Diane.

After years of saving up, 1966 became a banner year for the Pritchards. England won the World Cup, the kids were becoming more independent, and the family finally managed to buy a slightly bigger home, a quaint little house at 30, East Drive. Everything seemed perfect. To celebrate their new life, they decided to take a vacation that summer. This is where things got tricky. Philip, being a typical teenager, wasn't keen on going. At 15, he was convinced he was, two grown-up for family trips. Staying home sounded way better, he could hang out with friends, maybe see his crush, and

enjoy the freedom. Surprisingly, his parents agreed but had a little trick up their sleeve. They called in reinforcements, Philip's grandma, Sarah. Officially, she was there to keep him company, but everyone knew she was there to keep an eye on him. On September 1st, 1966, the family loaded up their car, said their goodbyes, and left for their trip, leaving Philip and Sarah in charge of their shiny new house. At first, it was all smooth sailing.

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the house began to reveal its darker side. It started with the temperature. was knitting in the cozy living room when she noticed the room getting colder. She shrugged it off, her old bones were sensitive to the slightest chill. But then, B. A loud bang echoed through the house. Startled, she jumped, her knitting needles clattering to the floor. Trying to stay calm, she checked the doors and windows for the source of the noise but found nothing.

Soon after, Philip returned home from hanging out with friends. When Sarah told him about the noise, he brushed it off as her imagination. To ease her nerves, he checked the house. Everything seemed fine, so he poured himself a glass of water and headed back to the living room. That's when they noticed it. A strange white powder was falling mid-air, not from the ceiling but seemingly materializing out of nowhere. The two stared in disbelief.

What was this? Was it paint dust? Plaster. Unable to figure it out, Sarah sent Philip to fetch his Aunt Mary, who lived nearby. When Mary arrived, she was skeptical. The mysterious powder had stopped falling, but evidence remained on the carpet. Dismissing their claims, she reasoned it was just left over plaster from the recent renovations. She grabbed a broom from the kitchen to clean it up but slipped on a puddle of water that

had mysteriously appeared on the floor. Philip blamed himself, thinking he must have spilled water earlier, but something about it felt, off. The next morning, a plumber inspected the house for leaks but found nothing. Sarah, still uneasy, kept noticing little things, the cold drafts, the feeling of being watched, but she tried to ignore them. But the house wasn't about to let her relax. Later that day, Philip screamed from the kitchen.

Sarah rushed in to find sugar and tea bags scattered everywhere. The culprit? The tea dispenser, which seemed to have a mind of its own, dispensing bag after bag until it was empty. Before they could process what was happening, a loud crash echoed from the hallway. A massive potted plant that usually sat on the staircase landing was now at the bottom of the stairs, its contents scattered everywhere. The two were frozen in shock. Moving that heavy plant would have required considerable strength, and yet, here it was, as if thrown by an invisible hand.

Before they could clean up, the kitchen cabinets began trembling violently, as if something inside was trying to break free. Philip, summoning all his courage, yanked the doors open, and a gust of icy wind rushed out. That was it. They bolted out of the house and ran to Aunt Mary's for help. When Mary returned with them, the house was eerily silent. Nothing moved, no strange noises. Mary insisted it was all in their heads, but the calm didn't last long. The dishes started rattling, and the walls groaned as if the house itself were alive.

Over the next few days, the phenomena escalated. Objects flew across rooms. Furniture moved on its own. One night, Diane screamed as an unseen force ripped her bed sheets away and pulled her by the ankles, throwing her across the room. Jim and Joe returned from their vacation to find their family terrified and their new home seemingly possessed. Joe dismissed their claims, chalking it up to overactive imaginations and logical explanations, plaster dust, loose furniture, or noisy neighbors. But the house had plans to make him

a believer. That very night, Joe experienced it firsthand. While lying in bed, he felt the covers being tugged. Assuming it was his wife, he pulled them back, but the invisible force yanked harder. Panicked, he held on, but the strength was too much. The covers flew off entirely. The next morning, a neighbor mentioned hearing about their haunted house and suggested they call a medium. Desperate, Joe agreed.

The medium, Mr. Odenag, walked through the house and concluded the spirit wasn't malevolent but merely mischievous. He reassured them it would pass. But as soon as he left, a family portrait fell from the wall, the glass shattering into tiny pieces. From then on, the hauntings became unbearable. The ghost, now dubbed the Black Monk, seemed to focus its rage on Diane. On one occasion, it dragged her up the stairs, leaving her screaming and terrified. The family called a priest to bless the house, but midway through the ritual, a heavy

chandelier began to swing dangerously close to his head. Shaken, the priest fled, declaring the entity demonic. The family tried to endure, but the attacks only intensified. Furniture slammed against walls, dishes shattered, and shadows moved on their own. The final straw came when, one night, Jim and Joe woke to see a figure at the foot of their bed, a dark silhouette of a monk in a black robe. It stared at them for a few moments before vanishing into thin air. Desperate for answers, they delved into the history of the property.

They discovered that in the 15th century, the land had been the site of a monastery. had it that a monk was executed there after being accused of murdering a young girl. The black monk of Pontefract, as the entity came to be known, seemed to have a particular hatred for Diane eerily reminiscent of his alleged crime centuries ago. Even after the family moved out, the house at 30, East Drive remained infamous. Paranormal investigators have since flocked to the site, capturing strange noises, unexplained movements, and eerie apparitions. To this day, the house is considered one of the most haunted places in the world. So, where, where you What do you think? Could this truly be the work of a vengeful spirit, or is there another explanation?

Let me know your thoughts. We have a hostage in a moving vehicle, the dispatcher told the team. Our commander, James Maplin, did not look happy. The suspects allegedly have access to fully automatic rifles. Fuck, James said. His gaze scanned over me and the others, his killer's eyes looking as hard as stone. Are they parked? The current suspect location, is in a Walmart parking lot, the soft female voice responded. They are not moving at this time. There are many civilians in the area, however. This just keeps getting worse, I muttered.

My partner, Sergeant Motz, narrowed his dark eyes and pursed his thin lips. He ran a hand over his shaved head, his tattooed muscles bulging. We could surround it with unmarked police cars, Sergeant Motz said. Disable the vehicle so that it can't be. move in any direction at all. One unmarked car smashes into the front while three smash into the back at the same moment. Then we can all run out and smoke the fuckers, hopefully before they kill the hostage. Simple enough, I said sarcastically, smiling. The rest of the team kept their faces stony and blank. Commander Maplen looked displeased with the idea. That would

mean our officers would be exposed to their own crossfire, he said Isily. And the civilians in the area would also be susceptible to getting shot. I shrugged. He's right, though, I said. It's the best idea we have. We can't use snipers, because if one misses, we would then be at a massive disadvantage. The shooter would have plenty of time to speed out of there and murder the hostage as he went. Disabling the vehicle has worked before.

We could have four police officers hit it at the exact same moment. We just have to be quick about it. Once the unmarked cars smash into the suspect vehicle, we only have a matter of seconds to take out the gunman. Gunmen, Commander Maplin said. There's two of them. This just gets better and better, I muttered. The plan was simple, we would all drive in unmarked, inconspicuous cars. No one was going in with cherries blaring on this one.

I would be driving a black pickup truck, and my job was to smash directly into the car's. the front of the car. Sargent Motes would attack the rear driver's side. Two other team members would hit the center of the back and the rear passenger side. This would make it impossible for the driver to escape, but it would also give him a one-to-two-second advantage while we all bailed out of our own vehicles and opened fire. I didn't like it, but there was no other way to get the hostage out that we could see. Right before we were to execute the mission, I found myself driving slowly down the street in a truck. I saw the target vehicle, a dark blue SUV with tinted windows. The front of the suspect's vehicle faced a sidewalk and a couple inch high dividers which

I would have to tear through to get to them. I swore. The tinted windows would make this even more impossible. It would be an absolute miracle if the hostage escaped without getting shot. I had my M4A1 rifle slung around my shoulder and my Glock 20 around my waist. I felt waves of adrenaline pounding through my body. It almost felt unreal, like some video game. All the colors of the world seemed overly saturated and bright. I saw my hands trembling as I gripped the wheel. Now.

Commander Maplin cried into the radio. Disable the vehicle. I pressed the accelerator down and, with my seatbelt tightly hugging my chest, prepared to smash headfirst into the blue SUV. I went over the divider with a loud bang that would have woken the dead. Time seemed to slow down as I looked through the front windshield, trying to take a snapshot of what I saw in my mind. In the driver's seat, a tall, black man sat with an automatic rifle in his hands.

A black woman with wide, insane eyes sat in the back seat, peering around the edge of it, her mouth and oh of surprise, her fingers tightly gripping another rifle. In the passenger seat, I saw a little blonde, boy with a face like a statue. He didn't seem scared or surprised in the slightest. In fact, I could have sworn he was grinning. The truck gave a sudden burst of speed, the engine whining. Behind the blue SUV, I saw three more cars speeding towards impact at the same time, each of them only a few feet away. We all hit it at the same time. There was a tortured

screaming of metal and an explosion of glass. I felt myself thrown forward. From inside the suspect vehicle, the shooter started shouting something. Breathing hard, I pushed open the door and fell out into the freezing winter air. At that moment, gunshots erupted all around me. The smell of gun smoke and gasoline hum thick in the air. Bullets cracked into the pavement with their hypersonic shrieking. I raised my rifle and pointed at where I knew the driver was. Without hesitation, I opened fire, emptying the magazine. The high-caliber rifle bullets ate their way through the SUV's frame as easily as if it were cardboard. I'm shot. I heard a man scream from the back of the group of crashed cars. The cacophony of gunshots made the world sound like it was

exploding all around us. I saw Sergeant Mote's run around the vehicles, using them as cover. He was crouched, his dark eyes frantic and searching. The woman in the backseat had opened fire with an automatic rifle. She was shooting out of the back window, just spraying bullets everywhere. They burst from a gun with a sound like an industrial sewing machine. Behind the cars, I saw a SWAT officer dragging himself away from the scene as a river of blood followed behind him. He looked like a raccoon who had just been hit by a car. Sergeant Motz immediately started shooting through the SUV's door at the woman. The first shot hit her in the neck. I saw a sphere of blood explode from her mutilated throat

as she dropped her rifle and fell back. Her eyes rolled up in her head as she choked on her own blood. The man in the driver's seat had turned his attention to the police behind him, trying to shoot Sergeant Motz. Not having time to reload, I dropped my rifle and pulled out my Glock. Shooting through the driver's side window, I hit him in the chest and shoulder. He jerked back with every shot, his eyes wild and filled with an animal panic. He looked at the hostage in the passenger seat, the little boy with the strange eyes and grinning mouth. The shooter kept his rifle held tightly in his hands. With the last of his dying energy, he raised it towards the hostage. At that moment, I shot through the window, hitting the shooter in the right

shoulder. With a spray of blood, the rifle fell from his limp hands. Don't, let him go, the shooter cried as he vomited a stream of blood. The shooter kept his attention fully fixed on the boy as if he were an object of meditation, not looking back at me. But at that moment, the boy flung the door open and scurried out of the car with his head down. You don't, stand, please, stop, he kept insisting. Spitting blood, the shooter tried to rise. His right arm hung at his side, limp inside. He tried to grab the rifle with his working left hand and aim it at the boy. Drop the gun. I screamed. His head ratcheted towards me, and I opened fire. Another three shots entered his chest, opening up holes the size of quarters up and down his torso. Drop the gun.

I repeated. The shooter started wailing. He made gurgling, pleading sounds, like some sort of torture victim from the dark ages. He spit blood constantly, and I saw gaping holes all over his body. He tried to raise his head once more. Sergeant Motz screamed next to me. Drop the gun, fucker, he shrieked. I aimed at the center of the shooter's forehead.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. and then I pulled the trigger. His head jerked back as a bullet pierced his right eye and blew a chunk out of the back of his head. Pieces of bone and a bloody wad of mutilated brains sprayed the inside of the car. Like a puppet with its strings cut, the shooter collapsed and went still. Where's our victim? Where's the goddamn victim? Sergeant Motz yelled from nearby.

I jumped, looking around frantically. Where was the victim? Everything had happened so fast. It had seemed like the entire planet was exploding into chaos for a few seconds. I had glimpsed the little boy running during the firefight, but I didn't know if he had gotten hit by the relentless spray of bullets or not. There. I cried, pointing a few hundred feet away to the far side of the parking lot. The boy, who looked no older than five or six, was huddled in a ball between two cars, silently rocking back and forth.

He looked totally shell-shocked, his face a blank mask of nothingness. Yet his dark, almost black, eyes seemed to be staring in our direction. In fact, it looked like he was staring directly at me. I sprinted over in the boy's direction. Customers had taken cover behind their cars all over the parking lot, though, in reality, a car would be unlikely to stop a high-calibre rifle bullet anyway. One woman slunk out, crouched over, her fat face pale and covered in sweat. Is it safe, she asked.

I glanced over at her. Yes, the gunmen are dead, I answered, annoyed. I looked back at where the victim was. But the boy was gone. One officer had been severely injured in the shooting. Two pedestrians were injured by bullets, but were in stable condition. Both of the kidnappers were gone, smoked by dozens of gunshot wounds, but the hostage was gone, too. He had simply vanished.

A Lifestar helicopter came and took the SWAT officer to the hospital, where he required immediate life-saving surgery due to a round that pierced his kidney and liver and clipped his spine. It seems unlikely he will ever return to work. It was a strange situation, and we would learn more about it in the days to come. From what Commander Maplin told me later on, the boy had been kidnapped from some religious group who lived deep in the mountains a couple hours away. They apparently were a strange bunch who worshipped angels and tried to control and summon demons.

We had no motive for why they chose that boy or that religious group. It seemed totally random at the time. But even stranger, the two suspects hadn't even had a criminal record. neither of them had so much as a traffic ticket at least before they had tried kidnapping and murdering a child. For the next week, I kept thinking about that strange, grinning child. I wondered where he had gone. I had so many questions about the case, like everyone else, but it seemed like there were no answers to be had. Perhaps it would simply become an eternal mystery, just like the cases of the Zodiac and Jack the Ripper had. When we got the call that there was an active

hostage situation at the church at the edge of town, I had no idea that I would see that boy again. I would have many of my questions answered, whether I wanted it or not. I saw the church from a distance, surrounded by a grove of dead evergreens whose bare branches reached upwards towards the sky, as if in prayer to a dead god. Sergeant Motes and five other team members sat next to me in full sweat gear. The bulletproof van rolled forward with its powerful engine whining like a hornet. night had come early as it always did on these cold winter days this is strange one of the team members a muscular asian guy with a shaved head named dan said he was sitting to my left and sergeant moats to my right it's fucking weird sergeant moat said his dark eyes scanning the church we slowly pulled into the far edge of the parking lot behind a thick stone cemetery wall that would hopefully prevent bullets from passing through But we hadn't gotten a call about any shootings here.

We had been told by Commander Mapland that someone had made a call from a church built in the 1800s. A young woman had told the 911 operator, in a panicked tone, that they were all being held hostage inside the church, that they were holed up in the rectory and had barricaded the door. She started rambling about how the kidnappers had faces like birds. I assumed she was talking about the masks they were wearing. She had said they were trying to break down the doors and would certainly kill them. Then the call had gotten cut off suddenly. We're going in hot, Sergeant Mote said. Everyone looked excited, their eyes gleaming.

Dan had a shotgun in his hands for breaching the doors, if necessary. He would go first. With excitement and no small sense of panic, we ran out of the armor truck. The thick wall dividing the cemetery and the church was solid. stone, and a sniper would be unable to see through it. The wall led to a gate that opened only 15 feet or so from the front door. That was the part one was worried about, running across that no-man's land. And, of course, the breaching.

We sprinted across the no-man's land, glancing constantly around for signs of movement. In the stained-glass windows of the church, pale shapes flittered, but I couldn't make them out through the distortion in the darkness. Within the church, it looked as if all the lights were off. Only the bloody flickering of candlelight shone through the windows. Dan fired a breaching round at the locked church door with a boom like thunder. He leaned back and kicked it open. It crashed against the wall and we all ran in together with our rifles raised, ready to begin shooting.

But the nave was empty. I glanced around, seeing hundreds of lit candles flickering all along the walls. The church was a wasteland of destruction. Someone had filled the holy water font with blood instead of water. Jesus hung on his crucifix in front of the church, but the psychos holding this place hostage had nailed another body on top of his, an old woman, by the looks of her. She had been stripped naked.

In deep, slicing letters, someone had written across her skin, victim of the disease. Her dead eyes still stared straight ahead, sightless and tail. terrified. Her blue lips hung open in a silent scream. But even stranger, she had great, purple welts all over her body. They reminded me of pictures I had seen of victims of the black death, the bubos of pus and dead tissue that formed and often burst in the dying. Trails of blood swerved their way down the nave and towards the rectory. From the back, we heard muffled screams of terror. Without speaking a word, Sergeant Motz motioned us forward.

Dan held his breaching shotgun at the ready as we got to the locked rectory door. Oh God, please, no, someone shrieked on the other side of the door. Dan blew apart the lock and smashed into it with his shoulder. On the other side, we found a scene from a nightmare. There were what looked like three men in black robes facing a pile of naked bodies. The bodies all had those same purplish black bubos covering their pale flesh. In the middle of them, I saw the boy, the victim who had disappeared from the hostage rescue a week ago. But he looked different now. His eyes were black, and his face had started to

drip and change. His nose had stretched out and become almost bird-like, and his flesh had started to harden into something pale and dead. The other men turned. To my horror, I saw they had the final version of the transformed faces. Their faces had morphed into something birdwere like and skeletal, as if their flesh had become living plague doctor masks. A smell like mummified bodies and septic shock radiated off of them. You are a victim of the spreading sickness, one hissed through its pale beak as its black robes fluttered around its body. I am the cure. Their eyes, too, were black. Tiny, sharp fangs lined their mouths, like the teeth of some prehistoric dinosaur. In horror, we only stood there for a long

moment, until another scream shattered its way through the room. In the pile of corpses, I saw a little girl. She was covered in blood, trying to crawl out of the bottom. All across her neck and arms, the black buboes rose like flowering tumors. Help me, she cried. Get me out of here. They killed Mommy and Daddy. We all opened fire at once at that point. The strange men in their black robes moved like shadows, however, strafing at superhuman speeds towards us. I saw a few bullets pierced their torsos, their arms and legs, but no blood came out. It was like their insides were made of dust. In a blur, they oozed forward. At one moment, they were 20 feet away, then they were right there. Boney, skeletal hands raised all around me.

I saw Dan trying to backpedal away from one who had him by the three. throat. Dan's face had turned red with suffocation. He held the breech shotgun to the creature's chest and pulled the trigger. The plague doctor's chest exploded, an exit wound the size of a basketball ripping its way out of his dusty, dead body. He dropped Dan, who immediately sucked in a breath of air. To my horror, though, I saw black buboes rising all over Dan's neck. The little boy skittered forward, his birdlike mouth giving a whale like a hungry infant. As the blood of my comrade soaked the floor all around me and the screams of the dying

rang out like church bells, I turned and ran. I glanced back, seeing the little boy only feet behind me. Sergeant Motz was fighting one of the plague doctors. I saw others laying on the ground, their heads twisted around 180 degrees or their neck snapped. They all showed signs of the spreading black bubos. I turned and shot at the little little. boy, hitting him in the leg. His wailing increased to an ear-splitting cacophony as he went sprawling, his kneecap exploding in a shower of blood and bones. He kept trying to drag himself forward

towards me, gnashing his strange mouth and sharp little teeth. I sprinted through the nave and passed the font of blood. Without looking back, I got to the armored van and told the driver to get us the fuck out of there. I ended up being the only survivor, and when I told my story, people looked at me as if I were totally insane. All of the body cameras had apparently stopped working when we entered the rectory, simply fizzing out in a wave of static and white noise. By the time reinforcements arrived, the plague doctors and the boy were gone. They found only a church filled with horrors. Men in hazmat suits had to go in and clean up the bodies, which were all apparently contaminated by an especially virulent form of plague. When investigators went to

a compound in the woods where the religious group supposedly was, they found the place abandoned. It looked like they had all just left in the middle of the night, leaving everything behind. At first, it seemed we would never find any answers to our questions. But as police searched through the homes of the shooters who had taken the boy hostage, they found a diary. It seemed to be written by a psychotic person, someone who believed that a cult in the woods was impregnating women with demons. They claimed they were members of a secret group that exterminated these demons wherever they found them. In hindsight, after what I went through, perhaps it wasn't so psychotic after all. The seas did speak to Walter. Yet, he didn't wish to listen to their

ominous tune. An ice-cold fear of those salty waves crept up his spine, as the fog did creep across the shore. That invisible frost lent the old man some ease. It's merely the cold, he whispered shivering, nothing more. He glanced at the brick of the lighthouse and quickly got back to work. Yet, even as he reassured himself, he made Nary a glance at those heavy waves. A deep gray settled over his abode, a thick blanket of lethargy that snaked up the ivory tower of the foreboding lighthouse. A cursed thing, the keeper muttered, his voice snatched away by the waves as if starved. He spoke no louder as if afraid to be heard by the very ocean itself. Thus, he toiled away in the midday fog careful not to peek at those icy waves as they crashed,

the heavy crests leaving foam scattered on that dreary shore. A rotten stench rose on the newfound breeze, the old man's lips trembled as he looked upon the overcast sky. A storm fast approached from the east, with it the dreaded night. A worrisome amount of gulls flew overhead, their cries of delight disconcerting as they dove into the dark depths. Something caught Walter's watchful eye as he scanned the foam cautiously. A large piece of wood emblazoned with dark lettering.

His face wrought with fear, Walter rushed inside. Hours passed as he sat in silence, shivering despite a smouldering fire in front of him. He poked at it restlessly as his teeth chattered. Every creak that shattered the silence earned a quick survey of the small room he was sequestered in. A suffocating anxiety plagued Walter, made much worse by the sudden crack of lightning. He flinched and his lips turned up into a grimace as the rain began pattering on his feeble. house. That awful feeling persisted, and hung in the air as the last needles of sunlight were swallowed by the gray of the clouds and sea. With a shaky breath he drummed his

fingers on his wooden chair, mulling over his yet-to-be-had arduous journey. Chest rising and falling rapidly he muttered, 47 steps. The second and 37th squeak. Mustn't make a sound. He repeated his nightly mantra until the words were seared upon memory. The fear somewhat abetted by the cauterization of that chant, he stood, eyes hardened and knuckles widening. With a gaunt face he snatched a coat and made his way out the door. Quick steps were drowned out by the immense downpour. Scurrying towards that formidable structure he pulled the cloak tighter to shield himself from the chill. A flash of lightning illuminated the waves as Walter made haste, barely containing a cry of fear he sprinted as fast as his knobbly knees could carry him. Throwing open a slippery old

door he bolted inside as if the eyes of the sea were focused on the pathetic man. His heaving pants broke the quiet of the room as his eyes darted around wildly scanning the dark. Not nearly satisfied that he was alone, but with little time to waste he began his careful, tedious ascent. 47 steps. The second and 37th squeak. Complete and utter darkness wrapped around him as he tentatively touched his gnarled old boot

on the first step. One, he said so inaudibly it perhaps didn't actually make a sound, but it thundered through Walter's mind, or roaring crackle. He reached his foot over the second and touched the third. Three. This continued for some time until the last blessed step came. Despite the chill in the air the grizzled old man was covered in a sheen of salty moisture. He was unsure if it was sweat or tears. At last he stood before a simple wooden door. Yet, the man's terror had his heart in a firm embrace. He knew what agony awaited. Eyes glazed with fear, pupils dilated so that the earthy brown was swallowed whole by inky blackness.

Walter slowly raised a shaky hand pushing open the door. Pale tapestries of moonlight danced around him, reflecting off the glass of the lighthouse. An eerie silence descended, prevailing over the relentless storm. Fumbling in his trousers he pulled a matchbook free. Hands quivering, he held them with a terrible fear. As if striking them were an evil deed. Holding one aloft, he brought it down with a whimper. A sharp hiss followed as a ghostly orange.

light barely held down the pressure of the dark. Please, he said with trembling lips, his voice barely penetrating the quiet. He threw the match in the oil. It twirled in the air, small circles of light glinting over every surface. Not a moment later the match's flame touched the oil. A great fire erupted as he leapt towards the floor, glancing towards that obsidian tide, revealed only by that hellfire. Hundreds of ghastly faces stared back from beneath the waves, welcoming him to their cold embrace.

They seemed to dance in the tide, unaffected by their shredded bodies. No, he shrieked in fright, trembling as the corpse is called. Please. Forgive me, he wailed as he doused the fire and curled up on the floor, whimpering pitifully. He lay there shaking and sobbing in shame. The storm could not drown out the brutal screams and crashes as the starving sea pulled more unlucky to their domain. The case of Arnold Paul, is different in some sources. Some say he died in 1731, others in 1732.

However, the arrival of Glazer and Fluckinger did occur between 31 and 32, which made it sound strange when I said he died in 32 and that already in 31 the victim count was very high. Actually, according to the testimonies of the time, it is considered that there were already cases of vampirism since 31, but they were not very solid cases, so to speak. And after the death of Arnold Paolae, the rumors became much more real, since not only were people dying, but also people who were close to death claimed to see the ghost of Arnold Paola wandering the streets. That's why I apologize a thousand times, and once again I thank, my name is Chu, for pointing it out, thank you very, very much, because this not only helps

you all to be better informed about things, but also helps me improve my content. But well, setting that aside, today I bring you one of the most requested videos on the channel since I created the sections dedicated to unreal beings, haunted houses, and demonic possessions. This story isn't actually linked to the paranormal world. She belonged to one of the most illustrious and distinguished Hungarian aristocratic families, her cousin was Prime Minister of Hungary, and her uncle, the King of Poland. Still, she didn't go down in history for that. She didn't become known for being so distinguished or illustrious, or for belonging to one of the most powerful families in Hungary, but rather for being accused and convicted of being responsible for a series of deaths motivated by her obsession with beauty and eternal life.

According to some opinions, the crimes attributed to the Countess may have been fabrications by her enemies during a very complex political context, intending to bring about her downfall and death. But the truth is that there are many monographs that collect testimonies from people who had no ties or political motivations behind the accusation, testimonies from relatives of the young women who were mistreated, mutilated, and murdered. Testimonies that claim that Ercibitt Bathory and her servants were true monsters. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, and as Jack the Ripper would say, let's go step by step. Countess Ercibit Bathory was born on August 7, 1560, in Nyrbader, Hungary. She was born into one of the oldest and wealthiest families in all of Transylvania, the Erdei. As was common in those times, her parents, Anna and Georgie Bathory,

were closely related, in fact, they were cousins. It must be said that her childhood was quite different from the rest of the aristocrats of the time. Bersibet received a very strict education, and her intellect surpassed that of most men of her era. According to some testes, Her education had been so thorough that she could speak Latin, Hungarian, and German fluently, while the Prince of Transylvania himself was practically illiterate. Unfortunately, there was something in her childhood that marred her impeccable record. Before turning six, she began to suffer from strange fits, what we would now call epilepsy, though at the time it was completely unexplainable.

These seizures ranged from brief blackouts to collapsing and suffering terrible convulsions. Fortunately, over time, these incidents lessened, and she was able to lead a more or less normal life until age 11, when she was promised in marriage to her cousin Ference Natisti, a 17-year-old count. A year later, she was forced to move to her future husband's castle and come under the guardianship of her future mother-in-law, Ursula, with whom she never had a good relationship. Three years later, on May 8, 1575, the wedding took place. The ceremony was a lavish affair held in the castle of Varano and attended by over 4,500 aristocrats, including King Maximilian I, who could not attend due to personal matters. Testimony's claim it was the most anticipated event of the century, the most ostentatious, admirable, and magnificent, and that it would be difficult for any other event to surpass it.

After the wedding, the couple moved to sedged castle, along with Ursula, some family members, and their servants. Unfortunately, her young husband did not spend much time in the castle, as he was often away fighting battles. His cruelty in these wars, impaling enemies, earned him the nickname, the Black Night of Hungary. From this point on, it said that Ercibi began to change, she became more reclusive, more mystical, more mysterious, and began to explore the esoteric world. But she wasn't the first in her family to dabble in the occult, it was well known that some of her ancestors had become powerful sorcerers who had subdued people with ointments and sinister spells. Ursubit became obsessed with beauty and the passage of time. Some legends say that

her mother-in-law Ursula was obsessed with having grandchildren. But because her husband was rarely home, the marriage bore no children and had few opportunities for intimacy. Ursula pressured Urcabit constantly, telling her she was aging and becoming uglier by the day, and the uglier she got, the less likely her husband would be attracted to her and give her a child. Other versions say that one day, while walking through the village with her servants, Bersibit bumped into an old woman and mocked her ugliness. That woman, however, wasn't just any old lady, she was a powerful which who cursed Urcabit to age rapidly and rot alive.

Whatever the cause, Urcabit became extremely obsessed with aging. She became terrified that she would stop being beautiful and become less desirable. So she began to delve deeply into witchcraft, seeking different methods to prevent her skin from wrinkling. Her frustration grew, and she began to take it out on her servants. There is written correspondence between Ference and Ercibat in which they discuss various methods of torture. Ference told her about the tortures he inflicted on enemies in battle, including impalement, and she, in turn, asked for advice on how to whip rebellious girls

or cut the fingers off disobedient maids. This type of correspondence between spouses was not uncommon among the aristocracy of the time. A peculiar anecdote occurred during one of Ference's returns from war. While walking with Ercibet through the castle gardens, he found a naked girl tied to a tree. Her back was smeared with honey and covered in wasps, ants, and other insects feeding on it. The girl was crying, screaming, and terrified. When Ference asked his wife why the girl was in that state, she replied it was the punishment she had chosen for the girl attempting to steal an apple from the kitchen. Any sensible person would have called a servant to untie her and set her free, but Ference also enjoyed the suffering of others. According to accounts, the couple

the girl together. In 1585, 10 years after the wedding, Bursabit gave birth to her first daughter, Anna. In the following nine years, she had daughters Ursula and Catalan. Finally, in 1598, she gave birth to her only son, Pau. But with each child she bore, Bersabit grew increasingly obsessed with beauty, especially the wrinkles appearing on her face. It wasn't until January 4, 1604, that she went completely insane. That day, Ference, known as the Black Knight of Hungary, died suddenly after a long illness and battlefield injuries. This is when the countess's atrocious crimes began. She expelled her mother-in-law Ursula and all her allies from the castle, banishing her husband's entire family and sentencing their servants to brutal torture. She took them all to the basement

and sentenced each one to over 100 lashes. Becoming a widow left Ursubit in a peculiar position, feudal lady of an important Transylvanian county, entangled in political intrigues during turbulent times, but without an army to defend her power. So she decided the best way to protect her lands was by aligning with a well-known witch of the time named Darvulia. Darvulia was feared by all. Feared because she knew enchantments and spells that could kill with a glance. Ursebitt quickly made her a trusted advisor. At the same time, her cousin Gabor Bathry became the Prince of Transylvania with economic support from the Bathreys. He entered a war with the Germans, an act that led to Ercibat being accused of treason against the Hungarian King Matthias II.

As a widow, she was more vulnerable and isolated than ever. It was in this context that rumors began, strange things were happening in her castle. A local Protestant pastor claimed that Ursebitt Bathory, with Darvulia's help, practiced red magic, a form of black magic that involves summoning a spirit to become one slave and fulfill their every command. The dark legend of Urcabit Bathry begins on an ordinary day. She called one of her maids to brush her hair. That day, Ercibut wanted a new hairstyle, one fit for a queen. Unfortunately, the maid tugged a bit too hard while detanguing a lock of black hair.

Urcabit immediately stood and slapped her several times, with hands full of rings, which caused the maid's face to bleed. Drops of blood landed on the countess's hands. As she wiped them off, she noticed that where the blood had touched, her skin looked smoother, more youthful. Immediately, the maid was thrown into the dungeon while Ercibat consulted her alchemists and sorcerers. She told Darvulia what had happened.

That's when Ercibet decided to perform the first bloody ritual. She slit the girl's throat, filled a basin with her blood, in it. Apparently, the ritual worked, it made her feel younger and encouraged her to continue. Between 1604 and 1610, Versaibet's servants made sure to provide her with young girls aged 6 to 17. This part is documented in political and historical records collected by Valentine Penrose, which described the Countess Bathory's favorite tortures. Among them was the infamous Iron Maiden, a metal contraption shaped like a woman. According to testimonies, Eursabit loved to admire this figure. To be continued,

the figure of a human woman, according to the testimonies, Elbeth loved to admire this figure. She would spend hours contemplating this monster, but she didn't like to see it remain still. She didn't like seeing the figure of the nude woman with long blonde hair, full of jewels, unless it was in action. When you pressed one of the jewels on her necklace, the figure would open its arms. Between them, she would place her victim, normally a young girl, a young and beautiful girl who was completely naked. She would place her there, pressed a button again, and the arms would close, trapping the victim with all their strength, the strength of a ton of metal. At that very moment, a great number of blades would emerge from the chest of that iron

figure, piercing the body of the victim and ending her life instantly, draining her blood. They would beat her until she bled out, fill a cup with her blood, and while Elbeth drank it, the girl would begin having buckets of ice water thrown on her. Water that, upon contact with her skin, with the victim's skin, would freeze. First they would throw one bucket, wait, watch the girl agonize, dying from the cold, and when the water began to crystallize, they would throw another bucket, and so on and so forth until the girl was completely frozen and left standing, turned into an ice statue. The next torture was the so-called deadly cage. Her servants would grab the victim, strip her completely, and place her inside a cage. They would then hoist the cage

to the ceiling. The servant in charge of the task would stand below the cage wearing a white robe, holding an iron poker, which he would use to stab her from below, again and again, until she was so destroyed that she fell dead and bled out. But don't think that the blood was simply spilled and wasted on the ground. Not at all. The blood was always collected in buckets that would later be reserved for the use and enjoyment of the countess. It is said that Elbeth not only inflicted these three tortures, but that she also employed

the classic punishments used on disobedient servants or those who failed to carry out their tasks. These punishments ranged from lashings to amputations of limbs, slaps, kicks, beatings, etc., etc., etc. And now you may ask, why didn't anyone complain? Why didn't anyone report this? Why didn't anyone go to the authorities to accuse Shet Boli of being a murderer? Because her victims were servants. Poor girls with nowhere to go, girls that no one would ever claim. And furthermore, to cover her tracks, Elbeth would go to the local church and request proper burials for her servants.

No one noticed how frequently the deaths occurred, because everyone feared her. Everyone knew what was happening, but no one dared to speak. But sooner rather than later, the rumors began to reach the aristocracy. The nobles started to distrust Ellsbeth Bathory. They stopped inviting her to parties, to events, and slowly began to push her aside. This enraged Elbeth because she loved being the center of attention. She loved to be admired by all, not only for her education but for her obsessive ideas about beauty. She was terribly obsessed with everyone telling her again and again how beautiful she was.

Upon hearing the rumors and testimonies from many aristocrats, King Matthias I of Hungary decided to report her to the clerical court. But as you know, in those times, you couldn't accuse a noble. You couldn't sentence an aristocrat to death. They had so much power that they could easily escape punishment. And that's what Elbeth did. She washed her hands of it, pretending nothing had happened. In 1609, Elbeth made a grave mistake.

Seeing that every time she went to the village to request young servants no one would offer their daughters, she decided to convert her castle into a school for young aristocratic girls. She began to invite girls and teenagers to come study at her castle and learn to read and right in German, Hungarian, and Latin. Darbula tried to prevent this, but unfortunately, months before the massacre of noble girls began, Darbula died. Her position as advisor was taken over by a woman who didn't consider the consequences of her actions, who only cared about the bloody countess's happiness. This time, Elbeth couldn't escape her fate. The rumors turned into credible and firm testimonies from aristocrats,

aristocrats who begged King Matthias to intervene, to storm the castle with his army and tear down Elbeth Bathre's estate to save their daughters. Daughters who hadn't answered letters in months, daughters who hadn't come home. The nobles began to support the rumors and legends circulating about the bloody countess. They supported testimonies from people claiming their daughters

returned home with bite marks, whip scars, and cuts on their wrists. They supported stories saying that the surviving servants of the massacre at Bathre's castle were in terrible condition, and that their blood was used for satanic or dark rituals. So one day, King Matthias ordered Elbatha's cousin, the Palatine Count Thurzo, to storm the castle with his troops. Since the countess had no military force, there was no resistance. According to investigations, multiple tortured young women were found in the castle. Some were near death and imprisoned in dungeons, others had already become skeletons and piles of bones. The Count and his

soldiers saw that the dungeons contained many cages hanging from the ceiling, cages with girls bleeding out inside. There were multiple tubs full of human blood. The floors and walls were completely stained. There were even naked young girls chained up in the palace gardens. And indeed, the sight of chained servants being punished wasn't considered unusual at the time. That was normal. But the girls chained there had no traits linking them to the common people. They were pale-skinned girls with well-groomed hair and hands untouched by manual labor. The entire estate, every corner of the castle, was filled with corpses and dying girls.

Even the walls of Elbeth's own room had blood stains. The whole castle was a true bloodbath. In 1612, the trial was held in Vitka. Elbeth chose not to testify, not to plead guilty or innocent. She simply listened to the testimonies of her servants, those who have been by her side during the tortures and killings. She invoked her noble right to remain silent, convinced that her aristocratic lineage would spare her from a death sentence.

But the servants could not claim the same right. The first to testify was Fitko, one of her most fervent followers. Fittco admitted to killing more than 37 women aged between 11 and 26 in the name of the Countess, six of whom he personally recruited to work in the castle. The judge said those deaths meant nothing to him. He wanted to know how many noble girls have been killed, how many had been lured under false pretences and then savagely murdered. But no one mentioned those deaths. The only deaths acknowledged were of girls from humble origins. In these trials, all were found guilty, some of witchcraft, others of murder, and others of cooperation. All of

Elspeth Bathre's followers were sentenced to decapitation, except for the witches, who were burned alive. The three principal witches who followed her, Dorothy, Helena, and Peraska, had their fingers ripped off with red-hot tongs for having soaked them in noble Christian blood, and then they were burned alive. Elbatha's last advisor was convicted of cooperation and executed. Katrina, another follower and the youngest at 14 years old, was spared execution due to the testimony of one of the victims, who was a close friend. Still, she wasn't freed without punishment, she received 100 lashes. However, the law prevented Elbeth Bathory from being prosecuted.

She couldn't be burned alive, tortured, or whipped. Her punishment was to be bricked alive in her chambers. Mason sealed the door forever, leaving all. only a small slit through which food would be passed for the rest of her life. But King Matthias wasn't satisfied with this decision. He wanted her head, not only for the noble victims but also for the servants. He wanted her executed. Still, he ultimately postponed her death and confiscated all her properties, which he had coveted for a long time. On June 31st, 1614, Elbeth dictated her will, ordering her remaining family possessions to be divided among

her children. On August 21st that same year, one of the guards found her lying face down on the floor. Elbeth Bathory had finally died. Her closest associates decided to bury her in the church at Cactus, but the Hungarian people strongly opposed this. They believed burying that monster there was an abomination and that the infamous woman deserved an anonymous grave, without religious So the Countess was transported back to her family's place of origin and buried in a secret spot, so that no one would ever know her true final resting place. All documents related to Elbeth Bathory were sealed for over a century, and it was strictly forbidden to speak of her across the country.

Her children were accused of cooperation, some were tortured, while other family members fled to Poland. Still, the Bathory Natus D bloodline was forever tainted. Even her own grandson was executed in 1671 for opposing the German Emperor's government. Hungary's National Archives still preserve many documents about her, her personal files, the list of victims, etc. But one element has completely disappeared, the diaries of the bloody countess. Documents that once helped sentence her to being bricked alive have now vanished, just like her personal portrait. We no longer have first-hand accounts of what she looked like or how she saw the world,

her views on life and death, or her obsessive pursuit of beauty and eternal youth. And that's why many people today believe that Elbeth Bathory might have become a vampire, that she ultimately achieved her long-desired eternal youth, and that the woman found dead in her cell was just another loyal follower who took her place in an anonymous or lost grave. The end. There are still those, who resist believing, who, prefer to live in a safe and, rational world who wish to deny the existence of phenomena impossible

to, explain by the laws that govern the, modern world. And all of them should, take a stroll through the Borley rectory, a building considered by many to be the most, haunted place on the planet. But don't think, this is said just to capture the public's attention. No, this is not a whimsical designation, it is the result of multiple paranormal events that occurred there over centuries. The events went beyond local rumors and became a topic of, debate in the first half of the 20th century, after the story reached local media such as the Daily Mirror or Life. On July 10, 1929, The Daily Mirror, published an exclusive that went around the world, an old rectory located between the counties of Suffolk and Essex seemed to be terribly, haunted.

News about the haunting, of Borley rectory, a two-story red brick building with 23, Victorian-style rooms, spread like wildfire across the country. The impact of the case was such that the, editor of the Daily Mirror turned to, parapsychologist Harry Price. But who, really was Harry Price? Was he just a, simple investigator? He was a member of the Society for Psychical Research and founder of the National Library of Psychical Research, directly affiliated with the University of London. For this reason, it was, considered that if there was truly a haunting, this man would be the only one capable of, discovering it.

Price, deeply, interested, hurried to the location to, investigate firsthand and gather as much information as possible about the building. and the initial results regarding the Borley Mansion were spectacular. The site had a long and tragic past, marked by deaths and unusual, incidents, truly enigmatic incidents. According to different historical studies, that site during the 10th century had been, the location of a convent, a convent where unusual crimes took place, the murder, specifically, of a pair of clerics, a priest from that monastery and a nun from the R's monastery located, 13 kilometers away. The couple, after a long end, passionate romance, decided to flee, to change their lives entirely. But, unfortunately, no one breaks the rules, without first receiving a harsh punishment. They were captured and cruelly executed,

the monk was beheaded and the nun was bricked up alive in that very monastery. Years after these, gloomy events, the building fell prey to, oblivion and the passing of time, becoming tragic ruins that drew the attention of anyone who saw them. Everyone feared the, rumors, feared those ghost stories, everyone talked about. It was said that in the early morning hours, one could see the silhouette of a nun wandering around the building, a nun who wept, a nun who, sometimes even, murmured things no one could, understand. Eventually, some Someone was brave enough to acquire those beautiful ruins, that someone was Rector Henry Bull, who in 1863 built over those ruins a splendid Victorian mansion for himself and his family. At first, they were not affected by the legends, but over time, the mystery became a daily reality.

His children claimed to hear wailing. In the late hours of the night, footsteps, moans, they claimed to feel inexplicable chills, claimed to sense present. or even see the figure of a man, dressed in clerical, robes roaming the, hallways and gardens of the mansion. But the bull couple never paid much, attention to what the children said. They believed, it was childish nonsense, just children's games, games of children who became adults who, when given the chance, left, that house and never returned. During the 65 years of their, residents there, the Bull couple, daily experienced strange, events, unexplainable events, but, never considered it something truly negative. When Rector Bull died, Reverend Smith moved into the mansion with, his wife. However, this time the new couple, could not ignore everything,

happening in that house, inexplicable lights, icy whispers, objects flying with no, explanation, steps in the middle of the night, headless human shadows, and pale, Figures walking through the garden. In 1929, the Smiths decided to turn to the daily mirror, hoping to bring the matter to public attention and, into the hands of someone knowledgeable, a paris ecology expert, willing to investigate. Thanks to editor C. V. Kahn's, the, famed Harry Price himself went to the property and investigated firsthand, all those unexplainable, events. They truly had faith in him. But then Price organized, a seance, and after, that, nothing was ever the same. The events became much more aggressive,

more violent, and the couple found it, impossible to keep living there. Price had to abandon his analysis, and the couple left, the residence. They reported the following, bells and chimes ringing by themselves, a luminous figure dressed as a nun, walking through the garden, a horse-drawn carriage whose coachman appeared to be decapitated. Shortly after, the house passed, to Reverend Lionel Foister, cousin of the late Reverend Bull, and, his wife Marion. During the first few months, peace reigned. But unfortunately, everything suddenly changed. The bells rang again, the whispers, the shadows, the, inexplicable chills, everything resurfaced. And the most spectacular part, messages began to appear written on the walls, messages no one,

claimed to have, written. Strange, sinister, terrifying messages, allegedly written by entities from, beyond, that heartbreakingly, called for Marion's help. Some of the words found, on the walls were, please help, Marion, I cannot understand, tell me more, Lionel and Marion once again, called on the services of, Harry Price, who this time arrived, with two of his best, employees and a mobile team made up of, cameras, measuring tape, powder to capture print. a 16 millimeter's video camera, light and sound filters, and various thermal measurement instruments, among many other things. During the fieldwork, the manifestations increased, it seemed the experts did nothing but provoke these entities. With every step, they grew, angrier. On the first night, Marion was thrown from her bed, slapped by an invisible force, and, almost suffocated by a mattress. More messages appeared on the, walls, messages that seemed, cryptic, seemed to hide, something

deeper. And among all those messages, one stood out, an apocalyptic message, that would mark the destiny of the case. This house will be consumed by flames, from that moment, the phenomena, tormented Marion so much that she began to feel, watched at all times. She became obsessed with the idea that someone was following her, that someone invisible was watching her, from everywhere, even when outside the house. Her obsession was so strong, that she developed insomnia. She was no longer the same. Eventually, the couple decided, to leave the residence, that was the perfect opportunity, to study the events. So Harry Price launched new, experiments. The psychic researcher, rented the property from May 19, 19th, 19th,

until the end of, 1938 and placed an ad in the Times, seeking volunteers for a paranormal phenomena experiment. A total of 48 people were, recruited. They all remained at, borely for a year and a half, a year and a half full of, unusual events. The same past incidents repeated, over and over, the shadows, the whispers, the figure of the nun, the carriage drawn by a, decapitated man. But misfortune would not, occur with them. In 1939, the house was acquired by a new buyer, Captain W. H. Gregson. This man did not believe, in ghost stories, and for every, strange occurrence, he offered a quick rational explanation.

However, on the night of, February 27, 1939, what occurred, there could not be explained by reason. Gregson was in the library of, the complex when, before his, astonished eyes, an oil lamp, smashed to the ground. No one had touched it. Nothing could explain it. Flames quickly spread, through the mansion and, reduced everything to ashes. The prophecy, foretold years before, written on its walls, seemed to have been fulfilled. But the story of Borley did not end there. During demolition, workers discovered something odd, something embedded in the ancient foundations, that appeared to be, human remains. They found the skeletal remains, of a young woman. Could this have been the nun, bricked up alive? We do not know for certain. The only known fact is that Christ gave her a Christian burial, and considered the case closed.

He declared it closed, and documented his conclusions in extensive books. One was published in 1940, under the name the Most Haunted House in, England and the second was published in, 1945, three years after Price's death, entitled The End of Borley Rectory. But in truth, the paranormal, events did not end with, the burial of those bones. The workers who demolished, the house reported harrowing, episodes on the property, episodes later covered by a life reporter, in an article, including a photograph, that allegedly showed a brick, floating in the air. No one seemed to doubt, the ghostly odyssey. But in 1956, Borley rectory and the investigations conducted there, came under scrutiny. Two members of the

SPR, Henry Douglas and Charles Hope, requested a review of Harry Price's work. The committee accepted the request, and granted access to all, documentation of his investigations, stored at the University of London. After five years of study, results were published in 1956, in a book titled The Haunting of Borley Rectory. In Hope and Douglas' view, most of the paranormal events had been staged by Price himself, the wall messages, the whispers, some ghostly appearances, all allegedly faked, to make the case, bigger, grander, and more sensational. All of this despite the fact that the phenomena occurred long before Price ever set foot in the residence. Borley withstood the attacks of the staunchest

skeptics, thanks to various publications, listed in the description box. A scientific committee led by Russell and composed of engineers, Frank Perry and John F. confirmed the existence of paranormal phenomena at Borley, with strong statements. And just as Price once stated, Borley was, is, and always will be the most haunted place in England. But what do you think about all this? Do you believe the story of the rectory, was a complete hoax, or a true story? The end. We begin. Reincarnation is the belief that when a person dies, the soul separates momentarily from the body and, after some time, takes on a different one to be born again on earth. Therefore, humans would go through many lives. At this point, one might ask, why does the soul need to reincarnate? Because in a future

life it must pay for the sins committed in the present one, or on the contrary, receive the reward for having lived an honest life. It is said that the soul is in constant evolution and that successive reincarnations allow it to progress until it achieves perfection. Then, it becomes a pure spirit and no longer needs more reincarnations, submerging forever into the infinity of eternity. The first time the term reincarnation appeared was in India in the 6th century BC. Those primitive men, still closely tied to an agricultural mindset, saw that all things in nature always repeated the same cycles. The sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening, only to rise again and repeat the cycle.

In the same way, the moon would wane and slowly regain its roundness. The stars repeated the same phases and stages every year. The seasons, from summer to winter, would leave but always return punctually. The fields, the flowers, everything moved in a circular motion. All of life seemed to be made of cycles that constantly repeated. This observation led to the belief that man also repeated some kind of cycle, a constant cycle of birth, aging, and death. But seeing that the body decomposed, they imagined that the soul emerged from it and took on another body to continue living.

When Buddhism appeared in India in the 5th century BC, it adopted the belief in reincarnation. Through it, this belief spread to China, Tibet, Japan, and later to Greece and Rome, eventually penetrating other religions that adopted it as a basic doctrine of their faith. Buddhism does not believe in the existence of an eternal individual soul. The human being is only a transmitter of a constant flow of uninterrupted energy, of forces accumulated during previous existences. And the law of karma is a determining factor in an individual's existence. That is why a man who dies will be reborn in a pleasant way

depending on the actions taken in his present life. Metampsychosis, for example, is a theory that suggests if a person has been very sinful in this life, they might reincarnate as an animal or even as a plant in the next. These teachings are written in the sixth book of the Mahaburata, especially in the episode known as the Bhagavad Gita, where a divine figure named Krishna advises a human named Arjuna. The ideology about life and death is expressed by the guru with the following words, just as a person takes off their worn-out clothes and puts on new ones, the embodied soul

leaves its worn-out body and enters a new form for manifestation. Weapons cannot pierce the soul, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, wind cannot dry it. Knowing this, Arjuna, be a mere instrument. Finally, reincarnation helps explain certain incomprehensible events, such as why pain is distributed unequally among people, the immediate sympathies or antipathies people feel when meeting, why some marriages are unhappy, or the premature death of children. Recurring dreams could also indicate this. Sometimes a repeated dream may point to trauma, but others may reveal images from a past life.

Many people claim to have lived certain situations, met specific people, or visited places that no longer exist but with which they somehow feel a connection. Now, let me explain a truly chilling real-life story linked to reincarnation that will give you goosebumps. So get comfortable, because after watching this video, you won't stop thinking about the concept of reincarnation. Andrea and Bruce Leininger were an ordinary couple, working people who went to church every Sunday. However, there was something that made their family very special. They had a very unique son, a little two-year-old boy named James. After moving to Louisiana due to Bruce's new job, their only son began to suffer terrible nightmares, nightmares that made him scream and thrash in the middle of the night.

At first, they linked this to the stress of the move and then considered it an emotional phase, as this isn't uncommon in young children. the nightmares became more intense, disturbing, and unsettling. Andrea Leininger recounted how she would wake up to her son's screams of agony, screams among which were the words, plane on fire. No man can get out. When she managed to wake her son and asked him what he had dreamed, he always said the same thing, that a plane was hit by a projectile and fell helplessly into the void, and its pilot

couldn't get out. Seeing the child's clear obsession with planes, Andrea bought him a small toy airplane. While playing with him, she pointed to what looked like a bomb in the cockpit. The boy immediately corrected her and said that it wasn't a bomb, it was a drop tank. She had never heard of that and had no idea what it was. So she asked what kind of plane he flew in his dreams, and her son mentioned a corsair, another name that meant nothing to Andrea. By the age of three, James began drawing precise pictures of aerial battles over the sea, with details of aircraft, used in World War II. By age four, he had built his own mock cockpit. As the years passed,

the nightmares only worsened. Desperate, Andrea turned to her maternal family, her mother and sisters, who posed a question, what if James was reliving a past life? Neither Andrea nor her husband Bruce believed in reincarnation, they were skeptics. Still, they decided to consult an expert in the field, Carol Bowman, a therapist who claimed that the dead could sometimes be reborn into new bodies. Bowman said that children had not yet developed cultural conditioning or stratified experience in this life, so past life memories could easily seep into their minds, especially at a young age, when previous lives are easier to recall. Following this guidance, Andrea and Bruce began encouraging Little James to share his memories.

The therapy worked immediately, the nightmare significantly lessened, and at the same time, the boy revealed extraordinary details about the life of a former fighter pilot. He insisted that in another life he had been James Houston, a 21-year-old American fighter pilot who went missing in action in 1945 during a battle in the Pacific against the Japanese in World War II. He even mentioned flying a corsair, which had taken off from the USS Natoma Bay. When asked if he remembered any of his companion's names, he said, Jack Larson. During a local air show, one of the Blue Angels asked young James what he wanted to be when he grew up. He responded, I want to be an F-18 Super Hornet pilot and then a Blue Angel.

With every clue the child gave, his parents looked at each other in disbelief. How could the boy know so much about planes and components, especially when he had never been exposed to that kind of information? Bruce constantly searched the Internet for all the information his son provided, and was shocked to find that everything James said was real. Every plane he mentioned existed or had existed. By now, Bruce Leininger was a tormented man. Clearly, his son was talking about a past life, a life he couldn't make sense of.

In his eyes, this was his son, his baby. How could it be that this beloved child was someone else, an adult man who had suffered a terribly painful death? Belief in reincarnation went entirely against Bruce's Catholic faith. However, Andrea was a bit more open-minded. Regardless, both parents agreed on one thing, they wanted to help their son free himself from the burden of remembering a life he was no longer living. After some investigations, Bruce Leininger was stunned to discover that all the names his son had mentioned were real,

not just the aircraft models, but the entire story. The USS Natoma Bay was a small aircraft carrier that fought in the Pacific during World War II. and the name Jack Larson belonged to a former serviceman on that carrier who was still alive in Arkansas. Determined to get to the bottom of it, Bruce met with Jack Larson in Arkansas in September 2002 and asked about the pilot James Houston. Larson told him that Houston had been part of Squadron V.C. 81. He couldn't recall exactly what happened to him, but was fairly sure his plane had been hit by Japanese anti-aircraft fire on March 3, 1945. It was presumed Houston had been lost in action when he didn't return from his mission. To complete the puzzle, Bruce Leininger contacted in Houston Barron, sister of the deceased James Houston, in late February 2003.

She lived in Los Gatos, California. After several phone conversations, she sent the Leininger's several photos of her brother during his military service. In one of them, young James Houston stood in front of a Corsair fighter plane, the same kind that little James Lange's. had described countless times. Only then did Bruce decide to tell her that he believed her brother had reincarnated as his son. A few weeks later, and Houston Baron sent the Linenger's several belongings of her late brother. She was completely convinced by the boy's story. She believed he was her deceased brother, because it was impossible for a small child to know

so many things about Jimmy's life. Now fully convinced that his son was the reincarnation of that man, Bruce began to paying more attention to his child's play. One day, he noticed James grabbed three toy jets and played a battle scenario, naming each one specifically, Leon, Walter, and Billy. Bruce researched those names in the U.S. Pacific Fleet Registry and discovered they weren't made up, they hadn't been randomly chosen. Lieutenant Leon Stevens Connor, Alfred Walter John Devlin, and Private Billy Rufus had all been

members of the V.C. 81 Air Squadron and had served alongside James Houston. They were among the 21 casualties of the USS Natoma Bay. When Bruce asked his son why he named his toys that way, the boy replied, because they greeted me when I went to heaven. And this story, by the way, doesn't end there. As a teenager, James eventually met all the surviving individuals from his previous life, and they all recognized him as James Houston Jr., not just physically, but psychologically. The Leininger's visited Japan, specifically the place where young James claimed to have been shot down. From all these experiences and memories, a book was published in 2009, Soul Survivor, a book that includes stunning drawings made by the child depicting aerial

battles, with details that only a pilot or aeronautics expert could know. There are also numerous photos showing the undeniable physical resemblance between James Houston and James Leininger. But now Now it's your turn, do you believe in reincarnation? Or do you believe Little James was a conduit between the earthly life and the afterlife? The end. I don't know how you do it. This shit's hard. Erica stared out the driver's side window.

I could tell she was on the verge of breaking down. She kept looking away when the discussion came back around to the reality of her situation. She was about forty, had no real job, took too many Psyche meds, and leaned pretty heavy on Suboxane to maintain her drug usage. She had also suffered trauma after trauma in her life, a life that had left her, her mom, and her daughter living in that big old house out in the country all alone now. A life that had led her to sitting in a bar parking lot with a homeless guy about two in the afternoon, clothes overflowing from the trunk into the back seat, wondering where she was going to go from here. Night before last night, I tried to sleep in

the car to save on motel money, and damn. I didn't sleep a wink, dude. It was hot, I kept hearing things, thought I heard somebody sneaking up on me all night, and I don't know if someone was or not, I couldn't look. I was like, frozen in fear. Well, it's a safe bet that there's probably someone that was out there. You think? She turned to look at me and saw the half smile on my face, you bastard. You shouldn't scare me even more than I already am.

She looked absent from the scene for a second, then in the most monotone robotic voice added, it was too hot to sleep. Baby doll, it hasn't begun to get hot yet, and I don't know how you do it. Yeah, you've said so about ten times now. Erica was in a real bind. Her stepfather had just passed away, which meant her mom had nothing better to do than start digging into her daughter's day-to-day life to find stuff to be hyper-critical of. And, of course, the scrutiny led to blow out arguments, which led to Erica getting in touch with

some old friends. She had always struggled with one addiction after another in her life and had been holding it together fairly well until her stepdad passed away. She really didn't like using the word stepdad at all, and after his death, it seemed like everyone who came to visit or show their respect had been determined to make sure they drove that home. Step dad. At one point, she had to remove herself from her step-a-ant's vicinity to keep from putting a serving fork in her face, and she still wasn't convinced she made the right choice by walking away. It seemed throughout the entire time of organized morning, she had been relegated to second tier, and it wasn't fair,

the way it should be, and Mark would have told everyone if he hadn't died. The entire 27 years that he had been in her life, she remembered that step word being used maybe five times, and always in an official capacity, such as government paperwork. After about three years, she had just gradually slipped from calling him Mark to calling him dad, and Mark seemed pleased not to correct her. Mark had been the one to try and weed out the boyfriends. He had been the one to get in the car at three in the morning to find someplace open that sold Tylenol when she was 15, sick, and her fever was spiking. He also got in the car at three in the morning to find someplace open that sold vanilla ice cream when she was pregnant with Joanna. He sure seemed like

a real dad when he took off that night to indulge her. Mark was fond of telling people that he had given her away twice, but she always found her way back home. But she knew full well that he had been the one who argued to let her move back in when her second marriage turned into a master class of domestic abuse. It was Mark who had put an end to the physical violence for a few years, at least. Her ex came for Thanksgiving dinner, half a fifth of wild turkey, about a gram of meth, and five zanis in the wind and decided that Erica was his by-god woman and he would treat her as he pleased and anywhere he pleased. It didn't take long of that before Mark put the business end of a twelve gauge in his face to drive home a promise. To do onto him ten

times worse what he does onto his little girl. He even went as far as to tell Jimmy that he would be well advised to start praying that Erica doesn't experience a clumsy spell, as that could lead to an unmarked grave somewhere in the mountains. Jimmy must have taken him seriously because the abuse was entirely psychological for almost four years. That was when Jimmy hit full-blown amphetamine psychosis and started getting hansy. But Erica had seen it coming and was ready. Her and Joanna took off and promised to never return in exchange for Mark not making good

on his promise. Mark was a good man. He was kind, hardworking, musically talented, a great sense of humor, and more loving and kind-hearted than Erica even knew was possible. Every since he put his boots in the mudroom for good, he had been the father she had needed him to be. He had stepped right up and never complained. He had kept her together more than she had realized, but now all that was gone. And no one seemed to even care how profoundly his passing had affected her. Soon, she found herself running out of places to stash the

half-pint and pint bottles where her mom wouldn't see them. They were building up faster than Erica would have thought they would, and it was starting to concern her. Not that she might be drinking too much, but that she had to find ways to keep her drinking out of sight. That was the real problem. The meth was only for when everything got too much and the coffee couldn't get any stronger. The arrangements, school for Joanna, running errands for her mom, trying to work her part-time job when she could.

It wasn't a problem. There had only been two or three times that she had crashed so hard that her mom had to get Joanna to school or give her breathing treatments or help her with homework at the library, or make food, do the laundry, or just be the adult. Suffice to say that it didn't take long before her mother told her to get out. Even got child protective services involved. Her mom had made it clear that she was not to come back until she was clean and sober. While her mom may have been right with her assessment, her approach only served to do more harm than good. For example, she took all of her psyche meds away and demanded that Erica go cold turkey from those as well.

Anyone who has even been through that drill knows how bad of a thing that is to do. Her mom rounded them up and flushed them because everyone needs to experience the possible life-changing ramifications of going at life raw like that, especially under times of extreme stress, you know, like the loss of a father. The fact that she was sitting here coherent spoke volumes to her strength and durability. Her mother said that if Erica needed to get over her psychological issues, then all she needed to do was pray more. With feeling this time.

I say the best thing she could do for her psychological issues is put a couple of states between herself and her mom. There's no way I can do this. I won't make it. Her speech was really starting to betray her exhaustion now, I honestly thought I could do the homeless thing. How could it be hard? Just hang around, maybe get high, crash out, and do it again.

I don't think I've ever been more wrong about anything in my life. Well, except maybe that shirt. I have an unreasonable hatred of guns and roses. Axel Rose called and said you need to get in line. Be a company man. Get with the program. You know G. N are rocks. I do.

Indeed you do. If I did, I sure as hell wouldn't admit it to you. I saw them live and barely escaped with my sanity. Barely, hon. Well, I ain't the one hanging out with some random homeless dude to try and find the key to life. At least she had a facade of a smile now. She held her fist up to me, starting acting like her thumb was the arm on a pencil sharpener, turning it slowly as her expletive finger slowly came to full attention.

You have a chance to keep this from being your reality. You know that. Right? A very doable way for you to put your life back in order. If you don't, then life out here is going to snowball for you until there is no going back. Two years from now, you won't be able to recognize yourself in the mirror. I'll take a picture of you right now and prove it two years from now. But I don't want to go to rehab.

That place sucks. Half the time they fuck you up worse than when you went in. By my calculations, it beats dying on the streets. Just sayin. Just say in. Part 1. This is my first attempt at creative writing, just an FYI. This an attempt at creating my own Reddit cheating story.

It did turn out longer than I intended. Might have gotten cared away with details. So I will be posting in multiple parts. I hope it's enjoyable. Be gentle. My girlfriend of one year cheated on me. I never predicted what would happen next. This story takes place over the course of several years.

So it's a bit long. Please be patient with me. So, before I go into this story, I need to lay out some history in order to create some context. Pretty much my entire life I have suffered from bad depression and social anxiety. I am now 38, but when I was 30 I got diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. For those of you who don't know what that is, it is a personality disorder that results in someone having a very hard time regulating their emotions. It's believed to have stemmed from some form of childhood trauma or abandonment.

It usually results in impulsive behavior, emotional outbursts, a lack of self-identity in a pattern of unhealthy and unstable relationships, be it friends or romantic relationships. For those of you who do know what it is, please don't villainize it. I can guarantee you that whoever you knew that had it has been struggling emotionally far longer than you know. And also more than likely severely regrets whatever they did in order to ruin the relationship. They more than likely have not reached out to mend things because of embarrassment or a fear of rejection.

Okay, now that we have that out of the way, onto the story. So I met Sarah roughly four years ago. My friend Ali, who I had not talked to in several years, had reached a lot of the way. out and wanted to check in on me. I was surprised since I was just under the assumption they were tired of my mood swings and decided to cut me out of their lives for good. She wanted to know how I was doing and if I wanted to come to a party they were having at their place this weekend. We talked for a bit and I let her know things have been a bit rough. At this point my depression was so bad that I never did anything except go to work and come home. I did not talk

to anyone or hang out with anyone. I was all alone. So at the urging of my therapist, I accepted the invitation. That weekend Ali's husband, James, came and picked me up and took me back to their place. The party had not started yet, but there were a few familiar faces, and there was definitely one I had never seen before. It was Sarah. Now right off the bat I was very intimidated by her, because she was absolutely gorgeous. I mean in my head she was miles out of my league. Everyone I knew was happy to see me and they all gave me hugs, it felt good, but awkward. I was introduced to Sarah. She was a friend of someone I knew and it was actually her first time at Ollie and James House.

She looked at me, smiled and said hi. I said hi back but then quickly looked away. I was too nervous. After a little while more people showed up and the party was underway. Now everyone I knew drank and to excess. But I had quit drinking years before. So being basically the only sober person at the party was, well, weird and a bit uncomfortable. See, I'm not a fan of small, cramped and loud spaces.

And that's what the inside of their house felt like. So after a while, when I was feeling overwhelmed, I stepped outside and sat at a table in their backyard. After about ten minutes or so of trying to decompress, I heard the door open and then close. I turned to see who it was, and it was Sarah. She walked up to the table and asked if she could join me. I was super nervous, and sadly, a bit skeptical. My past relationships, platonic and romantic, had left me constantly on edge and a bit mistrusting.

But I said it was no problem and she sat down. She asked me how I knew everyone, and I told her I have known Ollie since I was 18, and I met everyone through her. But we don't talk as much these days. She asked me why, but I deflected the question. We just continued to sit there talking. The longer it went on, the more relaxed I was becoming. what felt like five minutes, but was actually an hour, Ollie came out to see where I had gone

and found me and Sarah talking. She asked if everything was okay and I told her it was, I just was decompressing from feeling overstimulated inside. After that Sarah excused herself and went inside. I followed shortly after. I stayed at the party until about midnight. That was when my social meter just hit zero, and I had to head home. Everyone else was drunk, so I needed to call an Uber to take me home. I said my goodbyes to anyone who was coherent enough to understand, and I stepped out front to wait for my ride. I didn't even notice, but Sarah came up from behind and sat down next to me.

She asked what I was doing, so I told her. I commented on how she didn't seem as drunk as everyone else. She explained that while she did drink, she wasn't a real heavy drinker. This immediately appealed to me. We kept talking until my Uber showed up. I told her to have a good night and went home. The next day I was off work, just sitting at home drinking my coffee when I got a text. Which was weird because I never got texts.

And what was weirder was that it was a number I didn't know. Turns out it was Sarah. She said she enjoyed talking to me, so she got my number from Ollie. Again, I was skeptical of her. Why would she want to talk to me? I was no one interesting or special. I didn't get it. I responded and we just spent the next hour or so texting back and forth just talking about

nothing. I had noticed the night before that she just seemed like someone who was really easy to talk to, and it was only proven today. So over the course of the next several weeks this became a daily thing. We would text back and forth most of the day. Eventually she asked if I wanted to go grab a coffee sometime. I reluctantly agreed. We met up at a local cafe and spent the next two hours just talking and laughing. It was during this conversation that my BPD got brought up. She told me that she actually had an aunt who had BPD, and she understood how difficult it is to live with. That made me feel relieved. She told me about how things had been a bit rough for her lately as well. Her apartment ended up having black mold, so she

had to move out. But then she was laid off from her job. So she was staying with her mom till she got back on her feet. So, Sarah and I became fast friends. Now, I have a problem where when a pretty girl shows me positive attention, I tend to overanalyze and overthink everything. And I definitely did that with Sarah. I had developed this huge crush on her, and it was probably very obvious. And between my constantly shifting emotions and the overthinking things, I from time to time would have breakdowns. It had been three months since Sarah and I had met. And that is when my breakdowns tend to happen the most. And like clockwork, they did. I would get jealous of other guys, but keep it to myself.

I would think that her and other people were only spending time with me because they had pity for me. That she was talking bad about me behind my back. One day Sarah could see that I was feeling extra emotional that day. She asked me what was wrong and I told her it was nothing. She insisted I talk about it. And after some back and forth I gave in. I told her about all the thoughts and feelings I was having. I left out the part about me having a crush on her, but other than that, I spilled my purse out on her doorstep.

After I was done she kind of just sat there staring at me. It went on for what felt like forever. Then she reached out and pulled me in for a huge hug. It kind of freaked me out and tried to jump back, but she just grabbed me and pulled me in tightly. She told me that she would never do that to me and she knew that what I was feeling was not my actual feelings, but my trauma coming to the surface. Now, if I didn't have a crush on this girl before, I certainly did now. Part two, Sarah and I were spending most of our time together.

We had become best friends, and way faster than either of us had expected. She brought me over to meet her mom, who basically became the mom I never had. My relationship with my parents was not great. I had not spoken to either of them in years. But her mom welcomed me with open arms. She always had me over for dinner and insisted that I come over for holidays and other gatherings. She treated me like a son, and I can honestly say that I loved her. Because of my time with Sarah, and the regular therapy I was attending, I was starting to notice

a difference in my emotions. I was feeling a lot more stable. I didn't immediately go to negative thoughts anymore. I got more comfortable in social settings. She even invited me to meet several of her friends, and they welcomed me into their friend group right away. I was starting to feel more confident and was starting to see some value in myself, but there was still a long way to go.

About eight months into hanging out we were on a camping trip with some friends. It was dark and we were sitting around the fire. Sarah and I, since we had become so close, did occasionally have cute little physical contact moments that at the time I thought they were innocent. I still thought she was out of my league, so I never tried anything. And since she never approached me, I took that as validation that she was not interested in me that way. But while we were sitting around the fire, she moved closer to me and put her head on my shoulder.

It was at this moment that I knew I was in trouble. I had come to fall in love with her. I sat by the fire smiling, but was screaming in my head. What are you doing? She is your best friend. You can't be in love with her. I sat on those feelings for maybe a week or so before I decided that it was best to pack them up and throw them in mental storage.

At about eleven months I was hanging out with some new friends I met through Sarah named Mark and Danielle. They had been together for nearly ten years, but were not married and had no kids. They were really interesting people and very down to earth. They had become the people I grew closest to out of all of Sarah's friends. Danielle had been one of Sarah's oldest and closest friends. Now one night the three of us are sitting in their garage, and out of nowhere Mark looks at me and says, you're in love with Sarah, aren't you?

Danielle looked at me smiling. I was a little shocked that they just asked me point blank. I stumbled over my words a bit, but I denied that I did. They both just stared at me with looks that said they weren't buying it. I denied it again, but they just kept staring. Finally, I sighed and said, is it that obvious? They said, only when you look at her. My head fell into my hands.

I was so embarrassed. They asked why I hadn't asked her out yet. And I told them because I thought she was way out of my league. That we were best friends, and I accepted that was as far as it would go. Danielle, again point blank, just said, you know she is crazy about. about you too, right? I didn't believe her. I said she was crazy for even thinking that. While I had become more confident in the last several months, I was still working through some things. Mark chimed in and said, seriously. She is really into you. You haven't noticed

the way she looks at you. I said, yeah, as a friend. They both groaned. They told me that I should shoot my shot. That they guaranteed that she would say yes if I asked her out. I told them I would think about it. And I did. I spent the next two weeks with only that on my mind. I even hung out with Sarah less those two weeks because I needed to sort out my thoughts and feelings. Finally, I made a decision, I was going to ask her out. Mark and Danielle were good people, why would they lie to me? I had not seen or talked to Sarah in four days, which was weird for us. But I texted her and asked her if she wanted to meet up. She agreed immediately. We met up at that local cafe again.

We were sitting and talking. Me with a lead ball in my throat and a million butterflies in my stomach. I couldn't stop fidgeting. I was so nervous. Obviously Sarah could see something was up, and asked if there was something wrong. I didn't answer for a second, then looked at her and said that I had something on my mind. Something that had been bothering me for a couple weeks now. And I needed an answer.

She looked at me strangely but asked what I needed to know. I hesitated for a moment, but then I just came out and said it. I asked her out. I have never seen a smile so big. She raised her fists and said, finally. I must have looked shocked, because she giggled when she looked at me and said she had been waiting for me to do that for forever. I asked her if she was so interested, why didn't she approach me? She said that she knew that I was hesitant to date because of my BPD.

So she wanted to respect that. But as time went on she saw me becoming healthier and more stable. And it was then that she hoped I would be ready to ask her out. But I never did, so she thought I just still wasn't ready. She wanted the ball in my court so that way I could date when I actually felt ready for it. I was so confused. Not by what she said, that made sense, and I thought it was sweet.

I was confused because I never in a million years would have thought she would be interested in me like that. She reached out and grabbed my hands with hers, stared right into my eyes and said that she would love to go out with me. I was still confused, but it was a happy confusion. I thought hey, it might not make sense, but she likes me, and that's what matters. So we started dating. Okay, now fast forward to a little over a year later. Sarah was still technically living with her mom, but she basically lived with me. I had started to notice that Sarah was acting a bit off recently. I first noticed because she had trouble keeping eye contact,

and she never had a problem doing that. I still had problems with overthinking things, so I figured I was just being paranoid for no reason and brushed it off. But then she started to talk less, sat a bit further away on the couch. While we usually had sex about five times a week, that had dropped to pretty much nothing. And she just kind of had this look of guilt in her eyes. I tried bringing it up, but she said it was nothing and went back to playing Candy Crush. I could tell something was wrong.

A couple days later we were in bed when I turned to her and just asked, Are you cheating on me? For a second her eyes got so wide. But as she turned to look at me her face contorted into an almost insulted look. She said she couldn't even believe I was asking her that. I said that I noticed her behavior lately and I could tell something was wrong. She again said it was nothing, and that I was probably overthinking things like I had a habit of doing. This got under my skin a bit.

I told her to cut the ship and tell me what was going on. I told her I saw how scared she looked when I asked her, which to me was an admission of guilt. She started to stammer but she denied it again. I just got out of bed and told her this as her last chance to come clean. If she didn't then I would just end the relationship right now. She broke down and started to cry. I had expected this. She said she was so sorry that it only happened once a couple of weeks ago.

Which added up because that's when her behavior started to change. She said she didn't know why she did it. That it was a mistake and she was so sorry. I asked who it was, and she said it was our friend Josh. Now I never really liked Josh. Sarah was good friends with his wife Stacy, so in order to hang out with her, we also had to with Josh. He was cocky, brash and kind of a bully.

He really bothered me. So when Sarah said it was him, I was in shock. I asked her why him of all people. I told her she even hated him, so why? She couldn't give me a reason. She said she didn't know how or why it even happened. I told her she needed to leave. She had a couple minutes to get her bags packed and out of my apartment.

She begged me not to do this. To just talk to her, but I said no. She lost any right to a conversation about us the moment you slept with someone else. She had nothing to say to this. So she just continued to cry and pack a couple bags. When she reached the door I told her to stop and sit on the couch. She looked confused, but she did. I told her to wait a minute.

I went into my room and grabbed a decently sized box. I came out and put the box on a coffee table. Sarah obviously was wondering what the box was about, but she didn't ask. I asked her if this had anything to do with our conversation about marriage last month. See, I am not really one for marriage. My parents were divorced and I know how messy it can be. And while I'm not a pessimist, I understand that the reality is that no one. couple is guaranteed to stay together forever. So why get married if by chance we end up splitting

up one day? Wouldn't it be easier to just break up than go through a divorce? Sarah did want to get married one day. She said she understood my position, but she loved the idea of two people enjoying a celebration to share their love with their closest friends and family. That to get married was the greatest display of two people's love. We talked for a while just bouncing ideas and thoughts off each other. We normally had great communication. We tried our best to not get into arguments, and instead tried to understand where each person was coming from, and would figure out a compromise that worked for us both. That's not to say that we didn't have our arguments.

Sometimes, those just can't be avoided. So I told her that while I was not the biggest fan of marriage, I was still open to the idea and would think about it. So, I asked Sarah if it had anything to do with our talk about marriage last month, and she said that could have been a contributing factor. She just felt disappointed that we didn't share the same feelings on marriage. She started to question if this was actually going to go anywhere, and it made her start to feel bad and unwanted.

I told her that I was open to the idea, and would think about it. So why did it seem like she took my response as a direct no? She said she didn't know. For some reason she just couldn't shake the feeling that I wasn't going to change my feelings on the matter. It was at this time I slid the box over to her. She just looked at me and I told her to open it. She did and inside was another box.

Again she looked at me confused, then pulled out that box and opened it. There was another box. It was basically a nesting dolls box. Sarah had some weird love of nesting dolls, I never understood it, but it was her thing. She did this about three more times until she opened the last box, and inside was a jewelry box. She dropped it on the table and whipped her head around to face me, all wide-eyed and in utter disbelief. I told her that I had thought about it and came to a decision. That it didn't matter how I spent the rest of my life with her, just that I did. And if marriage was really

important to her, I would step out of my comfort zone to make her happy. Tears welled up in her eyes even more. She started crying even harder now. I said, I had planned on marrying you, but you ruined that. Your doubts and lack of trust has now ruined our future together. I wanted her to feel the same hurt she made me feel. So I had decided that before she left, what better way to jab the dagger and then to show her that I had planned on giving her exactly what she wanted. I got up from the couch, went to the door, opened it and told her to get out. Still crying, she slowly got up, and walked out of my apartment, defeated. I made sure to slam the door behind her and locked it.

Right after she left I called Stacy and told her what Sarah and her husband had done. Stacey was pissed. She had suspected that Josh had been cheating on her for a while now. I told her then Sarah might not have been the only one then as this just happened a couple weeks ago. She just screamed and hung up the phone. A little while later Sarah's mom called me asking what happened. She said Sarah came home and just went straight to her room crying. And how she has just been sobbing non-stop.

I told her about how Sarah had cheated on me. Her mom didn't believe me. I told her how I confronted Sarah tonight about it. It took some work, but I got her to admit to it. Her mom asked me, what about the proposal? I had made her mom aware of what I had planned on doing. She even helped me pick out the ring. I told her there was no longer a proposal.

I told her that I told Sarah about the proposal, just so she knew what she lost. Her mom was upset, but definitely not with me. She said that she loves me and understands my decision. That it will be a shame to no longer see me coming over for dinner and spending time with the family. I said I would miss her too and that I loved her. I hung up and tried to go to sleep. A couple weeks later her mom called me again and said that Sarah was doing terribly. She wouldn't eat, she couldn't sleep.

She just laid in bed all day crying. She had gotten fired from her job for not showing up. That her life was a mess because of what she had done, and wanted to know if I would be willing to talk to her. She said Sarah didn't know that she was calling, so whatever my decision, it would stay between the two of us. Now, I won't lie, it broke my heart to hear all that. There was still part of me that would always love her.

I mean, I really felt like she saved my life. If I had never met her, I might never have become the healthy person I was today. I told her mom that, while that was really sad to hear, I just couldn't face her. Her mom said she understood. I did say to her, though, that I had a message for Sarah. I told her that if she really does care about me, then for me, she should eat, sleep, and start prioritizing her own personal health. Her mother said that I was a good man and that she will miss me.

We said our goodbyes and that was it. They never reached out after that. Part 3, the first three months after the breakup were rough. I was depressed. I stayed inside all day. Even considered drinking again. But I resisted. After a while people started showing up at my door and insisting I come over to their place.

That it would be good for me to get out and socialize. So I did. Now these were actually Sarah's friends originally. But I had grown real close with them as well. And they were all actually very upset with Sarah for what she did. Most of them had stopped talking to her. I know that Danielle had tried to reach out, but just got nothing back in response. So she gave up.

After that third month, things started to get better. I was getting out of the house more. Spending more time with friends. starting to smile and laugh again. I still felt like a piece of me was missing, but at least I wasn't moping about all day anymore. Now fast forward to a little over a year later. I was at the mall, which I hated by the way. I only go to the mall if I absolutely need to. I wanted a game, but didn't want to wait for it to be shipped, so instead I went to the mall to get it immediately. I used the entrances through the food court. As I am walking I look

over the sea of tables and I spot someone who looks familiar. I stop and take a hard look because I feel like I know them. Then it dawned on me, it was Sarah. I had not seen her since our breakup. And she was not looking good. She was skinnier, which was not great. She was already on the petite side as it was. She had dark circles under her eyes, her hair was a mess and she was wearing baggy stained clothes.

She was just face down staring at her fried rice and picking at it with her spoon. Immediately I had two thoughts. she had moved on, found someone else, recently broke up, and this was her sad over that. Or, she was still a mess from our breakup from over a year ago. Considering her state, I chose to believe the latter. I was starting to have conflicting feelings. Part of me just wanted to keep walking. That said she cheated on you and betrayed your trust, you don't owe her anything.

And another part said, this woman saved your life. You loved her more than you had ever loved another person. Can you just sit by and see her like that? Before I knew it, I was walking over to her table. Then I was sitting at it. Right across from her for the first time in a long time. She didn't look up right away. But after a couple seconds she finally looked up.

The more her head raised, the bigger her eyes got. She was stunned, her mouth partially open, trying to find words to speak, but nothing. Until finally she said my name. I looked at her and said, Hi Sarah, how have you been? She still didn't know what to say. She just blurted out, uh, I'm fine I guess. You.

I told her I was doing great, but that she didn't look like she was. I asked her if she had been this way since our breakup. She just lowered her head and nodded. I asked her what she had been doing the last year. In a quiet tone and without making eye contact she told me that she had not been up to anything. She didn't have a job and was still living with her mom. I asked her if she was in therapy. She nodded and said that she started shortly after our breakup.

So many thoughts were going through my head. I just sat looking at her, and she just sat with her head down looking away. I could tell she was uncomfortable. Finally I broke the silence and asked her when her next therapy session was. She said tomorrow. I asked her if she was allowed to bring people with her. She said she didn't know, but in a bit of a confused tone. Then she kind of looked up and asked why.

I asked her if she could reach her therapist at any time. She said yes. I told her to call her therapist later and see if I can come with her tomorrow. Sarah just froze. She stammered and then asked me what I was talking about. I told her that I would come to therapy with her tomorrow. She raised her head a bit and was actually looking at me now. Face dumbstruck.

She asked me why, why would I do that? I should hate her, so why? I took a moment, then took a deep breath and told her that if there is anyone who can understand even part of what she is feeling right now, it's me. I told her that it's been over a year and that she shouldn't have been beating herself up over this for that long. That she looked unhealthy, and that I hated seeing her like this. She stood by me when I was getting over my depression.

She talked to me, supported me, and never abandoned me. So I figured that I could let the past be in the past, and at least repay the unpayable debt I owed her by trying to be there and support her through what she is going through right now. She just gave me the weirdest smile. Like she had forgotten how to and this was her interpretation of what she thought it was supposed to look like. She kept repeating, really, are you serious, I don't deserve this, thank you. I could see she was excited. But she was so weak, that it just looked like some mild fidgeting. I pulled out my phone, pulled up her contact and unblocked her. I told her to call her therapist and to text me later to know if

I should show up tomorrow. And if so to send me the address and other details, and that I would be there. Again, she just fidgeted around while giving me that goofy smile. I got up from my seat, turned around, took a couple steps and then faced her. I told her that if she wanted to repay me for this, then she should try and eat as much of the fried rice as she can. She said She would. I told her I had to go, but to contact me later and let me know. She didn't say anything, just continued to give me that smile. I got to the edge of the food court and turned around to look at her one more time.

She was just scooping a big spoon full of the fried rice into her mouth. One right after the other. I couldn't help but giggle. Then she just got up so fast, dumped what was left of her meal, dropped off the tray and basically just ran out of there. At this point, I was audibly laughing. Later that evening I got a text from Sarah saying her therapist was a bit hesitant about it, but agreed to let me come in with her.

She sent me all the details and I told her I would see her tomorrow. Almost right after Sarah's mom called me. When I saw her name pop up on my screen, I couldn't help but smile. It had been so long since we talked, and I looked forward to hearing her voice again. When I answered the first thing I heard was crying. I asked if everything was okay. her mom just started thanking me. In every way I could possibly think of. In between her crying, of course. I told her to stop and calm down and explain to me what's going on. She took a

couple of deep breaths and I could hear her trying to compose herself. Finally she said that she really appreciated what I had done today. That it was the first time in over a year she had seen Sarah that happy and full of energy. That the moment she came home Sarah excitedly ran up to her and told her what had happened, that she really appreciated me finding it in my heart to not hate Sarah so much that I could stand to see her so miserable. First thing I did was state that this was not me and Sarah getting back together. I needed to make that clear. That ship had sailed. She said she already figured as much, but that it was nice to know I was just even being courteous with her at all. I told her that part of me will always care for her. And when I saw her

today, that part of me was really sad to see her that way. When I was going through my worst, Sarah helped me. So why shouldn't I do the same for her? Her mom started to sniffle and cry again. I just let her get it out for a moment before she composed herself again. She told me that I really was a great man and truly the best thing that had ever happened to Sarah. And she was really sad that she hadn't gotten to see me or spend time with me over the last year. And that maybe I would join them for dinner one night. I told her let's see how therapy goes first tomorrow. Then we can figure things out from there. She said that sounded wonderful. I wished her good night and hung up the phone. The next day I had to work, but luckily got someone to cover half

of my shift. That way I could be at the therapy session like I said I would. I was heading that way when I got caught in traffic. I tried to call and text Sarah, but nothing. Eventually I got there, but about five minutes late. I got up to the office and told the receptionist why I was there. She looked at me like I was kind of crazy. She said she would ask the therapist and would be right back. Thirty seconds later she came back and told me what room to head to. I got to the office and inside was Sarah sitting on a couch.

And her therapist is sitting across from her in a chair. I apologize for being late. I told Sarah I tried reaching her, but she didn't pick up. She looked at her phone and saw the missed calls and texts. She apologized saying she barely looked at her phone these days. What? The Candy Crush Wizard doesn't look at her phone anymore. Now I am really worried.

Sarah gave a weak smile and a little chuckle at this. So it was good to see she still had a bit of a sense of humor. The therapist asked me to sit down and introduced herself. She said she was shocked to find out that I not only got back in contact with Sarah, but that I offered to come to therapy with her. She asked what my intentions were. I figured this was a valid question. So I told her that seeing that Sarah has been beating herself up over this for over a year was heartbreaking.

Yes, I was mad at her, but I didn't hate her. I said people can do bad things, but that does not make them bad people. And that I believe that at the end of the day, Sarah was a good person, who just did a bad thing. And that maybe this would help us both get some closure. The therapist seemed to accept this answer. She asked me to tell her a bit about myself. I told her how I was also in therapy and had BPD. What I did for work and other hobbies.

I only described myself briefly. She asked me about my BPD and what it was like during our relationship. Considering it tends to put a big strain on relationships. I explained to her how Sarah had helped me get through some of my worst symptoms. Not that she cured me, but that she helped me to pull myself out of my life. depression. That most of my BPD traits were a thing of the past. I still had some symptoms, but for the most part, I was doing much better. And I had been since the start of our relationship. The therapist started asking me questions about our relationship. How it got started,

what it was like and how it ended. She wanted to hear things from my perspective. Since she had only been hearing one side of the story so far. She asked me if I had any questions I wanted to asked Sarah about in regards to her cheating. I said that there were two things that still bothered me. If we were so in love, then why did she cheat on me at all? And why with Josh of all people? Sarah was just quiet. Either she didn't know what to say, or she was too scared to. The therapist stepped in and said that in the past year, one of Sarah's biggest hurdles was to understand why she cheated at all. That she knows why Josh, but she just can't explain why she did it at all. That Sarah was always disappointed in any reason she could come up with,

because none of them were justified. It was one of the biggest things holding her back from getting better. So I asked her to explain why Josh then. She started speaking in a whisper, but the therapist urged her to speak louder and more clearly. That it was important that I hear what she has to say. So she sat up a bit straighter. Half-faced me, still unable to look at my face and started to speak. She said that she was just out one day. It was maybe a week or so after our talk about marriage. She was feeling really down and sad because she couldn't stop thinking about what I said about marriage.

That she kept replaying it in her head so often that my maybe, was nothing more than a no in disguise. That's when she randomly ran into Josh. They said their hellos and how are yous. But Josh could tell that something was up with Sarah and asked if she was okay. She said she was fine and didn't walk to talk about it. But Josh insisted. He asked her to join him for coffee and to just vent about what was going on.

And she agreed. As they sat sipping their drink Sarah just launched into this whole thing about how she really wants to get married one day, but she doesn't believe I ever will. How she loves me so much, but she doesn't know if she wants to stay with someone who isn't on the same page as her when it comes to this. How she felt like she wasn't good enough for me. At least not to marry. How more than likely I would just end up leaving her one day anyway.

And that is when Josh tried to comfort her. He started showering her with compliments. Telling her that I was the lucky one and that in reality, she is actually the one who could do better. She said she actually snapped a bit at him for that one. Saying that I was a wonderful person and that there was no one who was too good for me. That actually warmed my heart a bit. But even after that he just kept love bombing her.

How she had been feeling depressed for a while and how because of that, his words just hit differently that day. She felt just a little bit wanted and admired. That she knew Josh was not a great person, but still couldn't help but to fall into his words. She noticed that she was getting a bit too hung up on what he was saying, and realized she needed to go. He offered to walk her to her car. She declined at first, but again, he insisted. They talked all the way back to the car.

Mostly him love bombing her some more. When they got to the car she turned around to give him a hug and thank him for his kind words. but he just leaned in and kissed her, and she didn't stop it. That in that moment she knew what she was doing was wrong, but it felt like punishment. A punishment she deserved. They went from making out next to the car, to them both in the back seat, taking each other's clothes off. And that's when they had sex. Afterwards, Josh just put his clothes back on.

Said that was fun, got out of the car and walked away, leaving her in the back seat frozen and trembling, wondering why she just did that. Feeling nothing but guilt and shame. At this point, I was mad. Not so much at Sarah. I had already processed those feelings. I didn't need to know the details to know she cheated, and that was all that mattered at the end of the day. I was mad at Josh. To take advantage of a girl, no, a friend, when they are obviously going through something. To play on her emotions like that and then to drag her down to his level. What a scumbag. Oh yeah, last I heard Stacy had divorced him, uncovered about five affairs that he was actively having. Used this to take him to the cleaners. Now I guess he lives in a studio apartment because that's all he can afford after alimony and child support. Stacey moved saying she and their kids just needed to be closer to her family. After Sarah was done, the therapist asked how it felt knowing the details. I said that for one, I was disappointed. Disappointed that Sarah let herself get caught up so easily in Josh's obvious manipulation.

Sarah just lowered her head. I said, though, that if she was really feeling that depressed, I guess I can understand how she might have been swayed. She didn't really react to this. I asked her if there was anything else that was going on. Were there any other times or any other people? Sarah said no, and adamantly. I asked if there was anything that might have been contributing to the depression.

That it couldn't have just been the marriage talk. She agreed and said that the depression started to set in before that talk. I asked her, was it something that I was doing, or not doing? Was I not being a good partner for her? She immediately raised her head and for the first time met my eye line. She said in a serious tone that I never did anything wrong. That while I was not perfect, that I still gave her everything she had ever wanted, and that she threw it away for nothing.

She broke down and started crying. Her therapist looked at me and said that this was how much guilt she has been carried. carrying around since our breakup. That she just seems unable to move on from her mistake. She has acknowledged where she went wrong and takes responsibility for it. But it's really the reason why that has been her anchor. I went to put my arm around Sarah's shoulder but she jumped so I pulled away. Her therapist told me that Sarah has become very sensitive to physical contact and preferred

to keep it to a minimum. Sarah spent most of the remaining time crying. Part 4. After the meeting we both walked outside. I asked her how she felt about that. She said it was a bit uncomfortable, but in a kind of good way. She was just happy I kept to my word and showed up. She wasn't sure if this was a trap to get back at her.

I let out a small laugh and told her she sounded like me when we first met. She cracked a small smile at this. We both stood there silently for a moment before she asked what now. I said, well now I continue to join you for these for as long as you and your therapist are okay with it. I wasn't looking at her when I said this, but I could feel her gleaming. She asked me again why I was doing this. That again, I should hate her and that she really doesn't deserve this kind of kindness from me.

Still without looking at her I told her that I owed her more than I think she even knew. That it's been over a year since we broke up and that I was ready to move past it. That while we will never be a couple again, maybe, just maybe, we can get back to being friends again. She asked if I was being serious and I assured her I was. I told her that out of everything that I regretted this last year, the worst was losing my best friend. That I missed her, and I think I'm at a point where I can let them back into my life. It was weird, but I swear I could hear some of the weight lift off of Sarah's shoulders. She thanked me and said she should be going.

She walked maybe five or so feet away before I asked her what she was doing that night. She stopped not knowing what to do. Like a broken gear she slowly turned around. In a soft, timid tone she said, nothing. I walked over to her and asked her if she wanted to come over for dinner. Again, she was dumbstruck. She just stared. I waved my hand in front of her face and asked if she was okay.

She snapped out of it and said that she appreciated it, but she probably shouldn't. I asked her why not? She didn't have a response to this. I told her that if we are going to start maybe repairing our friendship, then let's start with a nice dinner and conversation. She again said she wasn't sure. I asked her what she has to lose. As if she couldn't control it, she said, well, my mind for starters.

I asked her to explain. She said that like today, she wouldn't be able to stop thinking that there is some kind of trap around the corner. That she still isn't sure if this is some kind of long-planned-out revenge. It was honestly the longest and most coherent set of sentences I had heard her put together in two days. I kind of laughed at this and told her that she really did sound like me when we first met. I assured her there was nothing nefarious going on, that I just want to bury the hatchet,

and that I wanted to start that off by cooking her dinner as an olive branch. But I made it clear that this was nothing romantic. That I am only looking to mend a friendship and that is all. She still looked skeptical, but she reluctantly agreed. I told her I still lived in the same place and to be there at seven. She turned around and walked to her car. But with a slight spring in her step. Come seven, Sarah was there on time.

Which was honestly a bit of a surprise since as long as we had known each other, she was always the late one. While she still looked skinny, she looked much better than she had earlier. Her hair was combed and she wasn't wearing baggy clothes. She wasn't all dressed up, but she actually put some effort into her appearance. Which I could see was already having a bit of an impact on her self-esteem. She was still being very timid and avoiding eye contact, she just also seemed a bit lighter. I don't really know how to describe it. For me, Sarah was an open book.

She could never hide how she was feeling from me. Which is why I was surprised when I hadn't completely picked up on her behavior the coming weeks before the breakup. So there we were, together again back in my apartment. Not much had really changed. I got a couple new figures and Lego sets. But other than that, it was pretty much the same as the last time she had been there. She noticed the new stuff immediately, though, somehow pointing out exactly what stuff I had

gotten this past year. I was honestly surprised and impressed. I asked her to come sit at the table and I would bring dinner out. She sat down and I went into the kitchen. I came out with our plates and set hers in front of her. She immediately recognized it was one of her favorite things I used to cook. I told her that I remembered that she liked that, and it was actually the only recipe I could remember how to make off the top of my head.

I asked her if she wanted some wine. She questioned why I have wine if I don't drink. I said because I know she does. I know it's not in excess, but I knew she still enjoyed a small glass of wine. She told me that at one point she tried to find solace at the bottom of a bottle. But that didn't last long. Her mother threw away all the alcohol in the house and made her dry out. She hasn't touched it since then.

I was both sad and happy to hear this. I told her I was proud of her. She said thank you and that water would be fine. Dinner was a bit awkward. Neither of us really knew what to say. I had moved on and was getting on with my life while she had been stuck living in the past. It felt like anything I said might just be a slap in the face for her. And I know she was just too scared to talk to me.

Afraid I was going to pop out and say it was all a joke and that I hated her. Or that I would out of nowhere start yelling at her. For the record, I didn't even yell at her the night I caught her. I decided to cut the silence and asked her how she was doing. She just kind of shrugged, lifted her hands up to her shoulders, and just gestured at herself. I asked her to tell me about her year. She didn't want to talk about it. She was embarrassed and I understood that, so I didn't press.

I asked her how her mom was. She said that her mom has really been struggling also the last year. That she hadn't made things easy for her mom, but through it all, her mom has stayed by her side. I told her that her mom was a saint. Sarah raised her eyes to me and gave me a smile and I smiled back. Conversation got a little easier after that. She asked me about my year. I told her the first three months were the roughest.

How I also just boarded myself up in my apartment and wallowed in misery. But eventually I got my ass up off the couch and decided that I wasn't going to let this bother me anymore. Because of everything that had happened over the last three years, I had become a much healthier and resilient person. And because of that, it was easier to bounce back. I couldn't read what Sarah was feeling while hearing this. Which again, weird, I always knew what she's feeling. I attribute this to a malfunction due to lack of proximity.

We will recalibrate later. There was a brief pause when I was done. She said she was happy for me. That I was able to bounce back and that I was doing well. There was guilt in her voice. And despair in her eyes. I didn't realize that this is how much guilt she had been carrying around. This is how bad she felt about her mistake.

This is how much I meant to her. That she would turn into a shadow of the woman that I once loved in the wake of her mistakes. It was at this moment that I knew what I had to do. I had to let go of any anger or resentment that I might still hold for her. And maybe if I can truly do that, and show her that I forgive her, she can let go of some of that guilt, and move forward with her life. We finished dinner. She still had a lot left on her plate, but her appetite was poor due to basically starving

herself. But I was still glad she made an effort to eat as much as she could. She said it was better than she remembered. I thanked her for coming over. I know she was reluctant to come, but I was happy she decided to trust me. She gave me a nod. I asked her what she wanted to do next. It was still early and she didn't have to go home right away if she didn't want to.

She agreed to stay and asked if we could sit on the porch like. we used to. We would spend hours out there talking or reading or just generally doing nothing. It was our little happy place. I smiled and agreed. We went outside and sat in our old seats. I commented that no one has sat there since the last time she did. She gave me a smile. The way she was holding her head and how her hair framed her face, she reminded me of Violet from The Incredibles. Only Sarah is a dirty blonde. But we just sat out there and talked. She had really started to relax and was opening up a bit more about her year. She was still being vague, but at least letting me get a glimpse.

She seemed more interested in everything I had been doing in the last year. Have I discovered any good new bands? What new movies have I seen that I liked? Any funny TV shows that I would recommend? She really seemed to only want to talk about me. I tried many times to redirect the conversation to getting a bit more info on her, but she would just dodge and roll. At least she seemed a little peppy.

She was talking with a bit of a louder tone and with more inflection. It wasn't much, but it was a start. She still had trouble looking at me, but she at least raised her head a bit more. The balcony light illuminating her hazel eyes. I could see a tiny bit of the Sarah I once knew. I knew she wasn't gone. So Jack. Jack is my neighbor.

He is a good guy, but he really isn't for everyone. I still don't know how we became buddies, but he is the only friend I have in the apartment. apartment complex. Now he and Sarah never really saw eye to eye in the first place. Again, not for everyone. But after Jack heard what happened, he straight up hated her. I remember having to calm him down because he seemed more pissed off than I was. So Sarah and I are sitting on the balcony talking and Jack walks by. He sees that I am with someone on the porch, but he doesn't recognize her at first. He says hello to me and introduces himself to my guest. When Sarah said, hey Jack, I could see his eyes start to widen and he had the most hateful look on his face.

He recognized her voice instantly. I saw him starting to get worked up and I knew he was about to go off on her. So I quickly got out of my seat, ran up to Jack and told him to come and talk to me on the side. He just looked at me and asked me what the hell I was doing. I told him I know, but he just needed to come and talk to me privately. He kept trying to protest and wanted to know what she was doing here. I basically had to drag him to the side of the building. I told him to stop freaking out and just let me explain.

He, in somehow the most condescending way possible, told me that I better have a damn good explanation. I snapped at him and said that I was the one that got cheated on. And I really don't have to explain myself or my actions when it comes to this matter to anyone. But I was choosing to give him an explanation. Then I asked him if he would just listen. He agreed. I told him everything about how I saw how miserable she looked at the mall.

she was obviously still in pain over what happened. That isn't what I wanted for her, regardless of what she did to me. That I was choosing to be the better person and try to help her get on with her life. Jack was just shaking his head at all this. He raised his voice a bit and told me I didn't know her shit. That she betrayed me and she got what she deserved. I told him that I didn't think so. That everyone should have a right to happiness.

She sabotaged herself a year ago. I just chose to be over it and wanted to help her put her life back together. Jack still wasn't accepting this. He kept shaking his head and saying no. He was about to protest again before I stopped him. I told him in a very serious tone that this was my decision and my decision alone. And he didn't have to like it, but he needed to respect it. I was the one who was hurt and that I should have a right to choose if I want to forgive her

or not. He had nothing to say to this. He just backed up and said, Fair enough man, you want to get your heart broken again, don't say I didn't warn you. He turned around and walked away. When I got back to the porch Sarah asked if everything was okay. I told her it was just Jack being Jack. She said she remembered. I told her she should already know, since I knew she was listening in on our conversation. She gave a fake laugh and denied it. I looked at her and told her that I always knew she listened in on my conversations when I talked to someone around the

corner. Her jaw hit the floor. She asked how long I had known. And I told her since before we started dating. She asked how I knew. I told her sometimes it was our friend seeing her head poke out from around the corner real quick. Sometimes I just heard her rub up against a bush. I told her she isn't as sneaky as she thinks she is. She just let out a nervous laugh and asked why I never said anything. I told her that I thought it was cute how she always thought she was being sneaky. At times I pulled people off to the side of the building and had fake conversations in order to throw her off my trail when I was planning a surprise. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

It started small, but continued to grow. She started laughing. This wasn't one of her half laughs that she had been giving me. This was a real laugh. Again, I was starting to see the old Sarah again. Before we knew it hours had passed by and it was late. We finally realized the time and Sarah said she should probably go. She got her stuff from inside and I wished her a good night.

night.